'nuff said.

My friends keep asking me after they read something I've written, "Don't you have anything  longer?"

I ask them what they mean by longer?

They scratch their heads and get that looking-at-your-SAT-exam-glaze-in-their-eyes for the first time.

"You know," they say. "Like a book or something."

There is no real answer for yokels like this.

I have a couple of reactions I can give them.

I can become defensive and tell them to f**k off and die, that the only responsibility I have to the craft I've been a practioner of for some forty odd years (and they've certainlt been extraordinarily odd) is to myself.

The other approach I can take is to smile humbly and thank them for taking a sincere interest in my work and treat it as somewhat of a compliment. In other words, they enjoy the miniscule amount of words I have chosen to to assemble sequentially on paper and they would be delighted to read more of those carefully assembled words and I leave them with this thought. I'm a sprinter, not a long-distance runner. You're just going  to have to get used to it, Bucko McGee. They're realtively unsatisfied with that answer and simply walk away, muttering under their breath, "He's weird." 

Yes, I am, weird, and I've had to learn to accept that about me because I don't wear that suit comfortably. It's a little baggy and should be taken in a few inches, but because I've gained weight, I must wear it this way or it'll be too tight. The End.