Pencil frozen, page blank as the bottom of an empty bowl, I stare out barren windows.
Waiting for word.
“Stop me if you’ve heard this before,” The Dog says. Apropos of nothing.
“How many editors does it take to screw a writer?,” he asks, with a demonic smile. All canine teeth.
“Don’t know,” I tell him, playing along. After all, he is my best friend.
“How many editors does it take to screw a writer?”
“Four,” he answers.
“Four?” I feign surprise.
“Three to figure the angle and one to do the final edit.”
“Not sure I get the joke,” I tell him.
Dog laughs.
“That’s because you have no work ethic,” he growls.
1995.