Last night, shortly after dozing off, I started chatting with my friend Mark Twain. He was hanging around Virginia City, Nevada, trying to find a way to make a living. Mark said he was tired of prospecting for gold and silver, then coming up with a bunch of worthless rock.
Mark looked tired as he spoke. “I’ve been a riverboat captain, a pharmacy clerk, a book salesman. I’ve worked in a grocery store. I even dabbled in politics. Nothing seems to fit me.”
I said, “I understand you have a passion for writing. Why not go after that?”
He answered, “No money in writing, Don. You proved that with those silly magazines of yours. You’re worse than my brother Orion!”
“That’s a cheap shot, Mark,” I replied, “but the Territorial Enterprise newspaper is looking for a guy to put a little humor in their pages. Might that be you?”
“Okay, okay, maybe I’ll mosey down there.”
The year was 1862, and the rest is history.
The literary world owes me big time.