The Tech Curmudgeon

Avoiding Reality

2018-06-08T06:52:00.001-05:00

Changing the Subject

2018-05-24T15:55:00.001-05:00

I've always thought that I was a pretty witty guy ... able to elicit a guffaw, or at least a grin, on a variety of subjects by poking fun at established ideas and conventions.

Lately, however, my blog and Facebook posts seem to get more reactions than ones. I've thought long and hard about this, and I'm beginning to suspect that maybe ... just maybe ... it's related to the fact that I'm usually writing about cancer and death.

So let’s change the subject. We can write about cheerier stuff and dispense with the whole cancer/death thing.

Hmmm.

Baseball season is ramping up. That's interesting. If you like baseball.

In 1961, FCC Chairman Newton Minow described television as "a vast wasteland." Clearly he had not imagined the Internet and social media like Facebook, which put television to shame in the wasteland department. These social media are now like a ... a ... a terminal disease afflicting society.

In general, the world’s been going to hell (prompting me to purchase stock in handbaskets.) The environment is crumbling. Our infrastructure is tumbling. And public officials are just plain fumbling.

Then, of course, there was the election and reign of Donald Trump, a veritable pox on democracy. Nothing remotely like disease here. More like plague.

So I invite you to smile and laugh at this material. It may be my last chance.

Waiting

2018-03-18T17:37:00.000-05:00

You know that feeling when you’re waiting for something? You know it’s coming, but you don’t know when.

Multiply that by a billion and you’ve got something approaching the response to a terminal illness diagnosis. The doctors may give you a prognosis, but it’s vague, and could be way off.

Unless you’re actually in your deathbed … and why is it always a bed? Why not a death chair? Or sitting at a death table? What happens if you’re in the bathroom, on the death toilet, when that final moment comes?

Can you manage it so you die in a dignified manner? You don’t want to be discovered on the bathroom floor with your pants half down. Someone should make a device that pulls up your pants if you fall off the seat. Is that so much to ask?

Or maybe it’s not that sudden. Maybe you get a chance to pull your pants up when the grim reaper approaches. You should be able to sign up for text message alerts. Of course then you’ll start getting tons of casket ads in your Facebook feed.

And what about that final Tweet or Facebook post? That’s kind of like what last words used to be. People attach some great significance to last words, as though a dying person suddenly understands and can sum up the secrets of the universe in 280 characters or less.

“Moving 2 the light its beautiful had breakfast burrito today”

And there’s the whole nagging uncertainty about when to start something. Unless you’re a great writer or composer or mathematician, you don’t want to leave some unfinished work lying around. I mean, Mozart left a requiem for someone else to finish, and Dickens left The Mystery of Edwin Drood unsolved. Mathematicians spent over 300 years trying to prove Fermat’s Last Theorem because he left a note in the margin that said “There’s a nifty proof of this.” Whole new branches of mathematics were invented in trying to come up with the proof (which someone finally did.)

But it doesn’t seem likely that anyone will spend that kind of time on an unfinished blog post.

Anyway, that’s the kind of crap I think about while waiting.

Ravages of Cancer

2018-03-16T08:12:00.001-05:00

Am I Weird?

2018-03-03T17:23:00.000-05:00

As a victim of advanced prostate cancer, I see a lot of doctors. For about a year and a quarter, my care was overseen by a very highly regarded oncologist at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. Late in 2017, however, she apparently concluded that there was little or nothing more they could do for me. She said I could expect to live another three months or less … six if I was lucky … and she recommended I sign up for hospice care.

Now I’m sure hospice is extremely beneficial and comforting to many, many terminally ill patients and their loved ones. However, the concept of hospice is that you are in the final stages of illness, and essentially give up on the idea of treatment. From that point, you can expect interventions only to relieve pain and discomfort.

There is no way I was ready for that!

I’m still quite independent. I shower and dress myself, get my own food when necessary, and maintain a limited but fulfilling lifestyle. I go for walks. I host friends and family (though my wife is stuck with most of the work.) Writing for this blog actually gives me a sense of purpose. And then, of course, there’s the all important watching of TV. Somehow, I can not see myself just sitting at home waiting for the grim reaper (especially not if he or she comes during “Jeopardy.”)

But this seems to be what most oncologists expect.

Most of the doctors I’ve spoken with since seem to regard the “3 to 6 months” as a prescription rather than a prognosis. (“Kick two buckets and don’t call us in the morning.”)

It’s a mystery to them why I would waste their time and resources (drugs, blood for transfusions, etc.) when I’m clearly just biding my time. Several doctors have told me how much respect they have for my Dana-Farber oncologist, implying that I’m somehow defying her expertise by trying to live like … well, like a living person.

Fortunately, over the course of a number of doctor’s appointments and hospital stays, I have encountered a very few doctors who get it. These select few seem to understand that, despite my bleak prognosis, I’m trying to conduct my life like a life … to pursue any avenue that might delay the cancer’s progression, and to stay as comfortable and even energetic as possible while doing it. These are the doctors I want on my team.

I'm Still Here

2018-02-27T06:16:00.003-05:00

(Based on “I’m Still Here,” from the musical Follies, with apologies to Stephen Sondheim.)

I’ve had my prostate wholly removed;
Margins clear. I’m still here.
Two months of radiation approved
The next year. But I’m here.
I’ve schlepped to clinics on my own.
Had drugs to lower my testosterone
Till that’s coming out of my ear. But I’m here.

I’m always eager to sign up for clinical trials. Hope that’s clear.
Lengthy consent forms line my whole house in great piles. Please sign here.
I’ll try whatever comes my way
With or without the F.D.A.
Seems there’s a new one every day, so I hear.
Helping science while getting clear, and I’m here.

I’ve been through Provenge immunotherapy, and I’m here.
Hope as we go henceforth, more biochemistry keeps me here.
I’ve been through countless blood tests, sometimes I just need a rest.
Not ready for “rest in peace”, no, my dear.
I’ve got a portacath now, and I’m here.

I’ve had Zytiga, Xtandi, Seviteronel.
So far they’ve had no effect.
When you’ve had Zytiga, Xtandi, Seviteronel
No other drug is suspect.

I’ve had Xofigo (Radium-two-twenty-three), and I’m here.
Where else can we go? Not many options for me, but I’m here.
I need a complete, durable remission. That would be sweet, but I’m just wishin’.
Dodging a more realistic vision, that’s clear.
Time for hospice may be near, but I’m here.

Walking ’round one day, next day can’t get out of bed, but I’m here.
For every fun day, I pay with days exhausted, but I’m here.
For any day I miss my nap,
Stiffness and pain and other crap.
Need to learn from my cats how to endear
Even while I am sleeping, and I’m here.

I’ve seen radiation and medical oncologists,
Not to mention the pee doc.
I’m sure there are more and more specialized -ologists,
Each holding a Ph.D. doc.

Good times and bum times, I’ve seen ’em all
And, my dear, I’m still here.
Appetite sometimes, sometimes just drinks that are clear. But I’m here

I’ve run the gamut, A to Z
Three cheers and dammit, C’est la vie
I got through all of last year, and I’m here
Lord knows, at least I was there, and I’m here
Look who’s here, I’m still here

Love

2018-02-13T19:54:00.000-05:00

Love

Much of what follows is repeated from earlier posts. However, in light of what I’m going through, and the impending Valentine’s Day, I thought it was worth dusting off some of these thoughts and polishing them up again.
Love is the answer to everything. Unfortunately, the word love has become a worn out cliché.
We’re not talking here about couples finding sunsets to stand in front of while they gaze wistfully into each other’s eyes.
What we mean by love is the sense of being a part of something larger than your individual self. I thought long and hard about whether the feeling of being a part of some larger thing was enough, or whether you have to actually be a part of something larger.
I finally realized that it makes no difference. The sense of being part of something makes you a part of something.
This occurs at many levels, just as there are different types of loving relationships. You can be in love with someone, meaning that the relationship between you is itself a thing … an entity that deserves respect and attention. You can nurture or hurt that relationship.
A family shares a different kind of love, but it nonetheless stems from being part of the family.
There are larger groupings, like communities, schools, churches, clubs, etc. When someone loves his or her country, they identify with that country, and take pride in the connection with others who feel the same.
And being in love is the most fulfilling state we can be in. As individuals, we are all condemned to live in our own world of thoughts and feelings all day. We move around, observing each other, sometimes with envy or disdain. But actually relating to other people, sharing a few minutes or a joke or a conversation, or even just enjoying being together, gives us a sense of contentment.
You can love the environment, aware of earth as offering many resources and pleasures, but also needing care and nurturing.
Unfortunately, there is also hate … wanting to exclude others. There are whole groups devoted to hate of others for this or that insignificant difference among people.
Yes, there are a million cliches about love … hearts and chocolates and flowers … that suggest it is something sentimental and artificial. But real love is the only way to live successfully.
Because real love gives you a kind of immortality. The people who survive you carry a part of you with them. Once you have been part of a relationship, or a family or a community, you will be perpetually a character in those other lives.

Reincarnation Wish List

2018-01-29T10:17:00.001-05:00

In the process of re-examining my life and paring down my possessions, I’m coming to realize that certain choices I could have made would have simplified things greatly. So I want to record some of these decisions, just in case whoever’s in charge of reincarnation is paying attention.

Bicycle: Brompton folding bike (brushed nickel finish, maybe electric assist)
Art medium: Oil pastels (but open to others too)

Locale: Hmmm. Love New York and Boston, but wouldn’t argue about someplace with milder winters.

Career: Writing and illustrating children’s books … not huge money, but rewarding to get read and looked at by generations of kids, (if you can ignore their parents asking why you don’t become a real writer.)

Politics: Maybe a tiny bit privileged, but definitely with a conscience! (Hey, if you have a choice …)

Spirituality/Faith: I’ll let you know.

The Best Things About Cancer

2018-01-26T08:37:00.001-05:00

Most people think of cancer as a devastating disease that shatters lives and scars families. Well, I guess it kind of is, but there’s always another side to everything. I want to put in a few words for the few (VERY few!) positive effects of cancer.

Easy way to lose weight.

You can drop pounds and tens of pounds without even trying. In fact, you’ll probably have to work at keeping your weight high enough, as chemotherapy and other treatments rob you of your appetite.

Friends and family seem willing to indulge you.

In their efforts to lighten your mood and lift your sprits, friends and family will offer to get you ice cream, cookies, cake … whatever you want. People genuinely want to improve your quality of life. If you tell them that means junk food, trashy movies or whatever, you’ll be surprised.

Legit use of Opioids.

Woooo. Woo-ooooo. Woooooooo. Wooo. Wooooooooooooooo. Woooo. Woo-ooooo. Woooooooo. Wooo.

People always tell you how great you look.

It’s true. You could be in the middle of chemotherapy, hair fallen out, skin turned grey, and people will make you feel like a prom queen (or king). Enjoy it! Hey, who are we to argue?

Treated with respect at the hospital.

Cancer still carries a certain mystique as an illness. It is “the emperor of all maladies,” in the words of Siddartha Mukherjee, who practically wrote the book on the subject.

Ok, he did write the book called The Emperor of All Maladies.

So in many hospitals, cancer patients are treated with special care and attention. Volunteers bake cookies, cakes and brownies for waiting areas. Sometimes volunteers make knit wool caps or scarves during colder weather. And there always seem to be people around to help you get a beverage, get in or out of a wheelchair, etc.

The exception, of course, is the cancer hospital. There you’re just one of the gang.

Develop a deep love and appreciation for all humankind.

One consequence of facing your own death is the growing appreciation of how fragile and precious life is. We all have the same fate, whether we realize it or not, whether we resist it or not. All we can do is try to bond with each other, and to empathize and appreciate each other’s struggles … to hold each other up and acknowledge our common humanity.

And yes, that goes for the jerks too.

What to Expect When You're Expiring, 2nd ed.

2018-01-17T08:42:00.001-05:00

Introduction

The acclaim for the first edition of What to Expect When You’re Expiring was so great, we decided to release a second edition, this time with some actual content between the title and “The end,” though in a strange way, that kind of sums it up.

There’s a very good chance that the text you’re now reading is unfinished. That’s because we’re trying to write this from personal experience, and there’s a limit to just how far we can go with that. Nevertheless, we’ll plunge in and see what turns up.

Stages

In the late 1960’s, psychiatrist Elizabeth Kübler-Ross figured out that terminally ill patients usually react to news of their impending deaths in five stages:

Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

Never mind that these are also the stages of Christmas shopping, they are a useful guide to understanding our feelings about death. Specifically, we don’t like it.

But what can be done about it? As it turns out, not much.

Religion

Many people, facing imminent death, turn to religion, even if they’ve led secular lives up to now. Of course, if you want to join a religion, you should choose one with simple entrance requirements, so you can have a shot at salvation even this late in life.

You want a religion that will fast-track your path to absolution. The main point is that you want to be readily accepted into the fold. The customary approach to this is similar to choosing colleges when you’re in high school. You want to be sure to include a couple of safety religions, a couple of reach faiths, and perhaps a few match sects. With each of these, you want to make sure your level of penitence and contrition matches the incoming class averages.

Withdrawing from the world

This is a time you’re entitled to focus on your own needs, and ignore politics and world events. Everyone will forgive you.

Don’t worry about politics.
Throw away plastic bottles.
No longer listen when E.F. Hutton speaks.
Forget about watching all those British period dramas on public television. Just watch whatever crap helps pass the time.

Questions and Answers

Each case is different, I’m sure there are many readers who still have unanswered questions. We’ll try to address some of the more common ones below.

I’m dying of an incurable disease. Is it possible my doctors are wrong about how long I’ve got?: Not really. No.
After I die, will I still be able to communicate with people, like in “Ghost?”: Uh … no.
I have cancer, but I’m too young to die. Does that make a difference?: No.
I’ve led an honorable, altruistic life. Will that save me?: Congratulations. And no.
If I come back as someone else, can I be sure to learn Twitter at an early age?: No.
They say “you can’t take it with you,” but can I sneak a little something along?: Nope.

Euphemisms

People seem to feel uncomfortable using words like “death” and “dying,” especially if it applies to themselves. We hope this little list of euphemisms may help overcome this problem.

Bought the farm (or, more delicately, “Purchased agricultural real estate”)
Kicked the bucket
Pushing up daisies
Lost in cyberspace
Gone to that big <whatever-you-like>
Gone to a better place
Emptied his/her “to do” list
Took the D train
Closed out the accounts
Played his/her finale
Drained the keg

Further expressions are left as an exercise for the reader.

The end

2018-01-03T15:08:00.001-05:00

What to Expect When You’re Expiring

The end.

Good Guys/Bad Guys

2017-12-05T07:41:00.000-05:00

Sadly, much of our decision making is based on reducing complex issues into good guys/bad guys scenarios. We like to think that we gather information, weigh arguments and make rational choices, but it really boils down to what we think good guys or bad guys would do.

This is explicit in statements like NRA President Wayne LaPierre’s assertion that “the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is with a good guy with a gun.” Not only has this belief been disproved time and again in active shooter situations, but a very large proportion of gun deaths are due to accident or suicide. Are those good guys or bad guys?

Similarly, Alabama voters cling so strongly to their belief that Democrats are bad guys that they’re willing to accept a known child molester as a comparatively “good” guy.

In other words, we suck at making decisions. No matter how complex the issues, we are incapable of thinking of anything more nuanced than a Star Wars movie.

The Meaning of Life

2017-11-30T08:27:00.001-05:00

At some point or other, many people ponder the meaning of life … you know, why do we live? Why do we die? Why are some people more or less fortunate than others? Why do men have nipples?

Many of us spend a good deal of time considering such questions. It’s a very engaging way to pass an afternoon when there’s nothing on TV. In fact, philosophers have been contemplating these issues for thousands of years, and much has been written about them, though I have yet to hear of anything that qualifies as The Answer.

Meaning, of course, is a pretty tough nut in itself. What is the meaning of meaning? Isn’t meaning different to all people? If we were somehow to figure out the meaning of life, how would we know it? Would heavenly hosts descend, trumpets blaring and bright lights shining, belting out a chorus of “Ah-ha!” Or would it be a more quiet moment, perhaps just ourselves thinking “Oh!”

Back in the 1970’s, a book called Watership Down, by Richard Adams, told the story of a group of rabbits whose home is threatened, and who go off in search of a new, safer place to settle, led by Fiver and Hazel. They have many adventures, and at one point, take up with a friendly warren of rabbits at the invitation of Cowslip.

Cowslip’s warren all appear well-fed and healthy. Moreover, they have an extraordinary (for rabbits, I suppose) talent for the arts. Their poetry and songs are more passionate and moving than those of the Fiver’s and Hazel’s group. They even create mosaics with stones pressed into the walls of their chambers.

It turns out that Cowslip’s warren is protected by a farmer, who provides them plenty of food and protection against predators. However, the farmer himself occasionally uses snares to catch the rabbits for meat and skins. Despite their apparent comfort, the rabbits live in constant peril and fear.

And that is the source of their art. Their very mortality, and the uncertainty of life, is the inspiration. In fact, death is the meaning of life.

Death itself became necessary early in the evolution of life on earth. Simple one-celled organisms reproduced by cell division, so each offspring cell had the original genetics, and the same actual material as the original cell. But for more complex organisms to exist, and to be able to adapt to changing environments, it was necessary for sexual reproduction, with distinct parent and child organisms, to develop. This allowed genetic hybrids, so simpler life forms could spawn more complex ones.

It also meant that parent cells would eventually die, leaving room and resources for future generations. And this, itself, is the beauty, the tragedy, the irony and the meaning of life.

The Gift of Prophecy

2017-11-19T12:00:00.000-05:00

The gift of prophecy is the power to see when and how you will die. It is a fearsome and terrible gift, as it robs us of our most precious possession ... delusion.

Without delusions, we are not successful. We are not talented or brilliant or beautiful. Worse, we are all the same ... mere organisms crawling on an overcrowded planet, trying to claim a little hill or space for ourselves.

Without delusions, we are just our bare selves. It's an idea almost too frightening to live with. So we build cities and cars and phones and whole lives to prove to ourselves that we are real ... that we matter. There are over seven billion of us, each trying to matter.

But there is a way to survive and to live gloriously in the world without illusions. We can recognize that we are all the same, that we face the same struggles against the same impossible odds. That although we all die somehow sometime, we can be not mere humans, but humanity.

We can love.

Change of Address

2017-11-16T12:29:00.001-05:00

Just a quick bit of business ... the URL of this blog is changing. The new URL is:

https://thetechcurmudgeon.blogspot.com

At some point, the URL www.techcurmudgeon.com my go away, but this one should continue to work.

Please update your bookmarks and links.

Thank you.

The Next Step

2017-11-04T16:26:00.000-05:00

Early in human history, people developed beliefs and values based on what they could directly observe. Some of the things we now scoff at (well, some of us, anyway) seemed stunningly obvious. Obviously the world was flat. We were at the center of things, with everything rotating around us. Any inconsistencies or mysteries could be explained by adding some new gods to the pantheon.

Slowly, over thousands of years, we evolved from paganism to monotheism and eventually, to science. we still based our beliefs on what we observed, but the range of what we could observe, from the microscopic to the astronomic, was greatly expanded by new tools … lenses, magnification, amplification, and eventually even recording and photography.

Now, however, people are engulfed from infancy in a torrent of information that washes over us, filling all our perceptual orafices with colors and sound, some of which form intelligible concepts. But these concepts reach us unfiltered and unedited. We have no basis for selecting reasonable or valid ideas from pure drivel. We simply pick and choose whatever appeals.

And this appears to be the next phase of evolution. We moved from the age of mythology to the age of enlightenment, and now to the age of … what? … uncritical stupidity?

Prostate Cancer

2017-10-22T18:20:00.000-05:00

No Elephants Were Harmed

2017-10-21T11:08:00.002-05:00

John le Carré's Latest Blockbuster

2017-10-15T12:27:00.000-05:00

Soon to be a major motion picture!

Happy Friday (the 13th)!

2017-10-13T07:05:00.000-05:00

For most of my life, I guess I’ve been pretty optimistic. I came of age in the late 1960’s, witnessing the power of protest and action to effect change. The U.S. withdrew from the Vietnam War and brought down a corrupt president, the Peace Corps and the Environmental Protection Agency were formed, and discriminatory barriers against blacks, women, and the LGBTQ community began, slowly, to erode.

The moon landing was a spectacular demonstration of the power of science and technology to address some of our most pressing problems in such diverse areas as medicine, agriculture and, of course, communications.

Most important, though, was the fact that humankind seemed ready to embrace these changes. People seemed to welcome and adopt new ideas about justice and equality, about the roles of technology and science, about peace and global cooperation, and about the planet as a finite resource that demanded respect. Even Disney cloyingly reminded us “There’s a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow,” and “It’s A Small World After All.”

Now, alas, that’s all turned to shit. In less than a year, since the election of Donald Trump, Americans in particular, but much of Europe as well, seem all too willing to turn back the clock, reverse progress in social justice, and turn our backs on science and education itself. We are taking one giant leap backwards into a new Dark Age.

And then there’s the whole cancer thing.

Simple Truth

2017-09-21T09:07:00.002-05:00

It's simple.

Republicans see the world as they would like it to be. Everyone who works hard gets rich, or at least comfortable. And everyone fits in if they deserve it.

Democrats see the world as it actually is. We are all human. Some are economically disadvantaged, despite hard work. Some get sick. Some have nuanced sexual identities. Some develop addictions. Some choose to serve others rather than just themselves.

Deal with it.

Who Am I?

2017-09-11T00:00:00.000-05:00

As far back as I can remember, I wanted to be Superman. I mean, what could be better than that? Even the Fortress of Solitude seemed very appealing to my naive imagination.

But it would have required moving to another planet with less gravity and a different colored sun, and that seemed impractical. Batman, being an ordinary man, was much more within reach, but I learned that he had a gym in the Bat Cave and worked out a lot.

A little later, I wanted to be the Beatles. Anyone one of them would do, but I think John was the preferred choice. I spent hours strumming on badminton rackets and drumming on overturned wastebaskets to prepare for this.

At about the same time, I wanted to be James Bond. I guess I was a confirmed Anglophile. Why not both? I could be a secret agent who is also an international rock star. That was the perfect cover.

Of course, back then, I thought the idea of supervillains bent on destroying the world was just fiction.

After that, the ambitions became more mundane: astronaut, genius, groundbreaking psychologist. (Somehow, sports star never made it onto my list.)

I started to realize that it’s not who you are, but what you do that counts. (Boy, was I dumb!) Then I didn’t want to be someone else. I just wanted to be like them. I wanted to write like James Joyce (though I had never finished one of his books.) I wanted to be a multimillionaire cartoonist like Charles Schulz. (I had read all of his books.) I wanted to be a great actor, like Laurence Olivier or Dustin Hoffman. And I wanted to be a great artist, like Picasso but less weird.

By the end of high school, I got into the whole universe thing and wanted to be a physicist. Once I got to college, though, I saw that the theater people were having much better parties than the physics people. Plus, there are way more famous actors than physicists.

After college, I moved back in with my parents, which convinced me it was time to get a job of some kind. At the time, it was very easy for a theater major with a tiny bit of computer programming to get a job as a software developer. (Still is, I think.) So, that was that.

Software development was great fun at first. I got to type things that would make tapes spin and stuff appear on the screen. But after a while, I realized I was writing the same things over and over again. Stuff I had done in Fortran now had to be written in Pascal. Or C. Or C++. Or Java. Or PostScript. Or JavaScript. Luckily, I was only 40 years from retirement.

But now, a little more than 4 years into the cancer journey (the currently vogue term for this nightmare), I realize there was only one thing that mattered. Despite all those aspirations, there was only one thing that I had to do. When I assess my life, there is only one question I have to answer.

Did I give enough love?

Sorry. It’s the drugs talking.

In the Age of Stupid ...

2017-09-09T12:43:00.002-05:00

America’s Best Contacts and Eyeglasses	Western Governor’s University
TripAdvisor.com	Xyzal

The Adventures of Cancer Patient

2017-09-06T15:00:00.001-05:00

Why I Hate Writing

2017-09-01T07:47:00.004-05:00

I used to think writing sounded like a pretty good job. What’s not to like? You sit around in your garret, or on a balcony overlooking Waikiki Beach, or wherever and jot down whatever pops into your head, while the money just keeps piling up in your bank account. (Writers generally start out in a garret and upgrade to the Waikiki balcony at a later time.)

But now I have a more mature, nuanced view: Writing sucks!

First, there are two kinds of writing: fiction and non-fiction. Fiction is about telling engaging stories, with relatable characters, and then selling the movie rights. It all sounds good until you sit down to try to do it. There are plenty of stories around, so you don’t even have to make one up. It’s considered acceptable to re-tell existing stories, even well-known ones. Shakespeare did this, and he’s the greatest writer who ever lived. If you’re desperate, you can use something that actually happened to you (if anything ever happened to you, which is unlikely if you’re holed up in that garret all the time.)

The problem is that you have to drag it out. You can’t just say “Pinocchio’s nose grew when he lied, so he learned not to lie and became a real boy instead of a politician.” There! End of story! Why drag it out for pages and pages, with all kinds of other characters … a fox and a cat and a mean old circus owner. Really? Seems like Collodi went to a great deal of trouble for something that could be said in one sentence.

And then there’s the problem of characters. You can’t just use your mom or your brother or your best friend because they’ll never speak to you again (which might be a good thing if you’re easily distracted from writing.) In general, it’s a good idea not to piss off your friends and family. Who else is going to read your stuff?

So let’s say you come up with some characters. Again, you have to drag it out. You can’t just say “Tom Sawyer, a brash young man, and Huckleberry Finn, his independent-minded friend, had a naive love of adventure which led them into many scrapes.” Instead, you have to describe all the things they said and did, and let the readers figure out what kinds of characters they are. What a pain!

Non-fiction is easier in that sense. You just write about what you know. But know is the operative word here. You have to know something. You could, of course, just make stuff up, but then it has a tendency to become fiction. Or politics.

Luckily, however, you don’t have to know much to be a non-fiction writer. Take a look at the books that are out there and you’ll see what I mean. Donald Trump has a few books out, and nobody’s more ignorant than that.

I guess the best thing is just to write a memoir. You just describe stuff that happened to you (when you weren’t in your garret.) The only problem with this is … nobody cares.

And of course everyone's familiar with the dreaded syndrome known as writer’s