There was a bit of a dustup recently over the issue of who should be "allowed" to be called an "author." The incendiary post can be found here. A response, here.
The afternoon crowd at Musso's was loud and obnoxious, like a haberdasher with a hangnail. I sat in the corner with my typewriter, pounding away at the new story for Black Mask. It was fighting me. It was pummeling me into the canvas. I was a bleeding mess. So I gave the business to my Martini and cursed the page mocking me from the roller. That's when I noticed the kid.