“I didn't get to hear the rest, as the skipper poked a red, peeling face out of the wheelhouse and told Billy Lee to get back to work or he wasn't getting paid. The guy looked to be a hundred years old and four feet tall, but when he opened his mouth, even I jumped.”

“The words of his various writing instructors and professional mentors over the years came back to him at times like these, and he found a new understanding in their advice: Writing is rewriting. The rough draft is just that. You can’t polish what you haven’t written.Things that made for a normal life—like a daily routine that followed the sun—took a back seat to times like these, and he exulted in that change because it served as proof that his writing was indeed the most important thing in his life. It wasn’t a conscious choice on his part, like deciding to repaint the bathroom or go buy the groceries, but an overarching reallocation of his existence that was as undeniable as breathing. Day turned into night, breakfast turned into dinner, and the laptop or the writing tablet beckoned even when he was asleep. He would often awake with a new idea—as if he’d merely been on a break and not unconscious—and he would see the empty seat before the desk not as his station in some pointless assembly line, but as the pilot’s seat in a ship that could go anywhere.”

“Okay, let's cut the chatter. Open Mike Night's not 'til Tuesday.' Ruby's voice broke in. He must have had a van full of people to do that, as he normally let the comedians in the group rant away at will.Sorry, Rube.' It was Danny, in the blue van.Danny, you weren't even talking just now.'I know.'Then what are you apologizing for?”

“That's what I love most about writers--they're such lousy actors.”

“Your boss takes a dim view of SEX?”

“Actors are all about entrances, but writers are all about exits.”

“And if that sounds like an excuse, sue me. Everybody else has.”