When I was young, my guidance counselor asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up.
I said “I want to be a writer.”
The guidance counselor laughed. “Writer? Not a doctor? A lawyer?”
“No, I want to be a writer.”
“Nobody is a writer,” said the counselor.
I pointed at his bookshelf. “Then who wrote those?”
He picked one out. “Shakespeare. He’s dead.” He picked out another. “Freud. Dead.”
Every book chosen, it was by someone dead.
So, I got a typewriter, paper, and killed myself.
People assume I’m a ghostwriter.
But these days, I prefer editing.