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Okay, so maybe I do ask for your undivided attention … while you’re asleep. And yes, you might want to erect a statue to me … for no apparent reason. And no, I will not discourage you from bowing down to me when you hear about my latest plan for moving up the literary ladder.
And why is it that I have these ridiculously high expectations from all of you?
Well, it’s because I’ve decided to become a big name writer.
Paul, you a big name writer, you ask? But, how could you ever hope to compete with the likes of Carlo Alessandro Agostino of Milwaukee, who writes about his obsession with the Wienerschnitzel down the street? Or Helga Smitzer Schulz of Rome, who writes volumes about her Italian heritage?
And how could you ever hope to be mentioned in the same breath as Melvin Elimelech Swimmell of Japan, who writes Greek mystery novels in Yiddish?
Well, actually, I can’t. After all, those are pretty big names.
Then again, I could possibly be mentioned with some of the smaller named writers. Like Agatha Christie, Mark Twain, or John Updike.
Or, maybe even some moneymaking novelists like James Patterson, J. K. Rowling, and John Grisham.
I wouldn’t mind being in the company of their money.
Sure, I know I don’t always press the publish button for many of my writings. But, hey, not even Jane Austin could say that!
So, take that all you big name authors who only publish your books every other year or so. And you call yourself writers?
So, what do I write about, exactly?
Well, many things. For one, I write our youngest son’s name on his lunch bag every single day—including Saturdays and Sundays. Then there’s the grocery lists I write down for my wife—including items my wife always seems to forget—like beer and chips.
Also, I scribble love notes of sweet nothings to my wife, which I lovingly leave under her pillow at night. Wonder why she never says anything about them in the mornings? Oh well.
Then there are all those angry letters I anonymously pen to the power company, whereby I complain about how they spelled my last name wrong—and yet they still want me to pay them! I think they have me confused with some other writer … customer.
Now I realize that many a big-name author might well claim that, unlike me, they all get paid to write and that they have me over a barrel with that one.
But, I’m happy to report that I also get paid to write. Yes, that’s right. I get paid to write, too!
See, all I do, is I write certain folks about something I might have seen them do that maybe they shouldn’t have done. And, bingo, they send me money!
Someone told me it’s called extortion, blackmail, or something like that. But who cares what kind of writing it’s called, as long as it pays, right?
And you know what else?
If given enough time, I bet this this sort of gig could land me a long term contract with one of the big publishing houses like Random House, the Big House, or some place like that.
What a sentence that would be to write, huh?
In My Cluttered Attic 