The Novelist Encounters An Abundance Of Veins

As a novelist, one of the more annoying things I’ve encountered lately is when a veiny, curly-haired lunk walks right up to me and says “How are WE doing?” And I’m thinking, hey man, I want nothing to do with your vascularity and loafers with no socks. I’m a novelist, pal, a lone wolf, not some guy who eats a ten ounce pile of barley and six hard-boiled eggs in a sitting. “WE aren’t doing anything, yo,”  I say to this throbby, pumpy dude. And right to his face. No fear at all.

Actually I just write about it here. Because that is what novelists do. We write. And cower in the presence of wide-veined men.