Ran out of bug powder - I am dead as a writer.

Nobody buys Mike Philbin books. Why should they? Mike Philbin is a nobody with nothing ideas. He’s the guy you walk past on the book shelves of the shops in your town. He’s that guy who bangs about upstairs with his rotting boots on rotten wooden floors whose eyes are open all the time wondering where his life went gasping at the roaches for a taste of the yellow powder that surrogates his coarse creativity. I’m dead, as far as you the book-reading or book-buying public are concerned. Maybe I never existed, like Kafka’s roach. A never-been, never mind never-was.

Imagine, when I was a psycho-sexual painter for ten years I didn’t sell a single painting. Now I’m a writer I haven’t sold shit for copies in all those years. Yet, I get great 5***** reviews of my books from fellow writers and those who’ve actually read this stuff, so they know there’s something there. Maybe that’s all that matters, in the end. That someone somewhere KNOWS. I wonder why it is that I put myself through this torture. Thirty years wasted? Surely life amounts to more than commercial success. Am I making a difference?

Maybe it’s all in the Advertising Budget, which in my case = $0,000,000.00