There once was a young man who in his youth professed his desire to become a great writer. When asked to define great, he said, “I want to write stuff that the whole world will read, stuff people will react to on a truly emotional level, stuff that will make them scream, cry, howl in pain and anger!”
He now works for Microsoft, writing error messages.
A visitor to a certain college paused to admire the hew Hemingway Hall that had been built on campus. “It’s a pleasure seeing a hall named after Ernest Hemingway,” he said.
“Actually,” said his guide, “It’s named for Joshua Hemingway, no relation.”
“Was Joshua Hemingway a writer, too?”
“Yes, indeed,” said the guide, “He wrote a check.”
A writer died and was given the option of going to heaven or hell. She decided to check out each place first.
As she descended into the fiery pits, she saw rows and rows of writers chained to their desks in a sweatshop; the writers were repeatedly whipped with thorny lashes.
“Oh my,” said the writer, “Let me see heaven now.”
As she ascended into heaven she saw the exact same scene as was in hell: writers chained to their desks and being whipped by thorny lashes.
“This is just as bad as hell!”
“Oh, no, it’s not,” said an unseen voice, “Here your work gets published.”