There was once a young man who loved to write. His name was Bob. He really actually wanted to be a well-known and, more importantly, best-selling author writing from his solid oak table in his house by the beach (the type that had rocks and cliffs and stern winds, mind you, not those sandy pansy pretentious kinds) but he would never tell anyone that. Not because he was a humble man who kept very much to himself. No, he wouldn't because if he never got there, people might look back and laugh at him for saying such things and not achieving them. Plus there wasn't much you could do with a name like Bob. So he wrote a lot and he wrote as frequently as possible, making his stories as available as he could to the general public.
He wrote about unicorns and stars, about little boats and talking moons, about angry winds and wistful trees, about giants and very small bears and one very smart mouse deer. He wrote and he wrote. He made his stories known to everyone and anyone. But he heard nothing from his readers.
No, we can not call them that. People who accidentally read his stories. There much better.
But he heard nothing from the people who accidentally read his stories. Nothing at all. There must be something I'm not doing right, thought Bob.
"Maybe you should write about people, or something real, or something scandalous," suggested Mooby, his talking cow, as he served Bob muffins and exited with his theme song playing softly in the background.
"People..... Real..... Scandalous.... but that's what the newspapers are for, no?"
"Not if you want a reaction from your audience, sir," said Mooby as he popped out from behind the curtains and rushed out the door before the second verse of his theme song could begin.
Very well, thought Bob, the young writer. Scandalous it is. So he wrote about rape and murder, birth and death, sterility and young nurses, passion and old men, famine and cannibalism, paedophilia and Ronald McDonald. And to add a bit of realism to the stories, he set all of them in his current time, his current place and his current fetish for tentacles.
And sure enough, the responses came. The people who accidentally read his stories became readers, and Bob grew immensely popular. Occult weekly journals wrote about him, your second uncle swore he met Bob selling char siu pau and his cousin's mother-in-law saw it, nursery rhymes were sung about him, and mothers shuddered when they heard his name.
For everyone believed his stories so much, they swore he was the main character in each story and he wrote them to tell the public, in a badly masked manner, what was really going on in his life.
Pretty soon, Bob was shunned by society and forced out of civilisation, to live a sorrowful life in a barren desert. Mooby left and took with him the talking dish, the dancing peanut and Pussy, the cat who never did anything extraordinary.
Fiction sucks, thought Bob as he opened the lid of his running washing machine and stuffed his head into the rotating drum.