How Not to be a Writer

“What did you get up to today?”

Michael, age 26, leaned back in his chair. It was a chair that suited him; the high leather back and plush armrests were designed with this dashing young man and his tweed jacket in mind. There was a crystal-cut glass of whiskey resting on his knee — Lagavulin, peaty, none of the cheap stuff. Sadly, he didn’t have a cigar, but he informed me that he had some Cubans in a box in his wardrobe if a cigar-worthy occasion arose.

“Today,” he said, “I thought about the difference between fear, terror, and horror.”