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wrong characters died. Oh, and they want me to add a
dog and a baby. I plunge again as I try to pick up the pieces
that are salvageable.
But then it occurs to me how it can be done, and
hey, that dog really does add to the suspense, and the
baby will be worth a few boxes of tissue, so yahoo, I’m
up again as I send it off. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done,
a guaranteed blockbuster.
But then I can’t pay my light bill, and the checks are
starting to bounce, and that check from the publisher
never comes. So I plunge again. Finally, I get paid, and
dance around singing “I’m in the money!” Then I write
a check to Uncle Sam, pay that late light bill, pay my life
insurance premium that I’m behind on, and wonder how
I’m going to make it on what’s left over until the next
check. Spirits take another dive.
Book comes out, good review, I dance again and sing
for joy and write all my friends and make copies for my
mother. Then I go on Amazon and read one lousy review
from some hostile reader, and I notice that I’m ranked
6,000,342,786, and I go around the house looking for
my gun or the Valium I threw away when I was dancing
for joy that last time.
But before I pull the trigger or toss those pills down
my throat, I start thinking, “What if some guy had a gun
and a bottle of anxiety pills and before he offs himself a
shot rings out and he hits the fl oor and suddenly wants
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