To Meet or Not To Meet

It says a lot about a man that doesn't look up from his work. It says even more about the man who doesn't do it when a stranger suddenly teleports into the room.

“Autographs are a fiver, signed portraits are a tenner,” said the man, eyes barely leaving his writings.

“It's you, isn't it?” said the stranger eagerly. The man sighed and laid down his quill. It was one of those people.

“You're William Shakespeare!”

“So I've been told,” said Shakespeare, still not turning to face his guest.

“I'm Tom, and I must say I'm your biggest fan. I mean Titus Andronicus-”

“Was written to please the masses and make me a quick buck,” cut off Shakespeare.

“Well Macbeth-”

“Political propaganda to keep my neck out of the noose.”

“Oh and Hamlet. That whole To Be Or Not To-”

“Conceived when I was debating about whether to pubically urinate or not.”

“Oh,” said Tom, a bit disheartened. Then the obvious finally managed to hit him in the face. “Here, how come you're not surprised to see me.”

“When one has the status as the greatest writer of all time one gets use to visitors from the future inquiring about one's person.”

“You know I'm from the future?”

“I'm hardly a fool. It became clear the umpteenth time one of your cohorts inadvertently told me when I was in my youth.”

“Oh-” began Tom, but Shakespeare was in his forte.

“And ever since then I've been besieged by idiots who have wanted to know the true meanings behind my plays. Or worse, offer their own interpretation, as misguided and humorous as they could be. It quickly became to become a bore to have yet another stranger congratulate me on something I'd yet to write.”

“Well surely the audience must like you?” ventured Tom.

“The common man on the street barely knows who I am. The audience is constantly packed with the likes of you lot, come to see my work when it was 'authentic'.” He practically spat the word. “If it isn't bad enough that you lot continue to fawn over me, you also do me the unkindness of claiming that I didn't write any of it myself. Or worse claim the work of lesser playwrights should be in my name instead! There is more than one playwright around here you know. Or don't, as so often the case.”

“Yes I suppose-” tried Tom, but Shakespeare would have none of it.

“In fact at one point I tried to destroy my work so at least I could get some respite from being questioned about that. But no, soon there came a flurry of people asking me what happened to Love Labours Won and whether it existed in the first place. They'd even written their own versions of it.”

“Well why don't you stop writing?” countered Tom.

“You didn't think that occurred to me you foolish man. The moment I vowed never to put quill to parchment I was besieged with people wanting to know why I'd stop. It eventually became simpler just to start writing again so I didn't have to repeat myself.”

“Oh,” repeated Tom, thoroughly disheartened by this encounter. However he remembered one last thing he wanted to bring up. “What about your sonnets?”

“Believe me when I find the man who will publish my diary after my death I will screw him quite firmly to the sticking place. Now begone with you. This Winter's Tale isn't going to write itself, although some buffoon already told me how it was going to end. So begone!”

With that Shakespeare turned back to his work, ignoring Tom entirely. Before Tom left he remembered one piece of wisdom his teacher had told him before he left:

Never meet your heroes, for you will always be let down.