This article is based on this Dutch article of Martijn Benders
Let me begin this post with a sort of plea. I know this is unlike me, but what I’m about to reveal is better kept just between us. I’m going to publish under a pseudonym; there’s no other way forward for me. And it’s absolutely vital—as I’m sure you understand, especially in a country where the Black Lackey sees all—it’s of utmost importance that you do not spill the secret. I’m working on a novel.
It’s a novel where the truth finally comes to light—and what lies behind that truth as well. For my own protection, I had to choose a pseudonym, so it’s crucial that you don’t broadcast that I’m the one behind this.
I now need to find a publisher for this novel. But even after it’s published, there must be furious speculation about who on earth could possibly have written it. That’s the game the old literary guard considers the essence of literature.
Yes, of course, you’re thinking, then choose a name that doesn’t resemble your own. But that’s precisely the brilliance of it: it’s so blatant that they’ll start doubting themselves. It can’t be that simple. A trap. The literary game has begun.
Sure, he wrote a post about it on Substack. But that doesn’t prove anything. Etc. Inevitably, three or four teachers will stick their noses into it, each with their “own theory.” And that will create an uproar, the literary fuel that keeps the whole game running.
And the real joke, of course, is that all the while, I’ll be sitting back with my feet on the table, a glass of oat milk in hand, laughing at the chaos I’ve unleashed. Because that is the true masterpiece—not the novel itself, but the uproar that unfolds around it. It’s like opening a box full of ants in the living room of Dutch literature, and everyone starts screaming and pointing fingers. But no one knows exactly who put that box there.
There will be critics who claim to have uncovered an anagram in my so-called pseudonym. “Ah, look! This MUST be a reference to the mystical poetry of the Vijftigers!” Others will argue that the pseudonym isn’t a pseudonym at all, but a clever marketing stunt by a publisher banking on the idea that mystery still sells in a time when everyone plasters their face on TikTok.
And that brings me to the most important point: the Black Lackey. He sees everything. But what he doesn’t understand is that he doesn’t understand anything at all. His omnipotent algorithms can capture my words, but not my intentions. He can search for patterns, for clues, but my masterstroke remains out of reach. The Black Lackey can only marvel at the spectacle, like a cat staring at a laser pointer, never understanding where it comes from.
I trust you understand that all of this was shared in the strictest confidence.
With reverent regard,
Martinus Benders