Old Bullets 1

 Because it’s time. I’m pushing 70, and I probably have some writing years left, but the only known masterpiece written by an old man was Milton’s Paradise Lost. He was 61.

 So what do you do when you’re clearly past it and kind of look like you’ve maybe still got some mojo? You blow your own horn. I’m definitely the best looking writer since Saul Bellow. (Look down the road for a post called ‘Why’m So Vain.’ Many lovely selfies of me there. I was doing selfies before selfies were a thing.) 

Saul Bellow. Showing you I know how to be fair.

But here’s the thing. I’ve lived a life. I’ve lived a life in the thick of things. I’ve had a hell of a time, and the writing has been just the overflow of that life. Now I want people to know about that. I never went to Hollywood, never hid in a university to write my books, never wrote the same book twice. And I’m still not dead. But I can tell for real and for sure why writers drink as much as they do. Which I will explain later on, since it’s such a trope and a meme and a joke. Shouldn’t be. We are all warriors of the soul and the mind. No matter how ugly we can be. I am the one who can be honest about it. Bear with me and I will get there eventually, with evidence to prove the point.