The writer was busy writing, as always.  Couldn’t afford any distraction.  Wouldn’t agree to any speaking engagements, as many writers do.

He would receive copies of his books by courier, and these were piled up, all around him.

He was walled-in by his own books.

Not just busy: booked solid!

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They had burned his entire library!

Perpetual optimist, he thought, “I’ll just write some books of my own!”

So he started writing. He found he loved writing so much he couldn’t stop himself to even read what he wrote. He just kept writing.

Too bad everything he wrote was crap.

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