There is nothing funny about writing. Writing is serious business. The most serious of all the businesses. I’m always on call. At any given moment, someone could need some words and you know what I’ll do? I’ll write them some words. You must have all of the best words if you want to be a good writer. It might seem like I’m just lying on the couch, eating string cheese, and watching Dr. Phil with my cat, but in reality every second of my life is spent on high alert, searching for newer and better words. Like boondoggle and yonic and maritime. To be a truly great writer, one must spend every waking (and sleeping, eating, bathing, etc.) moment surrounded by words in hopes of absorbing them through word-osmosis. This makes the lifestyle extremely treacherous. True, my ability to precariously stack books and papers is impressive, but I’m under constant threat of being crushed to death by a periodical avalanche. I could easily become just another writing fatality. What happens if I can’t remember the word “cloche?” And what if, in my frustration, I gesture so dramatically that suddenly everything is collapsing around me? I’d be found wearing a Snuggie under a pile of thesauri, Mary Roach books, and InTouch magazines with my cat nearby, unfazed and seriously considering eating my toes.