Why Even Bother: I Try to Start a Writers' Group

I really have no idea why I even bother. I mean, I've lived in lovely Las Vegas for five years now. (Good god, that's a long time.) I don't know what made me think I could find one or two literate, normal people to join the writers' group I wanted to start with fellow Nebraska alum, Chris Smith, who recently moved to this fair city.

Perhaps I've been reading too much Joyce lately, and I've tricked myself into thinking genius lurks around every corner. I'll tell you one place it doesn't lurk: between LVB and the mountains.

Ok, I probably sound pompous. But really, the only "writers" in this town think they're one bus ride with a Warner Bro's exec away from being the next Steve Spielberg. "I like dogs, and, um...Here's a link to my blog on which I've posted pictures of Rover opposite an acrostic poem beginning with 'rovely.'"

And, "Here's my post-apocalyptic masterpiece wherein women roam around topless for some reason; perhaps the garment district is where they're hoarding the viable Twinkies."

I don't know. I think I give up.