Working on one's prose



I've been marching up and down the well worn path of the dreaded writer's block. It's a crowded street, writers bumming cigarettes off each other, general loitering on every corner- a few bad cases pitifully slumped over the sidewalks. Like Balzac's big robe, I've tried every single bath robe in the house to no avail. All point to desperate measures. So I hired a professional troupe of crickets to sing away my problems- for not just writer's block, but for troubles falling asleep and troubles waking up. For room and board plus meals, my cricket chorus chirp their hearts out.



The first day, only a timid soloist chirped tentatively. I had to coax them with papaya then pears. A few tiny slivers.



Yesterday the fattest one attempted to go elsewhere in breach of contract. I have them for life you see so I put him back in the jar. Why get gobbled by a predatory chicken and prematurely end your career when you can sing to an appreciative audience like me.