I've talked this over with my family and friends, so I thought it was time to break the news to the journal-reading public at large: I've decided to give up writing.

All my life I dreamed of selling a novel, and I used to spin elaborate fantasies of all the things such success would bring: the awards banquets, talk shows, movie premieres, and tight-sweatered coeds staring up at me hero-worshipfully while I did a gig as Writer-in-Residence somewhere. Unfortunately, after a few years working for a publishing trade magazine and dealing with professional writers in various capacities, I have come to realize that such rewards are unlikely to the point of impossibility. I have been told repeatedly that writing must be its own reward. To which I now say: screw that! The only point of writing is to gratify my hedonistic impulses, just like the only reason I started writing poetry was to help me seduce dewy-eyed women! I've only stuck around this long to see if, maybe, selling a novel would indeed transform my life as I once dreamed. Upon signing and returning my publisher's contract, I waited patiently for the heavens to open, riches to pour down, women to hurl themselves at me in coffee shops, and etc., to no avail. It is as I feared; selling a novel didn't transform my life into a paragon of excess. So, since that dream is dead, I've decided to give up the whole silly stringing-words-together thing entirely.

But I'm not leaving the arts! Oh, no! Just shifting my focus. My new field? Pop music stardom. It's going to rock. I'm sure I'll be coming to a giant arena stadium near you soon. And if that fails, I'll go into pro basketball, because I hear there's some money to be made there.

So, um, anyway, thanks for reading all this time. It's been real. I'll, like, miss you or whatever.

Happy April, y'all.