He looked at the sheaf of papers on his table. His accomplishment, he felt. It was his baby. It was the one big thing he had always wanted to do. His own book. He closed his eyes to savor the moment – he had just written the last chapter. The most exciting, most unexpected of all the chapters. He was sure he had a bestseller in his hands. “Mr.M, what was your inspiration to write this masterpiece?” “Sir, how many other offers have you got, now that your first book is a huge hit?” He could hear the reporters, jostling for space with their mikes and notepads. He could feel the heat of the camera flashes.
With a satisfied smile, he started to arrange the papers – he had done that umpteen times in the last 30 minutes, but somehow, he kept doing it again. Perfection, he called it.
He placed the papers inside a folder and almost reverently, kept it inside the cupboard.
He then turned to the assortment of open books on his table. All his favorite authors. His inspiration. Would they notice the similarities? He shrugged off the thought – you’re just being paranoid, he chided himself. They wouldn’t know. No one would. It was an art, plagiarizing. And he was the master artist.