A cell phone rang, and I watched in stunned disbelief as one of the mourners (and I use that term loosely) took the call. In an audible voice he engaged in a five minute conversation, graveside. I still have a bruise on my jaw where it dropped and hit the ground.

The life of a writer is not as glamourous as you might think; it’s not all sweatpants and eating dry cereal out of the box and royalty payments stuffing the mailbox. This morning, for instance, I awoke from a spicy little dream and stared into the dark thinking about the dream and what it meant and trying to drag out the good feeling for as long as I could.