I wasn't even half way through one of my short stories when people jumped up and left screaming. The librarian, when I approached her, threatened to mace me.
Out in the street I became disconsolate. How could I ever sell copies of my books when people fled my readings? Why hasn't Stephen King experienced this?
Later, at my favorite cafe, over a coffee, I asked Louise, my friend behind the counter, what my problem was.
"I've read your books and I sleep just fine. It's not your stories. It's you. You're a scary looking guy. You've got a spooky, nasal tone, threatening eyebrows, quick movements. You sneak up on people and there's an odd odor coming from under your shirt. Plus, those ears are right out of Roswell, New Mexico. You are creepy in subtle ways. Find a benign looking person to read your stuff."
I had to admit she was right. But all my writer friends look like they could audition for The Addams Family. I'd have better luck at a Transylvania train station.
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