The Only Man Among Us

Today is the birthday of William Shakespeare.

In addition to his birthday, today is also the day Shakespeare died. So light a candle tonight and blow it out, commemorate and mourn the man all in one flickering breath.

Well. I could go on for pages and pages, but Garrison Keillor already has it covered over at The Writer’s Almanac.

I think most writers want to be Somebody, whether they’re conscious of it or not. Sometimes they might talk about it, if you get them in the right mood or put the right glass of something in their hand. They’ll spill their secret and let you know who they admire, who they aspire to become in either their work, reputation, or skill . . . or just the person that they feel is reading over their shoulder while they write.

I don’t know anyone who wants to be Shakespeare.

Sometimes I think about him. I wonder what he was like. I hope he was more like the Shakespeare in the Sandman stories (especially ‘The Tempest’) — that’s the Shakespeare I believe in.

I like him, that Will. I’d like to have him for a friend.

I wouldn’t mind being him, either. Getting a life-long commission from the King of Dreams is miles away better than bedding Gwyneth Paltrow, if you ask me.