I had writer's block and the characters I had previously created pounded on my garage door, frantic to be thrust into a narrative, ANY narrative. I questioned my identity as a writer. When I called Abe, another writer, he said he had plenty of stories, but no characters and suggested a trade.
On his third date with Ellen, John's hairpiece caused his scalp to itch. He doubted she guessed he was bald, but there was questioning in her eyes as she watched him squirm in his seat, dying to scratch.
Carl, the leader of the workshop, spoke in a confident, authoritative voice about narrative arc. My attention, however, was focused on the hot women wearing peach sitting next to me. If I wanted to sell articles I'd better concentrate on Carl--I had rent to pay.
My fifteenth book was just published and before you get all hussy about destroyed trees, consider that if you invited me to your parties I'd have less time to write and there would be fewer books.
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