Monday, July 9, 2012

Writing Is Hell

As whores went, Sheila was not normal by a long shot. For $20 you could use, abuse, invade and degrade her to your heart’s content. Then she’d tell you to keep your money.

She was the one that put me in contact with Him. Call him Satan, Ole Scratch, His Nibs, Lord of Darkness…you know of the guy. Misery loves company and Sheila figured she could score some points with The Boss by recruiting me. He offered, I signed. He got my immortal soul and I got twenty years of unparalleled success as THE preeminent author of my era. Anything I wrote would be golden.

I was ready for Him on the fateful day he popped into my stretch limo to call in my marker.

I told him the dreck I’d been writing had to be responsible for plenty of moral decay and sinful thoughts and deeds. I reminded him there must be a a bazillion talented authors who’d blown their brains out or went postal over my success. In short, I was way more use to him here than in Hell. Reluctantly, the Infernal One agreed and now you know the secret of my unbroken string of best-selling books. 

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