“I want to be a writer!” he declared with great charm and enthusiasm.
His smile brightened the room and the women flocked.
“I have the perfect suit. Seersucker. Sexy yet effortless.”
The future fans clapped their hands and inched closer.
“I have a vintage typewriter with ivory-tipped keys.”
The future fans nodded. Rapt.
“I also own the perfect little house, set back in the woods, with a perfect upstairs room with the perfect desk, and a perfect window opening onto the perfect view. This,” he said triumphantly, “will be the writer’s studio.”
The future fans swooned.
One covered him in kisses.
The only problem was, the handsome man did not write.
He was, in truth, incredibly lazy and undisciplined.
He never became a writer.