There seems to be a bit of confusion. My fault, really.
As you might recall, I said a while back that I’d like to be a “writer”. Now, granted, there are a number of ways that might be taken. For instance, I was literate at the time, so I could have been justified in dusting off my hands, saying “Job done” and wandered off to the fridge for a self-congratulatory beer.
Instead, I set off down a likely path and started stringing words together in the hopes that they would all come together to make a story, then trying to convince others that I had in fact made a story worth reading and paying for the privilege.
Yeah. Turns out, that’s hard, and not at all what I had in mind.
You see, I said I wanted to be a writer. I never said anything about writing. I was looking for something a little more Great Gatsby. You know, that guy with the elbow patches and an open calendar, the one who tends to show up in guest spots on all those old TV mystery shows.
Not Too-old-to-be-the-starving-young-artist-typing-between-family-and-work-and-no-you-probably-haven’t-seen-me-in-anything-unless-you-followed-that-link-I-just-posted. That guy has to work. There’s no way he’d have the time for leisurely drinks by the marina, much less helping Matlock or Quincy or Fletcher solve a murder.
Thanks for giving this your full attention. I have some requests on the whole Rich & Famous thing too, but if we can sort this out first, the rest should go a bit smoother.