I write. I can't help myself. When I was eight I used to write little stories on pieces of paper and staple them together. Then I'd sell them out of my yellow Radio Flyer Wagon that I pulled door to door through everyones' back yard. Hey, would it be lying to say I wrote a book? I think I sold them for a quarter...nice chunk of change. Then I found some old vitamin capsules in the garage. I dumped the powder out and replaced it with tiny, rolled up strips of paper on which I'd written magic fortunes. I sold those too. Now I can't sell a story to save my life. Perhaps my style hasn't improved much since I was eight...
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