Something to brighten your day

By Rick Blechta

I’m pressed for time this week, so I’m going to share a joke that should make everyone smile (or even LOL) and is one all writers will appreciate. I may have told it here before, but it was so long ago now, who cares?

It goes like this…

A writer dies and finds himself (or herself, take your pick!) at the Pearly Gates. It was very busy that day and St. Peter is pressed for time.

When the writer finally reaches the front of the line, St. Peter tells him, “I can’t take time to go through your earthly record right now, so I’ll tell you what. How about you visit heaven for writers and hell for writers, then you come back and tell me where you’d like to spend eternity. Deal?”

Confused, the writer agrees.

Following directions, he goes down a path and finds an elevator. The only choice of floors is down or up, so he presses the down button.

Down, down, down goes the elevator, and when the doors finally open, the writer finds himself in a long hallway with doors on each side. He inquires about hell for writers and is directed to a door on the left. Arriving there, he goes in.

The room is vast and filled with rows and rows of benches. Chained to the benches are writers, each one furiously typing while the heat of a thousand suns burns down on them and demons whip them mercilessly.

There’s someone standing by the door and the writer approaches him. “Tell me, does this go on every day?”

“Yes. Day and night for all eternity.”

The writer quickly leaves and goes back to the elevator, quickly gets in and presses the up button.

Up, up, up goes the elevator and when the doors open once again he finds himself back in heaven. Stopping someone, the writer asks for directions to heaven for writers. Following them, he soon finds himself at another door.

Going in, he finds himself in another vast room filled with rows and rows of benches. Chained to the benches are writers, each one furiously typing while the heat of a thousand suns burns down on them and demons whip them mercilessly.

Totally confused, the writer beats a hasty retreat and walks back to the Pearly Gates. It’s much less crowded now and he waits in line patiently.

When he again approaches St. Peter’s desk, he asks, “Sir, I am very confused. I visited heaven and hell for writers as you requested, and well, they’re both absolutely identical.”

St. Peter looked down kindly. “No, my son, they are not. Up here you get published!”

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My thanks to John Lawrence Reynolds who told me this joke originally over a post-conference libation or two.