Glass of Wine

“The point about Balzac,” said a blond guy, “Is that he wrote all the time. If you do not write all the time, you lose the hang of it. That’s why I cannot be a writer. I need constant practice. But how can I practice when I have to work a day job?”

I looked around the table, at least three people had a follow up comment, but only one spoke, a black guy in a red jacket. “Well, some find a way. Raymond T. Baxter was a postman and he got up at 4 am every day to write until 7 am, then he worked twelve hours. He published almost a hundred novels."

"Never made a penny,” said the blond guy.

”Did to, as a postman.”

Everybody laughed.

”But coming back to the topic,” said a goth chick with big tits, “Real art has to be a burden. Otherwise it’s just artifice.”

I looked at my girlfriend, she gave me a flirtatious smile and winked, like she was saying “I’ll take you upstairs later, baby,” and realized why it had been so hard for me to follow the conversation. I was just eye candy and couch meat. I picked up my glass of wine and emptied it into my gullet. Many more would follow that night.

Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk