It had taken him all night and several querulous sessions of self-doubt to create the perfect first sentence. More than once he had dissolved into a profanity-tossing totally depressed piece of crap who felt that his only purpose as a writer was to create work as an offering for the Gods of garbage cans! But it all had paid off shortly after four in the morning when he had a surrealistic epiphany that yielded the sentence. Forget the many writing workshops or sit-downs with writers who had managed to get published. And yes he was counting the writer who had written the copy for Dale’s Dairy brochure because technically it was published and the writer was paid for doing it. Forget all of those other first sentences that anyone would have had trouble building a story on about something as light as Kleenex boxes. Yeah, forget it all; he finally had a real first sentence. This time he had concrete with steel rods pointing out of it. His palms actually were sweating and he felt a bit lightheaded. He glanced back at his first sentence waiting to have his words attached to it and felt very proud. Several ideas regarding where to go with the sentence where already vying for attention, but for now his sleep-deprived mind needed rest. Leaning back in his chair he imagined his caricature on the wall in a Barnes and Noble fifty years henceforth. Reality crept back in way too soon though and he realized in twenty years henceforth all books would be on tablets and the cutting of trees to print words on almost as much a crime as using leeches and blood letting to cure the sick. In his mind he wondered if Kafka ever had to go on a book tour?