So, you write short shorts. You blog. You used to write novels, not for a living, but for a writing. You gather the reserves of enthusiasm still allowed you, and you tell yourself and others: You'd be surprised how much you can say in 300 words, even 200 words, maybe 50 words. I'm sure you can recall instances when one word was enough, when one word was too much!

Your friends look at you and nod, a nod you've come to suspect and resent, but a nod you yourself are capable of when they talk. You're not exactly on the fast lane, nor on the jet set, and people, even friends, can afford to ignore you. You glimpse the lane and the set on television, and your heart contracts with bitter envy, the same heart that knows you are exactly where you belong.