#1 His document file remains untouched …
In the beginning it was a passionate love affair, there were not enough hours in the day for “said typist” to satisfy their needs, to spend every minute solely on him, slaving, slathering, salivating as the story hit the page in graphic detail. Oh’ the fervor was electric, his character and energy, building, growing, escalating and wait, excuse me, what’s that? Yeah…exactly, crickets! Where the heck did that #$!@&%*go? Hello? Author, we are not finished here!
#2 His creator accidentally calls him by a different name …
When, finally “said storyteller” opens the word file lamenting lame excuse after excuse, having not been able to find his specified folder, mislabeling the work, or worse, accidentally deleted their idiosyncratic draft. How could this have happened to their supposed one-of-a-kind, spiritually satisfying soul-mate, “I will die without you” connection? Suddenly typing starts again at a furious pace, rushing down the poetic highway at lush breakneck speeds when his name is written wrong. Hans??? Who the H – E double L is Hans? My name is George!
Unless you can offer up your degree on semantics, literature or your bank statement with quarterly infusions of royalties, I must digress. I do this for sanity, because as I see you, I am in truth looking back at me, but this ego of yours has gotten in the way.
American Writers Exposed 
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