Those of us who write for a living don’t do it for the money. It’s rather like being a hostage, actually. We do one thing and we do it well, but that is ALL we can do. I still count on my fingers, rely on the ladyfriend to handle our finances, and stutter when spooked.
So I write and accept the fact that I will never live in the West Hills…which is fine. (When the mudslides come I will be safe in NoPo.)
Still, sometimes it’s necessary to take "freelance gigs" to pay for life’s little pleasures. And since I’m getting hitched later this year, I need all the help I can get.
All of which is a long way of saying…‘Hey, look guys, I just wrote a bunch of penis jokes for Glamour magazine.’
It’s true. Witness…(and mom, if you’re out there, I swear I made all of this up. The chastity belt is still holding high and tight).