I never decided to become a writer, nor would I describe it as a calling. It was more like a discovery, something solid glimpsed as the churning seabed settled in adolescence.

[Prosecutor glances at jury, rolling his eyes.]

David Hull is exasperated. He runs a hand through his messy hair, last combed during the fourth of seventeen final drafts of his current novel. “She was a librarian. He was a reporter.” He spits out his words. “Of course I turned out to be a [expletive deleted] writer.”