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Brandon Sanderson woke up in his bed. He emitted a miasma of anger, like a shart emits a miasma of shart-smell. Most people would have thought that Sanderson had no reason to be angry, let alone emit a miasma or anger. After all, he had a new book coming out. But that was the problem. A new book meant inevitable criticism of the Mormon by his greatest critics: the critics.

Brandon Sanderson hated the critics. Ever since he had become the best author they had made fun of him. They had mocked The Well of Ascension, The Hero of Ages, The Way of Kings, The Alloy of Law and even The Bands of Mourning.

The critics said his writing was juvenile, repetitive, artless, and drab. They said his prose was swamped in a sea of poor metaphors and contrived SAT vocab words masquerading as obscure. For some reason they found something amusing in sentences such as “it seemed to hold in the heat and the humidity, like a merchant hoarding fine rugs.” They even say my books are packed with banal and superfluous description, thought the 5ft 2in man. He particularly hated it when they claimed his wit was dull. How he longed to retort with a retort as skillful as Wit’s retorts, a witty character in witty novel The Stormlight Archive. He’d already drafted a few possibilities: “It takes one to know one”; “shut up, you toxic heap of vomit”; and, best of all, “you critics are a band of morning anal discharge”. However, his restraint prevented him from sharing these witty retorts. After all, his critics were primarily heterosexual cisgender white men, his favorite group of people except, of course, heterosexual cisgender white women, like his wife, whom he had married.

Brandon Sanderson got out of his fancy bed in his pricey house and walked back and forth repeatedly. He knew he shouldn’t care what a few envious critics thought. His new book Rhythm of War was coming out on Tuesday, and the 980-page hardback published by Tor with a recommended US retail price of $29.95 was sure to be a hit ($189.95 for the calfskin edition).

I’ll call my agent, thought the writer. He reached for the telephone using one of his two hands. “Hello, this is Brandon Sanderson,” spoke Brandon Sanderson. “I want to talk to literary agent Yesmahn Sycofant.”

“Mr Sycofant, it’s Brandon Sanderson,” said the voice at the other end of the line. Instantly the voice at the other end of the line was replaced by a different voice at the other end of the line. “Hello, it’s literary agent Yemahn Sycofant,” informed the new voice at the other end of the line.

“Hello agent Yesmahn, it’s Brando,” commented the writer. “I’m worried about new book Rhythm of War. I think critics are going to say it’s written poor. Hey, that rhymes! I'm witty, like Wit.” He did not notice the issues with his grammar, and even if he did, he wouldn't have cared.

The voice at the other end of the line gave a sigh, like a big oak toppling into a big river, or something else that didn’t sound like a sigh if you gave it a moment’s thought. “Who cares what the stupid critics say?” advised the literary agent. “They’re just snobs. You have millions of fans.”

That’s true, mused the author of tomes combining fantasy, magic, and wizardry. His books were read by everyone from famous actor Henry Cavill to famous actor Vin Diesel. Besides famous white male actors, it was said that a copy of Mistborn had even found its way into the hands of famous white female actress Rosamund Pike. He was grateful for his good fortune, and gave thanks every night in his prayers to Mormon-space-deity-God.

“Think of all the money you’ve made,” recommended the literary agent. That was true too. The thriving writer’s wealth had allowed him to indulge his passion for great art. Among his proudest purchases were a specially commissioned landscape by acclaimed painter Vincent van Gogh and a signed first folio by revered scriptwriter William Shakespeare.

Famous author Branderson smiled, the ends of his mouth curving upwards in a physical expression of pleasure. He felt much better. If your books brought innocent delight to millions of readers, what did it matter whether you knew the difference between objective and subjective pronouns? Especially given you considered pronouns something warranting eternal damnation.

“Thanks, Yesmahn,” he thanked. Then he put down the telephone and perambulated on foot to the treadmill desk behind which he frequently stood to write his famous books on a laptop in Courier point 12 double spaced font on Microsoft Word using Outline mode. He needed the exercise. He was developing his newest book Rhythm of War, the latest in his series about fictional character Kaladin, a paladin, a fictitious paladin to be precise. It wouldn’t be the last in the lucrative sequence, either. He had all the sequels mapped out. The Pace of Combat. The Tempo of Strife. The Beat of Bloodshed.

The 290lb adult male human being nodded his head to indicate satisfaction and returned to his bedroom by walking there. Still asleep in the luxurious four-poster bed of the expensive $10 million house was beautiful wife Ms Sanderson (the Mormon church had done away with endorsing polygamy). Branderson gazed admiringly at the pulchritudinous brunette’s blonde tresses, flowing from her head like a stream but made from hair instead of water and without any fish in. She was as majestic as the finest sculpture by Caravaggio or the most coveted portrait by Rodin. I like the attractive woman, thought the successful man.

Perhaps one day, inspired by beautiful wife Mrs Sanderson, he would move into romantic poetry, like market-leading Mormon rhymester Neil Aitken.That would be good, opined the talented person, and got back into the luxurious four-poster bed. He felt as happy as a man who has something to be happy about and is suitably happy about it.

Sauce

Turns out we don't have a c/books and I didn't want to shit up c/literature lol

Someone is truly in here going !nerd The hundreds of people gunned down daily is really a small percentage of the population so it's all just scaremongering. Several dozen people are upvoting it. I think I'm done with hexbear for a bit. Thanks for the fun posts, everyone

Being a child is criminalized. And the children are suffering. The point of childhood anymore doesn't seem to enjoy some innocence and learn life lessons and make mistakes in a loving or caring environment where you're shielded from most of the consequences. The purpose of childhood is to mold you into an ideal member of the proletariat. And to never ever misbehave, because the Eye in the Sky (whether that's your parents or the police state) is always watching and you'd better get used to it.

I've talked about the atrocious state of childrens' rights in this country, and had some really good discussion here about it. It's only getting worse. Don't walk or bike home from school, wait for your parent to come get you in an SUV. Don't go skateboarding, you hooligan. Don't hang out with friends or other kids in the neighborhood with only the admonition of being back before dark. Don't drink a beer, even as an adult- you'll go to jail. Don't host a party, you'll go to jail. Don't have awkward teenage sex. Don't go hang out downtown or explore the woods, you'll be raped and abducted and sold into slavery! Just stay home, on your phone where it's safe.

I fucking hate this. This shit honestly makes me despair more than climate change. I'm not sure why that is, obviously what we're doing to the climate could well spell the end of human civilization. I think I'm just really upset at this very clear, yet less dramatic impact of living in a fascist society. Being a child is criminalized.