Medical Center. One Hour Later.
"I poured all my heart and soul into that cursed book, and now it's stuck in my butt!"
Mr. Pascowitz, the patient, groaned in frustration.
"And it even poisoned you!"
His wife chimed in with a sarcastic jab.
"Alright, time for surgery. Let's get that book back to the library where it belongs."
Adam grinned.
"Audrey, if I don't make it…"
As Mr. Pascowitz was wheeled toward the operating room, he kept yammering at his wife, "Carve that last line onto my tombstone!"
"You'd better not die."
Audrey's eyes flickered with worry, though her tone stayed sharp. "Plenty of great artists were nobodies while alive, only getting famous after death because of their work. But you? You didn't even leave a rough draft! No one's gonna know what this stupid novel that killed you was about. So don't you dare die!"
"…"
Mr. Pascowitz huffed, exasperated. "Audrey, can't you say something nice for once?!"
"I'll save the nice stuff for after your surgery," she snapped back. "Until then, a fool who got himself into this mess doesn't deserve it."
Adam quietly marveled to himself.
A wife like that… she's really one of a kind.
Three years of nothing to show for it—no fame, no mention of a decent published novel from either of them. Judging by their clothes, they weren't some rich family living off financial freedom, chasing personal dreams. Most likely, she'd been the one keeping them afloat all this time.
This doesn't even feel like real life—it's more like one of those poor scholar tales from a ghost story collection.
---
Operating Room.
"Dr. Duncan, is being a writer really that tough?"
Richard, the chief surgeon, stood at the assistant's spot, watching Adam's flawless technique. With no need to guide him, he got bored and struck up a chat, curious since Adam was a writer too.
"It's like any other field—depends on talent," Adam replied with a smile while working. "If you suck at it, it's torture. If you're good, it's a breeze. Our Mr. Pascowitz here? Probably someone with zero talent who's convinced he's a genius."
"Dr. Duncan must be one of those super talented ones, though!"
A surgical nurse piped up with a grin.
"Heh."
Adam shook his head, chuckling. "Nah, I'm not that talented at writing either."
He'd piggybacked off a legendary author's masterpiece to score his first big win. That book was a career-defining work, polished over years. Naturally, it made Adam look like a prodigy. But the truth? If he tried writing an original now, it'd flop so hard people would suspect he'd plagiarized his earlier stuff.
Writing flair, photographic memory, and cosmic-level IQ didn't exactly go hand in hand.
Sure, with his stamina and speed now, he could churn out words at a pace leagues beyond his past self. But in the U.S., without web novels and stuck with traditional publishing, insane typing speed meant squat without quality.
So, after milking Lord of the Mysteries dry, he was done. No more books.
Emmm… cash out and retire in style! 😎
"What?! Dr. Duncan, you're young, hit it big with one book, and you're saying you're not talented?"
Another nurse gasped, wide-eyed. 😲
"Nope. You guys just haven't seen a real writing genius."
Adam laughed. "Look, for people like me, writing a book means brainstorming, outlining, researching, fleshing out the outline—preferably into a detailed one—so you know what you're doing. Then you draft the opening, rewrite it a dozen times, tweak it 'til it's perfect. Some folks bang out tens of thousands of words, then cut and polish it over and over until they're happy. After finishing the whole thing, you repeat that grinding process again. Sounds like a hassle, right?"
"Uh-huh."
The nurse nodded eagerly.
"Good work comes from relentless refinement," Richard added, nodding wisely. "Same as us doctors. You build a solid foundation through practice to become a top doc and save more lives."
"Exactly," Adam agreed, still smiling. "But then there are the freaks of nature—the real geniuses. Outlines? Detailed plans? What's that? Rewriting openings or polishing drafts? Ha! When inspiration hits, they just open Word and go ham. No overthinking—just thousands of words in a flash. And it's not garbage either! The quality's better than what most people get after a dozen revisions. It's got soul, hooks you deep, and they crank it out ten times faster than the average joe—day after day, same pace, same brilliance. How's a normal person supposed to compete with that?" 😅
"That's insane!"
The anesthesiologist, who'd been fiddling with a crossword, looked up, skeptical. "A writing genius like that? Why haven't I read about them in the papers?"
"Trust me, the real pros are out there, just not in the spotlight," Adam said with a sly grin.
Not yet, anyway.
In his past life, he'd drooled over talents like that. He didn't even need both speed and quality—just one would've sent him soaring. Writer's block? Never heard of it! Daily updates of tens of thousands of words, no full-time grind required. Cold weather? Jet off to Sanya, rent a beachfront room—code in the morning, hit the waves in the afternoon, party at night. He'd heard the old-timers in his writing groups brag about that life, and man, was he jealous.
"Okay, found the culprit!"
Adam's voice snapped everyone back.
A nurse handed him a tray. With a pair of forceps, he pulled out a greasy, dark lump—ten centimeters long, five wide. Once a wad of eaten paper, now it was a smooth, compressed blob, almost pearl-like from being ground down inside.
"Anyone want it? Could be America's greatest novel!"
Richard quipped loudly, smirking.
Everyone stared, silent.
"If no one minds, I'd like to keep it as a memento," Adam said with a chuckle.
"…"
All eyes turned to him, stunned. Then a few lit up.
Wait, could this actually be America's greatest novel?
"You know I'm a writer too," Adam shrugged. "A cautionary tale like this? Pretty memorable stuff."
"Of course, no problem," Richard laughed.
The others who'd been tempted deflated.
Cautionary tale, my foot. We're not writers—what do we need this junk for?
belamy20