But

I love creative writing, but it involves so much work every day. I like to work every day, or I’d rather read a good book written by a repressed Southern novelist. I love the South, and I’ve been known to tolerate the racial attitudes that lurk beneath every Southerner’s bless your heart and how nice. Common courtesy is so refreshing these days, like a sock between the eyes by a gum-chewing Brad Pitt – James Dean wannabe. Those rebels with a cause arouse me ... as if I ever needed any help. I should tell you that I’m over forty now, as though it really matters to anyone. None of the guys really pay me any attention anymore, although this cellphone junkie with a twitch in his left eye and breath that smells like cucumbers and peanut brittle looks me in the eye way too often. To be honest, he bothers me with all this attention, because I have other things on my mind most of the time. I’m thinking about my next project, when I might sit down and write the great American novel. But I just can’t put any ideas down on paper, in spite of the fact that I love creative writing.