I tried to sell out by writing erotica
but nobody was buying; now I have no artistic integrity to go with my poverty. Sex sells . . . That’s what they say, anyway. I’m so broke and sick of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, sick of crossing my fingers and holding my breath when the cashier slides my debit card, sick of praying to a god I don’t believe in every time I key the ignition-- --my most recent quarterly royalty statement reads zero units sold; if things don’t improve soon I’ll have to quit this silly writer game, post a provocative ad on backpage and show my cardboard characters how we take it up the ass in the real world. —Ben Newell www.bnewell.com
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