It’s not that I didn’t know how to write, or want to write—I did. It’s just that I didn’t know what to write. I had too many ideas, you know. It was all written in my head, but my fingers had refused to put it in ink.
Of course, I really didn’t have much of a choice, since I was paid by the word. And when I didn’t get my words out on paper, I was in trouble—lots of trouble. But trouble not in the same sense that you’d think. They worshipped me, and when they didn’t get their daily dose of my diction, they went a little crazy, a little cuckoo. “Fatta cuckoo,” to be more specific, as one of them described their own condition the other day. And I really couldn’t handle them when they went “fatta cuckoo.”