A SHORT STORY ABOUT WRITING AND WIZARDRY.
When Joanne opened the door, she found the source of the doorbell’s incessant ringing to be an unkempt man almost 7 feet tall, dressed in patchwork animal furs and shoes the size of melons.
“You’re a writer, Robert!” he exclaimed when he saw her, a gap-toothed smile creasing open his ragged face. “And not just any writer, but the Boy who Sold!”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joanne said, and when he tried to grab her away she emptied in his face both barrels of her beanbag shotgun.