A few days ago, feeling unsure about myself and about the future of Yeah, Another Blogger, I grabbed my phone and called an individual who, I figured, might be able to help me put things in perspective. Help me find my way, if you will. Not that he’d ever been all too beneficial in those regards before. But, desperate as I was, I gave it a shot.

“What’s up, Neil?” asked my editor Edgar Reewright, picking up after the first ring. “Please don’t tell me there are major problems with the next manuscript you’re going to send me. Hell, what am I talking about? There always are major problems with your manuscripts.”

“Edgar, give me a break. And stop complaining. Yes, there is a major problem. But not with an upcoming story. That’s because there is no upcoming story. Edgar, I’ve just about run out of gas. I can barely think of anything to write about. And when I do come up with an idea, it seems pretty much the same as things I’ve written about dozens of times before. I don’t want to publish any crap, so I might as well take off my spikes and leave the playing field.”

There was silence on the other end. But not for long. “I can’t believe my ears, Neil,” Edgar said. “What is wrong with you? From day one, you’ve been churning out crap like a champ for Yeah, Another Blogger. I mean, crap is your middle name. Okay, you’re in a slump. But you’ll break out of it. All you need to do is look to Joyce Carol Oates for inspiration. She’s 87 years old, the same age as me, by the way, and still writing books like there’s no tomorrow. She’s penned so many books, everybody has lost count, but it’s way, way over 100. Her latest one, a novel, hit the marketplace in June. And it’s 672 pages long!”

“Yeah, Edgar, she’s incredible. And a genius. She never runs out of ideas.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Neil. Story ideas by the untold thousands are bobbing in the air, just waiting to be snatched. Sure, Joyce is at the top of the ladder, writing-talent-wise, while you’re a bottom dweller. But you shouldn’t feel like you’re stuck in cement.  Suck it up, Neil, and get back to work. And maybe, just maybe, your perseverance will garner you an award one day. Everyone wants recognition, am I right?”

“That goes without saying, Edgar. But that’s already happened to me. Don’t you remember? Two years ago I received a Pulitzer Prize in the If You’re Bored Out Of Your Mind, Reading This Person’s Writings Won’t Snap You Out Of It category. That was one of the most memorable occasions of my life.”

“My bad, Neil! How could I have forgotten? See? You’ve already sort of made it, and other awards possibly await you. But only if you stay in the game. Neil, throwing in the towel after all these years would be a big mistake, one you’d eventually regret. What’s more, you need to think about me. And about my wife Loretta. We depend on the enormous salary you pay me. Because of you, we’ve been able to live the highlife. I’ve never asked you this, Neil, but how did you come into so much dough?”

“Well, Edgar, I’m now going to allude to something that only my wife knows about. If you recall an unsolved armored-truck heist 35 years ago in Philadelphia — it was a major story — I believe you’ll be able to put two and two together.”

“That was you? Man, you are something else! Needless to say, my lips are sealed.”

“They better be, you dig? Anyway, I’m glad we’ve talked today. I feel re-energized. I’m ready to start writing. Once I come up with a decent story idea, that is. Thanks for your help, Edgar. I really appreciate it.  Over and out for now!”