The young man who would not write: a modern fable

Once upon a time, though not long ago and quite close to here, there was a young man named Gareth, who would not write.

"I will not write!" He said, often and proudly. "I hate writing. I will not learn to do it, and I do not care what happens. You can not make me.

"Dearest Gareth," his mother would implore " if you don't learn to write, you'll never get a good job"

But Gareth did not care if he had a good job or a poor one, and so he did not write.

"Now, Gareth" his father would thunder "I will not have a son that can not write, for you will look stupid and childish and will never find someone to love you. you must write something this instant!

But Gareth did not care about love either, and so he refused again.

"Oh Gareth," said both his grandfather and his grandmother "our family have always been excellent writers! If you do not write, you will dishonor the family name!"

But Gareth didn't care about the family name which was inordinately long and difficult (in fact it was Blightentheffer) and which he did not like. So he refused a third time.

At long last the family, tired and sad and soon to be destitute by supporting a son who would never have a good job, never have someone to love him, and who would not even relieve them of the burden of carrying the inordinately long and difficult name, soon gave up, and sadly, went off to the movies.

Gareth, seeing they were gone, and feeling as if he had won, decided to go out for a walk.

Now while he did not like writing, he did love walking! It was so clear and calm and peaceful an evening that Gareth walked far and wide. He walked past the neighbors houses with their small concerns. He walked past the Grayson estate, with its large mention and manicured lawns. He walked past Mrs. McCray's farm, and Mrs McCray's cow and Mrs McCray's farm stand, with her Ferrari parked out in front.

And, taking note of none of it (aside from the Ferrari because it was red and shiny and new) he stopped and stared at the wondrous automobile. It was shining and gleamed like a million red cherries in the late Tuscan sun. He pictured himself taking a long drive, importantly driving around the village, showing off, doing whatever he wanted. And pointedly not writing,  nor learning how better to write.

He was paying so much attention to the wondrous automobile, what when he started walking again - because he would not write, and had never learned to write well - he suddenly went and tripped over this constantly growing pile of split infinitives, and broke his neck and died.

And so from then on whenever a child in the village would not write, their parents or grandparents would gently remind that child what had happened to Gareth and the child in question would grab their pencil and paper, or handy mobile device, and practice long and hard the important survival skill of writing.

C. 2018 by I.M. Bolt