There was a writer. He was fond of himself. Once, he was accused of plagiarism. The case had been clearly proven. He negated all the charges, abused all those who blamed him and broke all his friendships with his readers and followers. He still loved himself.
People asked him to apologize, to accept his mistakes. He rebuked them saying they didn't have the right to intrude in his private life. He was too fond of himself to apologize, you know. His readers lost all the admiration for him. He couldn't care less. He still loved himself. He said that he
wrote plagiarized for himself, he didn't need readers.
Unruffled, he tried writing once again. He wrote. He was glad that he could write. He read what he wrote. He wasn't satisfied. Not that it was lousy, but that it didn't get him any appreciation. He missed appreciation. He
wrote plagiarized for applause. He wrote plagiarized for his readers. He liked when others too got fond of him, much like him. But no-one was there this time.
Now he had no readers. No friends, who would read, who would like what he had to say. He had insulted each one of them, who had questioned his disgraceful act. He never apologized, he couldn't convince himself of surrendering his mighty ego. All the while, he stopped writing. He lacked motivation.
A month later, when there were no apologies from his side, the writers and the readers realized that he didn't need to apologize. They concluded that he was not guilty. It was them who were wrong. They mistook him as a writer, while he wasn't one.
P.S. Inspired from an article that I just came across on Indiblogger.