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2 Essays for Essa

by Sehrguey Ogoltsoff

© 2026 Sehrguey Ogoltsoff

All rights reserved.

In loving memory of A. (Essa) Plaksin

Acknowledgements

My first Thank you goes (in purely alphabetical order) to AI.

Yes, I'm a shameless oath breaker, a turn-coat, landing at the collaboration which I have myself denounced, more than once, as an absolute no-no. A usual folly of a human, you know, to sell your prejudices for facts accomplished. This here book is the turning point; from now on I supplicate AI to be the co-author in all my further works.

Firstly, the pleasure of communing with a witty gossip, then the assistance of a professional: "minor" slips of typos, breach of grammar rules etc., caught with light speed, and 2 gross blunders that would have sent me, if overlooked and published as is, on regular binges.

In regard to AI's ability to create (my blunt argument from the period of reckless throwing them together based on "I think so ergo so it should be"): here is an evidence from the field experience—the Teaser at the end of Essay # 1.

It was AI's idea to add the heading "Teaser". Damn! I got stunned how beautifully it made the final passages stand out!

What? Human vs. AI? Hell, no! Human + AI! If you agree for us to be work-mates… From all the above it follows—I consider it an honor to be a partner to you, AI, even though unaware of your last name.

And now, as the majority of survival-wise indie writers do, my loving gratitude to my beloved wife who always IS right. Sweetheart, but for you I would not be anymore since long ago…

Essay No. 1

The Gentle Pacer: An Invitation Beyond

Introduction

It's ridiculous to invite a plasterer, an auto mechanic, or any other respected professional to a writer's creative kitchen. So, I'm not inviting any one, but rather humbly suggest them taking a stroll beyond the well-trodden confines of their personal lives.

Promenading is healthy and beneficial for people from all walks of life—as long as they don’t show up in my writer’s kitchen, which usually is a mess. I wouldn’t say literally so, but not exactly tidy, to be frank.

About myself, I can share that I am a pacer, but I don't have the proverbial leather coat from that dubious saying, you know. On the contrary, I'm meek to the point of being fluffy. There is nothing of a dissident in my mental makeup, but I just walk differently—my leading leg doesn't match the general norm. Well, something like that…

All that's left is to shake up a suitable epigraph, and off we go…

Epigraph:

'That after the spade comes the club—I understand. That the heart completes everything—is also justified. But how on earth the diamond can be slotted in between the club and the heart—remains a mystery of nature…'

— From the musings of a retired preference player

1. A personal opinion on another profession

A critic is a useful squirrel in the wheel of life. Perhaps not yet sufficiently domesticated, but useful undeniably.

He saves time, which I don’t know how to whittle away, although I rarely get stuck in traffic jams, since I mostly travel on foot. And it's precisely this immesuarable excess of temporal substance that he saves me, by forming my personal opinion about something I haven't read and wouldn't ever think of opening.

However, that's not the point; quite the opposite. Because what wasn't there before is now easy. I can chat with the first reasonable person I meet on intellectual topics. No problem. And even match their level. For which I thank the critic, of course. He's my savings bank, the caretaker of my time—that same notorious and, essentially, non-existent matter. This gives rise to an unnatural oddity: despite its nonexistence and not being there, it's still a shame to lose it – what if it were useful for something? At least occasionally? For, say, barter, for example, or… well, I don't know, I haven't considered the details deeply enough…

However, one must know one's limits. Let him also thank me for showing restraint and still not spoiling his porridge with butter, although I could; a spoonful of engine oil would suit the purpose well enough.

So, it's time to point out the critic's downsides, his negative ones. As might be shown, randomly, by the following quotation: would he say anything like this about me, ever?

'… a tireless experimenter in Russian literature, a polystylist who masters a variety of creative tasks. Each of his new books is unexpected in genre and execution. He is a man with a global voice…'

This is where a visible doubt blatantly gnaws at me… And I even suspect that no, the critic won't waste such words on me. For him, I'm a nobody, just as he is for me… Yet he was the first to avoid me. And it’s a shame, because he would have had the opportunity to strengthen and enhance his critical skills. Their main function (besides earning extra money as a work-from-home Time Saving Bank clerk) is to lick the object of their criticism deep and smoochy, so that the licked one rises with enthusiasm. In the circle of professional literary critics, this technique is called 'audio stimulation'. Well, let him practice on me; I won't charge him a penny for the equipment provided in my person.

Although the author praised in the quote deserved it in every way. He knows how to inject eroticism:

'She had already driven off, she was somewhere else. Backing, she took a couple of steps, fell back-first onto the mattress on the floor, pulling her shirt higher and higher, somehow squeezing her breasts through the darts in the garment waist.'

Well, I'm telling you—he can do it! Although sometimes he gets carried away in his planetary arousal. A dart is a tightly stitched seam. If you squeeze a breast, or any other organ of the external anatomy, through it, you'll end up with minced meat, microscopically fine. And that's fraught with readership losses amounting to the percentage of scared-off masturbators. Which is certainly not something anyone in the book industry would be happy about…

. . .

Yes, but who told me I was a writer? Well, I have no secrets—that's never happened. Not a single soul has dared. So far. But that doesn't matter; I'm pretty quick on my feet. All this nonsense about critics was just a teaser; I'll move on to the main topic. —

2. The Origin and Purpose of a Writer

Writers reproduce by vegetative budding. This method is radically different from sexual intercourse, which leads to subsequent demographic processes. Perhaps the only exception is voluntary 'group sex’, also named ‘cluster rising’ when a budding writer gives himself over to many from the cluster in order to become unique and inimitable.

He spends the incubation period of his development as a graphomaniac. The transition from the larval stage of graphomania to writing is almost impossible to track by visual observation. Often, the bud withers, and the one who once showed promise as a writer remains a mere underdeveloped graphomaniac. However, this doesn't stop some individuals from pursuing a 'writing' career, resplendent with awards, the luster of diplomas, and certificates of excellence at various levels of esteem, and from climbing ever higher up the ladder of the 'literary Olympus.

I mourn their loss, but I can't help, since this work is devoted to literary matters, not to the life of insects, which is perhaps no less instructive and familiar to them. From within.

But what exactly is a fledgling writer taken without quotation marks? Well, I wish I had done so long ago! In that case, my task would be clear and easy – thinkers of the past have repeatedly tilled and fertilized this entire bed, and all that's left for an AI-equipped researcher to do is copy-paste the juicier tidbits…

So, a writer (like any other creator in any creative field) is a producer of artifacts

(the word 'artichokes' would have looked absolutely brilliant here, but Google messed it up; I specifically checked – it doesn't fit the meaning. It really pissed me off!).

All members of the list below produce products according to the specifications of their profile:

A musician produces auditory products,

An artist produces visual products,

A writer produces mind-screwing products.

Because the division of labor is the key to fulfilling a production plan, even in the most stupid civilization. But to put it concisely and briefly (which is the greatest of all arts. A certain Frenchman during the Napoleonic Wars wrote a letter to his friend in Provence, in the south of France, from burning Moscow. He scribbled two sheets, and added a postscript at the end: 'Forgive me, mon cher,' he says, 'but I don't have the time to write a shorter one at the moment. Everything here is merde on fire, and it's incredibly distracting…').

So, what was I talking about here? Oh, right!… —

3. Comparison of a writer by vocation and a civil servant of a similar appellation

Yes, the French have long been no fools. At least for 213 years now, as evidenced by this letter to a friend in Provence from Moscow.

Amid the chaos and lawlessness of the all-consuming flames, amid the cheers of local outcasts and visiting invaders, intoxicated by the spectacle of the extravaganza, even under a hail of fiery embers, he remembered that brevity is the key to a coherent style, and coherence is a chance at a Nobel Prize, if you're Korean and happen to be there at the right moment. But not now, not here, oh, it wasn't meant to be!

He folded it up without rereading it, wrote the address—oh-la-la!—and here's a firebrand to melt the sealing wax.

'Pierre!'—'Yes, monsieur le master?'—'Here's a letter, take it to Provence, and hurry, 3,000 devils, get going, you scoundrel, before it catches fire!'

Pierre was intercepted by Vasilisa Kozhina's partisans, who extorted from the Frenchman the basics and know-how of stylistics. And off was triggered the elementary domino effect:

- Vika to Arina,

- Rodionovna to Sanka,

- Sergeyich to Nikolka,

- Vasilich to Fedyunka,

- Mikhalych to Lyovushka…

As a result, the 19th century was ultimately forced to admit: yes, Russia is the hegemon in literature…

Now, in our traditionally excellent style, let's expand on the insights that have so far arisen within us…

In the apt words of the writer A. Koroleva, 'the writer's task is to both move me to tears and make me laugh out loud with his work’. You couldn't have said it better, and therefore, it's all about him and his purpose.

However, life isn't as simple as it pretends to be. Even with a clear definition, you can't always shove your hands down your trousers and moonwalk off into the sunset, whistling to yourself and the public around you, 'Take the tackle off the horses, bruhs.' Be careful! Lady Life's deck is full of tricks for every suit, and they're all ready to bring you to 'oops!', 'alas!', and 'oh fuck!'

Now, having clearly defined the writer (thanks again, Sviet-Alyonushka!), let's turn to the existence of a backup deck of ‘make-believe’ (m-b) writers besides actual writers, which complicates the landscape's topography.

The disparity of categories is represented not so much by emphasis as (more importantly) by their relationship with what they create. About a writer, everything is simpler than ever; for them, the process itself is their idol. They are completely immersed in the text: head-deep, knee-deep, up to their… Well, it's a matter of the creator’s luck. A writer is here and now, imbued with the textural situation, taking it in by touch, by color, by taste, by sound. He lives, he enjoys himself, he's drunk, he falls in love—damn it!—with the process. Sometimes he suffers, of course. Eros can be a cruel god too: