Hi! I am a writer, or at least I pretend to be. I think I am, therefore I am. Yes, I write poetry, fiction, nonfiction – you name it, I write it. Of course, if I wanted to really make money, I’d be writing kiddie lit, or maybe porn. Yeah…porn, that’s it….
Anyway, my name is Steve Universe. I know, I know, I get nailed for the name all the time. Actually, since I’m the author of this story, I suppose I could go by any name. Naming is power, you know. That’s what they say at least. My parents exhausted universal power in first creating me, and then in naming me. They created for me an identity whether I wanted one or not.
Naming. Power. Writing. Power. Naming is such a buzz phrase these days. Current hot topic, especially with the feminists. Because it’s true power. For instance, I am writing a story. Even now, as we speak. Even now, as you read this. I will write a character into the text. I will name him. What? I’m not sure yet. But I will create him and he will owe his very existence to me. Pretty God-like, don’t you think? Power. Naming. I’m a writer. Or at least I think I am. Well, I speak as a writer.
Oh, but I digress. My name, Steve Universe. Did I mention that I’m writing a story? Did I mention I’m a writer? Actually, now that I think about it I think I did mention that I’m the author of this story. And I am, but there is actually a little more to it. It seems that while I am in this grand process of creation, I am myself undergoing the self-same process of creation. I seem to be a character in someone else’s story. I know, I know, don’t get all pissy. I’m finding this out as we speak, just as you are. Do you think I like it? Frankly, I’m not amused. I thought I was omnipotent, omniscient, God and all that juicy stuff. I thought I mattered.
My author’s name, evidently, is Scott Holstad. (Who would ever pick that name?) He claims to be a writer (but then, don’t we all?). I mean, who the hell has ever heard of Scott Holstad? If I’m destined to be a measly character in someone’s story, why the hell couldn’t I get Updike or Vonnegut? Hell, even Mailer or somebody like that? Somebody known? Someone who matters?
Well, this Holstad character seems to be the asshole who gave me my name, or at least that’s what he claims. Steve Universe. He seems to find humor in it. Play on words, that sort of shit. Universal. University. Mr. Universe. Universe. I don’t call that funny. He’d never make a living as a comic. And Steve. Pretty boring I’d say.
Why not something a little more exotic? God knows, many writers do seem to have somewhat boring names. Robert, John, Walter, Steven. Well, I’m a writer; I speak as a writer. I would name my character Fabio…yeah, that’s it. Exotic. Romantic. Steve. That’s so…universal! I mean, I could be anybody….
Hi! I’m THE writer, or at least I pretend to be. The Government says I am, therefore I am. They give me these little numbers and I exist. Truly. I kid you not. I know it’s amazing and I sometimes doubt it myself, but just try dodging your taxes sometime and see if you don’t exist!
Anyway, I’m the creator of Steve Universe. Yes I know, call me a narcissist (and you won’t be the only one), but deep down we’re all ego maniacs. It’s that God Complex.
Well, Steve’s been railing away so I have decided to just write him out of the text.
That’s right, erase him. Just write him out. Easy as pie.
There. I’ve done it. Steve Universe no longer exists. And it was easy to do, like I said. They say we are all capable of creation and that may be true but, God – are we ever capable of destruction! Total annihilation, say I!
We can erase, Reconstruct, abolish, eliminate, terminate, DESTROY, with the greatest of ease. Oh, and we writers are so proficient at it. Comes with the territory, I guess.
Actually, I’ve been thinking about something new lately. New, that is, for me. I speak to you as a writer; therefore I can say this. I’m thinking of writing myself out of the text. That’s right, textual suicide. Innovative, eh? I hate to admit this, but Steve was right about one thing, at least. I’m not the best-known writer. Oh, I have my share of groupies and I certainly appreciate them. They’re devoted. But I’m not exactly a household name either. Not that I’m ambitious. Not that I’m a narcissist. I speak as a writer, remember?
Look, what better way to achieve notoriety? Textual suicide. I will be no more. (And I know I am now. I know I exist because I have numbers proudly given to me by my Government.) Yet I will be no more. Oh, I know I won’t be around to enjoy the accolades, but what the hell?
And those saps out there always fall for the suicides. My God, what a bloody operation! I’ve always wanted in on the scam. The papers, TV, TV, TV, TV, mags, papers, bloodsucking TV. INTERNET! WWW. World Wide Web. (Information Superhighway – Hah!) We’re the fastfoodfastentertainmentfast sexfasttloodthirstyviolent generation by God, and we’re suckers for that shit!
Give me my suicide.
Give me my constitutionally guaranteed suicide!
Oh, they’ll just eat it up. And Steve? Well, he’s been written out of the text, eh? Doesn’t really matter anymore, does he? He’s Steve Universe. Was Steve Universe. Universal. University. Mr. Universe. Steve Academia. Boring Steve.
Steve, Steve I’m so
bereaved I can’t conceive
why we must leave.
Oh, but I digress. Again. But I speak as a writer. I’m allowed occasional digressions. Writers, dammit! They never seem to get to the friggin point. I mean, well, what is the point? The point’s the point, son! The end’s the point. Cause we exist you know. I, Scott C. Holstad, who speaks to you as a writer (and as a human? maybe? binary? AI construct?), I exist you know. This I know. For the Government tells me so. It gets so slow. Sometimes gotta go. Breakdown. Discourse. Breakdown. The point?
Oh yeah, the Point. I guess it’s the End of the stick you put your hot dog on. Or maybe your marshmallow. The Point…the Point.
The Point, oh yeah. Well, to get on with my story, I think I’m going to write a new character into the text. To be my narrator, of course. To carry on the tradition…the tradition…the Point.
Actually, to be perfectly honest with you, sometimes I feel like I’m already being erased from the text. It’s like someone has pushed the Pause button, but it turns into the Erase button. I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know how to…communicate…it. I don’t know….
Well, this is very strange indeed. It feels like someone’s been tampering with me, with me, with me, with me…me — …me…me…me with…me with…me with tampering… NO! That’s Martin Amis you dolt! We’re not going backwards in this story. We’re being Fucking Erased!
As I said, I speak to you as a writer. And I am the creator of this mess, so I decide what’s going on. Right? I am going to ever so conveniently create a new character before ever so conveniently obliterating myself from this increasingly dreary story. Textual Suicide. Oooh, how ’bout Cyber Textual Suicide? Yeah, they love that Cyber shit. It’s so in. Okay, actually it’s been so in for awhile now, but maybe that’s the point – I need a new plane of existence. Of construct. Of narrative.
There. See? I’ve created yet again. A new category. Sub-category. Categories. A new ending. The main one, a new genre which they’ll be beating down the damn doors for. “Cyber Textual Suicide.” Only a matter of time now before it’s in the Canon. Oh baby, they’ll be asking GRE questions about it. I’m drooling now just thinking about it! And I owe it all to me. ME! Not Steve Universe. Not Scott Holstad. I mean, Wait! Yes, Scott Holstad. That is me. I think. Wait, hold on. Let me check my ID card. Oh yes, right here. Scott C. Holstad. In black and white. Surrounded by a little color. Virtually psychedelic, yet still very official looking. See, the Government says I exist. Therefore I am. I am the Creator of this story. Cause the Government says I can. I am the Creator….
And people laughed when he claimed that God was dead. God’s not dead you fools. I am God! The Creator. Yes, of this story. And the Government says I exist so it must be so. Right? And if I want to obliterate myself (Wait. Here it comes…a rousing, orgasmic cry of Cyber Textual Suicide!), from the text of course, I can do it! Cause I’m the Destroyer. I mean Creator. I mean God. Oh, what’s the difference? Is there a difference? There’s no difference.
And this new character…what should we name it?
It. What gender first of all? Or does that matter? We’ve all read Virginia Woolf after all. And we did see “The Crying Game” way back when. Shit, these days it’s THE hot button topic of America. The world even. Gender Identity. Maybe when Scott, er Steve, er I figure mine out, I’ll take it further. Yeah.
The character!
Well, what color hair? Eyes? Teeth? Teeth? OK, I tried to pull one over on you. Or is it put one? Or does it matter? Whatever the case, I am the writer because I am the God.
OK. Height? Weight? Genitals? Oh, no need to go Victorian on me. But then again some people seem to think ID equates to a hundred genitalia possibilities. Who’s confused? Let’s just forget genitals for the moment (something I’d never have said just some years ago) then.
You see? Do you see why I am writing this and you’re not? My God, you’re slower than horse shit! And indecisive. What a match. Readers dammit! What the hell do Fish and Iser know anyway? I mean, have they ever actually tried to work with a reader? Ain’t that easy, is it? No sirree.
I feel decidedly better now. Sort of. Just thinking about what I’m about to create makes me go positively gushy from head to toe. I’m talking thrills a minute. Because I’m the Creator. The Government says so. And it should….
Hold on, what’s this? But I haven’t decided to go yet. I’m the only person who can erase myself from the text. Hang it all, stop that! What is going on here? I speak to you as a writer because i am the creator exist you know the government tells me so this i know you know i am god it’s so I’m the master of this story but everything’s getting denser is that really a word werd weird bsmck shit now i know that’s not a word dammit i need my words to create i need my language my name my power my god….
Hi! Sorry about all that gibberish back there. You really shouldn’t have been forced to endure it. Feel free to register a complaint with the proper authorities if you must. But on behalf of the author and this publication, I would like to extend a formal apology.
Postmodern writers think they can get away with anything. Pretentious fucks! Oops, sorry. It’s just that they get feisty and break loose every now and then. But don’t worry. We take care of ’em. We put ’em back where they belong.
Now. Where were we? Oh yes.
Hello.
I am the writer. I know I am a writer and I know I am the writer because I speak to you as a writer…
Eulogy
This story is an example of my enjoying postmodern experimentation, wordplay and other games too much, so much so that as hard as I’ve worked on this, edited it, expanded, contracted, submitted, it took me years to realize it apparently would never be destined for greatness (heh), and it took still longer for me to get an idea of why that may be or have been. This is an example of metafiction, something I was drawn too while studying postmodern lit in school, and one of many genres I’ve had fun — and some success at — in experimenting with and writing. But would I think I’ve discovered is that aside from metafiction and many other postmodern “fads” have been on the outs in recent years, largely because of a backlash in the US especially to the French postmodern theorists, I’ve been able to successfully write and publish stories containing metafictional elements integrated into genre fiction stories, such as crime and thriller. EXITSx’ sin, I suppose, is that it’s not a story in the traditional sense (and why would it be?). It’s largely metafiction for metafiction’s sake, and while that appeals to me and perhaps some people in Europe, it doesn’t engage editors and likely most readers in the US especially. Experimentation doesn’t always equate to successful reader response despite a theory behind it.
I have tried to maintain good records over my career, but went through a couple periods of frequent and extensive geographical moves, accompanied with job change, severe health problems, and more, so many of my records were damaged or lost, along with many possessions including some highly prized collections of autographed books (like the copy of Naked Lunch that William Burroughs signed for/to me personally, for example). The point is I actually don’t know when I first wrote this story, though it’s been a long time, but I remember where I first submitted it for consideration: Playboy. Though they held it for quite some time, obviously they didn’t take it. And while I know its submission history in recent years, I don’t know and can’t find out how many places I sent it to nor the names/titles, but I am confident this is not one of my “worst” pieces in terms of number of rejections, if for no other reason than I write and publish much more poetry and celebrated last year when I finally had a good journal publish my biggest submission failure of my life – a poem I rewrote seemingly a million times that was rejected by at least 23 magazines. (Usually something gets published or if something is facing the likelihood of 10+ rejections and I can’t salvage it, I “trunk” it (old-fashioned term now?), which I essentially did to EXITSx last year after a solid nine rejections over the previous three years. (I generally don’t like to and try not to engage in simultaneous submissions, which can make it difficult when some journals hold submissions for hundreds of days at a time…) This story was last rejected in January 2025 by a journal that had held it for 49 days. I decided to move on from it yet have poured so much of myself and my time into this story that I am grateful for this opportunity to actually lay it to rest, complete with a eulogy and everything.
I’ve been doing much more experimentation lately, more closely using the cutup method Bill Burroughs influenced, as well as an emphasis on dada and surrealism, and I’ve had pretty decent success the past few years, so it’s not about giving up my efforts but learning and adjusting and continuing to try to grow, branch out, experiment with things, but I feel I’ll rest a little easier now that I’ve had a chance to put this story to rest, providing a closure I never anticipated needing or wanting but am grateful to have.
Scott C. Holstad
