by Frank Horbelt
Once upon a time, I was going to be the next bestselling author of deep meaningful stuff that everyone would grok and say, “Oh, NOW my life makes sense” and the world was going to be a better place for it. I was going to write with the humor of Douglas Adams and the depth of John Irving. My writing was going to resonate like Truman Capote’s and captivate like William Goldman’s, and have just a sprinkle of the meaningfulness of Camus and Raymond Carver. I was going to get my degree in English Literature and become a great writer, and nothing was going to get in my way.
Alas, I got a summer job at a truck stop.