How are you able to write so consistently?
I see this phantom cubical chasing me, over my shoulder. If I slow down, it catches me, and I have to go get a regular job and become an insurance salesman or something.
Hey now, I sell insurance, it’s not that bad!
Ha. I knew someone would say this.
Let me put it this way—you’re probably good at it. I’d be terrible. I’d be sitting and thinking of all the books I wanted to be writing all day. It would be miserable. Not because selling insurance is miserable, but because—for me—NOT writing would be.
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