Monkeys and Shakespeare

 So, there I am, reading through another Stephen King book, when something someone once said rears it's ugly head. The saying was, "Put enough monkeys in a room with typewriters, and they can write like Shakespeare". Ummm, no, they can't. I'll tell you why.

 

       I desperately want to write my life story. I think it is important to show just how much hardship it takes to finally break a person. I think it is important to also show just how that person held on to his\her sanity for as long as they did. Or didn't. Whatever. Now, as most of you know, I already possess a decent grasp of the "Queen's English". I am not just a backwoods yahoo who was "lern't at sc'ool". I can usually hold my own in a conversation with people far removed from my social standing.

 

         Now, knowing these facts, I ask you this; why can't I write a book? Because I am not Shakespeare. Or Stephen King. I am more like my favorite author, Edgar Allen Poe. Like him, not him. He was yards ahead of me by any stretch of anyone's imagination! He is the first author that I took an interest in when I was still in school. I think about the fourth or fith grade, I read "The Tell-Tale Heart". I was hooked from then on. The one thing that really pisses me off? He died broke and addicted to opium and "the drink". One of his friends found him in an alleyway one night. He took Mr. Poe to his home to recover. In just a few days, the world lost a great author. Dead from exposure, as much as his addictions.

 

       I believe Mr. Poe's spirit lives on in Stephen King, I really do. I imagine Mr. King would be pretty pissed off at that notion. He wants to think that the talent is all his. And, for the most part, it probably is...mostly. You see, all of you know I don't really believe in a "God" of sorts. I do, however, believe "spirits" that are worthy can come back, sort of like a "second chance". I firmly believe that Mr. Poe has made a somewhat subtle re-appearence on this Earth. I hope Mr. King can find it in his heart to forgive me my convictions on this one. Maybe just grant me this one little quirk in my nature, and not hate me for it. He could probably sue me, but about all he would get is a bunch of cats, and maybe my beer money. I don't think he would waste his time.

 

           So, you see, monkeys writing Shakespeare is about as absurd as me writing for Mr. King. It just couldn't happen. I don't care how many monkeys you give typewriters to, it ain't gonna happen. If that were true, I could let my little granddaughter write my material. She would certainly come closer than a bunch of simians in a closed off room! 'Till next time...

 

                 :)Holla' If You Hear Me!!!:)