I walk a fine line.
He doesn’t think that readers will bother with the shorter formats; sure, the burly cop has ten cats and, on page one, something has already happened; she’s the type of person that hides snicker bars behind a pantry row of health food; Sheila’s coming over and she’s pregnant again!
Maybe it’s too much thinking that hurts his head. Or the seven cups of coffee. Or last night’s bottle of booze. Or today’s.
Maybe, it’s the constant rocking of old man Greer. He sits on the porch all day and he never stops moving in that wood chair of his.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
Yeah, maybe that’s why he can’t write.