The Author has asked me to share a piece he wrote for you that describes his “origin” story as an author. Here you go:
“In February 2020 I moved to a cabin in the middle of nowhere to write a novel.
Up until that point, I had spent my entire adult life making films, achieving a level of self-actualization that few even dare to dream of—fulfilling one of the most celebrated and clichéd aspirations the collective imagination has ever envisioned.
But it wasn’t my dream.
Fame blows you up like a balloon and twists you into weird animal shapes.
You become a novelty to the people in your life. Those closest to you, the good ones, protect you. Minor acquaintances come calling for VIP treatment. Strangers—some, not all, but most—appear touched if not blessed by your presence.
What a racket.
In truth, nothing about me had changed. Not the important stuff. Only the people, the world, around me.
You wouldn’t believe the lengths PR teams will go to change your identity, to create a new narrative of your past, a myth of your artistry.
And of course you say, Yes. Yes, fame. Yes.
Well, I never wanted to be an actor, I wanted to be an author.
Which is why, at the height of my success, I decided to take a hiatus from my career and try my hand at writing. Off to the cabin I went. No distractions. No external stimuli. No other responsibilities other than to write. My childhood fantasy come true. And all it took was a little courage.
Hemingway, in A Moveable Feast, writes: ‘All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’
Having collected my fair share of stories, controversies, and small miracles throughout my career, I figured why not start there.
I began writing a novel about my failure to write a novel in my early to mid twenties; it was cathartic taking the piss out of myself, to be honest—in my younger years, I had believed myself capable of one day becoming my generation’s only famous author of literary fiction.
(So, naturally, I became a famous actor instead. As if that made any sense.)
For two years, while the world shut down, I wrote. The words came pouring out like intelligent beings self-sufficiently organizing themselves into shape.
When I submitted the book to my agent, I thought he might kill me. This is where my quaint literary romance abruptly ends.
I realized that the people who claimed to “represent” me were never champions of artistic expression, they’re champions of controlling a narrative that suits their agenda. So far as I fit into that narrative, I remained on their good side.
This novel was the breaking point. For me. For my agents. And perhaps for Hollywood.
The level of censorship and blackmail in this industry could easily fill a second novel—and I might just write it. For now, though, I hope you enjoy The Author.’
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We are proud to announce that despite his having to publish pseudonymously, we now own the rights to THE AUTHOR, which is now available for purchase!
👉 Order THE AUTHOR by The Author Here
