If someone were to ask, I have a story to tell. So what do you want to know? At this point, I need some sort of focus group to figure how to better market myself.
Want to know my improbable past? Sorry, but that’s been done and the feedback it received ranged from disinterest to disbelief. Sure, I can break out the news clippings and the polygraph test results but it’s so much work. How about something a little more spiritual? Sister Margaret, the most wonderful nun I’ve ever known, believes I’ve already booked my one-way, first class ticket to the netherworld. If the Vatican would only cooperate and send a priest to investigate why in my youth my hair caught fire twice during mass, I’d be able to provide confirmation. Until then, someone can still claim it’s just speculation. Maybe I could tell you what it was like to donate a kidney? Except I can’t. The hospital wouldn’t let me continue in a renal game of chicken with someone claiming “without a new kidney I’ll die.” Damn transplant ethics! I would’ve won too! Waking in a post-surgery recovery room bed, sans kidney, waiting for the urine output fraud to show their face and admit it’d all been a cruel hoax... Waiting... Waiting...
No, maybe I’ll just stick to something that can be verified without giving up a major organ, like my short stories. Most are still in print and their existence can be confirmed by buying copies from the publisher. In fact, I insist you do. Of course, I have novel-length manuscripts as well. They’re real too but not as easy to get your hands on. First, you have to ask me to pitch one to you at the 2017 New England Crime Bake. As one of the co-chairs, I played a large role in moving the conference venue this year. If all goes well, I’ll be easy to find. If not, look for someone wearing a pair of Groucho Marx eye glasses complete with bulbous nose and mustache duster.
Okay, maybe instead of a focus group, what I really need is an intervention. See you in hell.