Wednesday, September 17, 2014


     I don’t know what happened to my writing career. The only chapter where I’ve made any progress is Chapter 11, and the thoughts just keep flowing--thoughts like, “If I can’t write and sell something soon, I’m ... . . . “ 

     I tried writing poetry. Most of my friends who’ve read my verse were very impressed but asked if I had been having suicidal thoughts. 

     I tried writing fiction, but I’d get these great plot ideas, develop the characters, set them in intriguing situations and have no effen clue how to end the piece. I have the beginnings of 47 short stories, three novels and nine plays. 

     Then I thought maybe I should be a travel writer. Mr. Wonderful and I love to travel, and we’ve taken many fabulous trips from Detroit to Denmark. After describing one castle, one museum, waterfall, mountain and  café, I realized that they were all the same in every city. I ran out of adjectives, and I got so bored writing about them, I just wanted to go home and put a contract out on Rick Steeves.

     I’m now writing my eulogy. I figure I know the protagonist like the back of my hand. I can start in the past and choose any friggin’ experience I want and exaggerate the hell out of it. I can write in the first person--screw literary convention. And I know the ending. My final words will be, “Liquidate and celibrate!”