One reason my career as a writer hasn’t taken off is that I make myself far too available to my fans and the media. Just give me a call and you’ll see. You want to talk about my career? I’m all mouth. What am I working on now? Let me lay it out for you in plain English.
Such ineptitude. Such folly. Imagine if I holed myself up in some cabin in the woods in the middle of 40 fenced-in acres with a bunch of loud dogs roaming around, with no telephone nor mailbox. And then, your newspaper editor tasks you with writing a profile of me (“and get some quotes this time!”) Good luck! I’m not going to be available, so don’t bother. You just irritate me, you and everyone else who wants to know about me. Go write that in your newspaper, buddy. And if you catch me unawares at the post office one day, sporting a beard that puts Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s to shame, don’t try to get an impromptu interview because I might pull out my shotgun and tell you to move along.
Under these circumstances, my books would sell in an instant! Just look at J.D. Salinger. Just look at Thomas Pynchon. Can I tell you something? Those guys are socialites compared to the newly reclusive Patrick McVay.
Gotta write a book first.