I can’t write this book.

I don’t know where to start.

I don’t know who to start with.

What do I know?

I want to write about these things,

that I know nothing about.

All the research in the world,

and nothing comes to me.

Not one hint of inspiration.

Mama comes to me in my study.

She kneels by me.

She says to me,

“Write about what you know.”

But what do I know?

I know about the boundaries of life.

I know the cruelties of the world.

I know the deceitful heart of friends.

I know the hate of first love.

I know the business of corruption.

I know the wickedness of men in power.

I know the devastation of booze.

I know the hurt that comes along with divorce.

Yes! That’s what I know.

People love this.

I can write a book.

I will write a book.