I quitted today, my newspaper column, not my day job. Sometimes I do wish I could quit both. To find something to put into the column every other week was not an easy task. It could be one of the reasons that I can’t work on my novels. I am thirty-six this year. The dream of becoming a novelist has never faded. And I know it would come back to haunt me soon. Maybe I deserve the haunting and taunting though. If there is a God of literacy, it would be pretty pissed at this point. I’ve used my aspiring novelist status so much that even myself found it ridicules. I could get wasted. I could go to places where decent human beings wouldn’t go. I could try illegal substance although I would never admit to that. And when I was single, many times I could begin my conversation with a girl: "I want to hear your story" and end up in bed with her. With all that, last time I checked, I have completed 0.0% of my novel. It’s not because of lack of preparation. I have a big box of sharpened...