There was a coracle-dwelling novelist who sent all his work to his publisher by semaphore,
Who was submitting his latest (a vast, heart-wrenching, occasionally sardonic and always brutally honest exposé of meanings as shackles for words and non-human existence as metaphor)
When a gale blew his flags
into small bits of rags
And his best and last novel failed to reach the shore.
There festers at least one discussion that I've noticed lately, about a pet hate: fiction about writers. It isn't as if everyone is a writer now, someone said. Really! I've come to the conclusion that the only people who aren't Writers are people who are dead, and not all of them can claim that non-W distinction.
My refrigerator (brand name: Hell) was recently 'serviced' by a refrigeration engineer who had only just dropped the fridge door on the floor when he turned to me and said: "I bet you'd never guess that I've written two novels . . ."
I don't know about his work as a Writer (he's not sure that agents won't steal his manuscripts) but I'll give you his name if you want to see Hell freeze over.