Mad Maximalist

I’m a one-man army of literary style and wit, and when the going gets tough, I spring into my super literate mode — that’s just below the navel — and go at it like a British bulldog with a trace of Welsh corgi. I was born with the spittle of intellectual acumen and I can spit a bloody good gob.

And when it comes to writing. I’ve got books, damn it. Books in every atom of my cell — and then some. And if a sentence tries to get the better of me, well, I just lure it into my den of ineptitude and smother it with illicit love and other writers’ fancy selves.

I’m no Papa Hemingway or Doris Day, but let me tell you, writing’s more about breathing in the air of great expectations than it is for whom the bell tolls. Half the battle is playing the game that you can do it over the sinner’s confession of how many lashes, great Father, should I take now before I confess my crime of being no good.

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