I’ve been surrounded by loving and supportive family members, friends and teachers all my life. I blame all of them for what has happened.

Me becoming a writer.

These people really have no excuse – they could have steered me toward a more lucrative profession where poor hygiene and substance abuse is frowned upon. But no, they chose to encourage me to explore my natural talents, to put my words on paper and on computer screens and on blogs. They chose to let me continue down the dark and lonely path of an author of fiction, just because they saw how happy it made me.

The bastards.

It would take me days to name EVERYONE responsible for me becoming a writer. So, in the interest of time and space, here’s a list of just the main culprits:    

My parents. Oh sure, my mother may have hinted at me becoming a doctor or a lawyer when I was a child, but we’re Jewish, so she was just following the rules. Doesn’t count. Her big mistake was not insisting I become a doctor or lawyer. Instead, she and my father would read wonderful stories to me at bedtime, buy me amazing books to read myself, pat me on the back and say “Great work!” when they’d read my book reports and other writing projects for school. They paid for me to get a liberal arts education in college, and afterward bought me my first PC so I could easily write and save all my essays, poems and stories. I’m not sure if I’ll ever forgive them. Unless my novels start hitting the bestseller list.

Dr. Seuss. Theodor Geisel, you son of a bitch. Why did you have to make words and stories so enchanting and strange and fun? I was hooked from the very first time I opened Horton Hears A Who, and I’ve never looked back. I can only imagine how many other lives you’ve ruined.  

All my English teachers and professors. Some people are fortunate enough to get assigned to English teachers who are burnt out and bitter, who inspire no one and who ensure that students quickly lose interest in reading and writing. Not me. I was cursed with one passionate and supportive English teacher after another, all the way up through college. They introduced me to the likes of Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Faulkner and Nabokov and Chekhov and Whitman and Plath.  Buy the time I graduated, it was too late to reverse all the damage that had been done. I was condemned to live a life of creativity, self-expression and bathing only occasionally.

Woody Allen. Woody’s been accused of a lot of things, but what I blame him for most is inspiring me to write comedic prose with an existential bent. (Big future in that.) I discovered his books of hilarious short stories (Without Feathers, Side Effects, and Getting Even) my senior year of college, and realized I had a similar voice inside me. Once I started writing humorously absurd tales, I couldn’t stop – even when my friends and the editors at The New Yorker and The Atlantic begged me to. Turns out it’s a lifelong affliction. Lucky for everyone.

Gordon MacPherson. Gordon was my boss at my first real job (as an editor/writer for a trade publication) and the one person who really had a chance to dash my silly writing dreams soon after college. But no, he instead praised my efforts and potential, bought me books on writing better, paid a writing coach to help me thrive, and even gave me my own humor column in the company’s publication. I hope you’re proud of yourself, Gordon. I’ll see you in Hell.       

Chuck Palahniuk. While Woody Allen is to blame for my desire to keep things light, Chuck Palahniuk is to blame for my desire to make things dark. Their combined influence is the reason why I insist on writing comedies about stuff like terminal illness, euthanasia, murder and sex trafficking. I blame Chuck more than I blame Woody. Woody merely got me addicted to making people die laughing; Chuck got me addicted to making people die, period. Plus, Chuck’s an enabler – twice he’s liked something I’ve tweeted; Woody, on the other hand, has ignored all my letters, emails, calls and faxes.    

My wife. My wife, Miranda, isn’t to blame for me becoming a writer. She’s to blame for me continuing to be one. That’s worse. To get me to stop, all she has to do is belittle me for my laughable royalties, tell me real men don’t sit around in their pajamas playing with imaginary friends, and withhold sex. But noooo, she instead wholeheartedly believes in my so-called talent, tells me to keep writing and to be patient, insists I’m on the brink of something big with my literary career, and, for whatever reason, still sleeps with me (though, in her defense, only after she’s had multiple glasses of wine). I mean, come on – what kind of woman WANTS her husband to be a writer?

I don’t know what YOU’RE giggling about; you, too, are partially to blame for all this. After all, you just read my blog post all the way to the end. Don’t you know that only encourages me?   

Writers are just like everyone else. We put our pants on one leg at a time… the few times a year we’re forced to actually wear pants.
 
While there’s nothing really special about writers, there are some special issues and challenges writers face that functional people in society do not. I call these issues and challenges “‘write people’ problems.” Because I’m clever like that.
 
Below are a few of the most common “write people” problems I know of… first-hand, unfortunately. 
 
High pajama costs. Pajamas are designed for light activities like sleeping, eating breakfast, and crying over a break-up; they are not designed for all-day, everyday use. Since most writers take their pajamas off only for the occasional dinner out and, depending on their mood, for book signings, they have to replace them much more frequently than a normal human being does. The costs can get out of hand. And when you consider the average quarterly royalty check for a novelist is just $27 (less if they write important literary fiction), there’s very little money left over for bourbon and other essentials. Some writers have taken to working in the nude to reduce or eliminate their pajama costs, but for those who live in cooler climates, the savings are usually offset by increased heating bills.       
 
Driving under the influence, times two. Lots of people drive drunk, but only writers are at risk of driving drunk AND distracted by their characters or next book idea. It’s a disease, and a deadly combination – even more dangerous than driving on LSD or getting into a vehicle operated by a teenager with a smartphone. In some communities, concerned citizens have started chapters of EAWD – Everyone Against Writers Driving, forcing authors in those communities to rely solely on public transportation. On the upside, using public transportation is one of the best ways to get ideas for captivating murder and sex scenes.
 
Panic attacks while relaxing on vacation. If you’ve ever been to a tropical resort or on a luxury cruise and witnessed somebody hyperventilating and screaming while pulling their hair out, you’ve seen a writer on vacation. At the insistence of their spouse, significant other or therapist, many writers attempt to  “get away from it all” and go on a trip to take a break from their craft. But it’s like asking a fish to ride a camel. The result is invariably a lot of pain and suffering and flopping about in the sun. Please, if your loved one is a writer, don’t attempt to sweep them away to paradise or surprise them with the vacation of a lifetime. For chrissake, try to be more sensitive.    
 
Getting woken up in the middle of the night by fictional people. Underdeveloped characters can be real dicks. They don’t care if it’s two or three or four in the morning; if they’ve got something they want to say or do, they’re going to wake their writer’s ass up and make sure the writer lets them say or do it. Or they’ll at least keep the writer awake until a compromise can be reached. That’s why most of the writers you know usually look exhausted, unkempt and frazzled. That, and the fact that they’re on pace to break the Guinness Book of World Records for most rejections notices received in a month.       
 
Real friends and family not measuring up to imaginary ones. Despite their tendency to disrupt writers’ sleep and traffic safety, most fictional people are cool – far more compelling and interesting than real people. Thus, writers must contend with constantly being bored and disappointed by their friends and loved ones. True, there are some writers lucky enough to have actual serial killers or hit men or crime bosses or CIA agents or sorcerers in their family, but that is certainly not the norm. Unless the writer is from New Mexico.    
 
Keeping track of lies. Nobody fabricates more than fiction writers, with the possible exception of real estate agents and Norwegians. And while making sh*t up all the time is fun, keeping it all straight can be tedious. You try remembering the color and exact model of the car you said your protagonist drives back in Chapter 1 or how many siblings you said his mistress has or even what day of the week you claim your whole damn story even started. If even just one tidbit doesn’t line up with previous statements or descriptions, a writer can lose the trust of the reader forever – not that authors should ever really be trusted. They kill people and get away with it far too often.
 
 
One final “write people” problem I’d like to mention is the excessive need for external validation of their work. So, if you don’t mind, kindly leave a comment below expressing how much you loved this post or my novel. Sorry, I mean this post AND my novel.
 

Every so often I wonder if I’ve perhaps become a tad too attached to the writer’s life. That maybe I’ve grown too accustomed to being alone in a room at home living inside my head and talking to imaginary people. That maybe none of this is really all that healthy.
 
But then I remember how I behave whenever I’m out in public.
 
Trust me, we’re all much better off with me just keeping to myself.
 
I’m not saying I’m a total sociopath (I’ve got friends and family to say that for me), but following is a list of activities I should not be trusted to engage in without proper supervision:
  
Driving in traffic (or even with just a few cars within my vicinity). I get road-rage whenever I get cut off or stuck behind somebody going even just five miles per hour under the speed limit, or whenever someone doesn’t use their turn signal, or if they are driving a forest green minivan. So, for me, it’s either stay home and write or serve ten to twenty for vehicular homicide. Not that I wouldn’t get a ton of great writing done in prison. Actually, that whole prison thing doesn’t sound so bad.
 
Talking to people at gatherings. I can usually show some semblance of social grace and normality – or at least fake it – for the first couple of minutes when conversing with another human being. However, I speak uncontrollably fast, which, in its own right, is off-putting for many, particularly since I live in Texas. But that’s just a small part of the problem. Because I’m a writer, I’ll invariably start talking about a book I’ve written or am working on or want to work on. And since I write comedies about things like suicide and terminal illness and murder and sex trafficking, you can imagine (and may even have witnessed firsthand) how others could get a bit uncomfortable around me. Not helping matters is the fact that I often arrive at gatherings immediately following one of my road-rage incidents, so I’m ready to rip some heads off before I’ve even sipped my first drink. Just kidding – I rarely arrive at parties without already having had a few drinks.
 
Listening to people at gatherings. Because most people at gatherings are NOT writers, they rarely talk about things like suicide or terminal illness or murder or sex trafficking (and if they do, they rarely say anything funny about it). Instead, they talk about things like their desk job or their spouse or their spouse’s desk job or their kids. Thus I get really bored quickly. And when I get bored, I yawn. And when I yawn, I open my mouth. And when I open my mouth, I tend to talk really fast about all the weird shit I write. So as you can see, it’s a vicious circle that really isn’t fun for anyone. But I generally don’t realize that until I’m back home, away from other people. 
 
Browsing in a bookstore. Unlike most people, I don't go to bookstores for pleasure or baked goods; I go to swear at all the bestselling chick-lit, romance, vampire and fantasy novels taking up physical space in such a holy building. Don't worry, I would never go so far as to physically damage these books. That said, if they were to catch on fire, I can’t promise I’d do much to put out the flames. You might even see me tampering with the extinguisher. I know what you’re thinking, such anger and jealousy and pretentiousness serves no real purpose. But that's where you're wrong. I'm a writer – those traits fuel most of my work.
  
 
NOTE: For those of you who have invited me to your upcoming wedding or other social gathering prior to having read this post, please do not hesitate to rescind said invitation. I’ll not only understand, I’ll commend your decision. As will the rest of your guests. (But please don't rescind my wife's invitation – she really needs to get out of the house.)