If you’ve been reading this for any length of time you know that I wonder, from time to time, why it is I haven’t managed to become a real writer. Why am I not famous? Why am I not fabulously wealthy with a bunch of book groupies (bookies?). In the past I had thought it was because I wasn’t insane. Then I wondered if, perhaps, it wasn’t because I hadn’t committed suicide yet.
I find it difficult to believe that I am not a wondrous writer. I am also sure that not actually writing anything isn’t part of the problem. So I bent my will to finally finding the definitive reason why the Universe is keeping me down. And I believe I have found the reason, at last. Please, have a gander at this:
Take a good look and let me know what you see that all four of these hugely famous authors have in common. I’ll wait while you peruse.
Have you figured it out? They all have hats. Yes, hats. I don’t have a hat. I think I look silly in a hat. The God of Writing, it would seem, has a love of hats. Thus, I am at a disadvantage.
So, if I bit the bullet and bought myself a chapeau would my writing reflect the hat I’m wearing? Or should I just buy a bowler and get it over with while hoping for the best?