Prose                                       
The Life and Death of Sullivan Exonia

  Sullivan Exonia was a good writer. Not great. Just good. Sullivan Exonia was a popular writer. Not really popular. Just in the middle. He supported himself with his writing but he wasn’t breaking any records. And he wasn’t winning any awards.

  And Sullivan Exonia was sick of it. He wanted more. He wanted to prove he was every bit as good as he knew in his heart he could be. You see, Sullivan Exonia wanted nothing more than to create a truly brilliant novel. One that would change people’s lives. One that would be praised for its stylistic and thematic brilliance. One that would influence writers for generations. One that would be known as a true great from this era in time.

  It only needed to happen once and he knew he could be satisfied.

  Sullivan Exonia knew what was wrong. He knew what he had to do. You see, Sullivan Exonia had a very good life. He grew up in the suburbs. His parents loved him. They supported him when he showed an interest in writing. They helped him get through college. They helped him get started, get published. But that wasn’t all. Sullivan Exonia was intelligent. And healthy. He was attractive. He married a wonderful woman who loved him dearly. He had great kids.

  Sullivan Exonia studied the greats. The great writers that he so admired. He studied Ernest Hemingway and Sylvia Plath and Virginia Woolf and Jack London and Vladimir Mayakovski and Hart Crane and Sara Teasdale and Yukio Mishima and John Berryman and Anne Sexton and Winfield Scott. He knew that for every famous author who killed him or herself there were hundreds of others who came close.

  And Sullivan Exonia knew that if he were ever going to write a really great book, he would have to suffer. He would have to come to the point of suicide too.

  And so, at the age of 34, Sullivan Exonia cheated on his wife. He let himself get caught. His wife left him. She took the children with her. Sullivan Exonia started drinking heavily. He showed up at his agent’s office and pissed on his desk. He found people who would give him drugs. He bought them drugs too. Sullivan Exonia used up every penny on heroin and crystal meth and crack and sold his house and his car and his first edition signed copies of great books. He lived on the street and shared needles and spent some nights in jail and some nights in the cold. Sullivan Exonia destroyed himself.

  And Sullivan Exonia suffered.