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Wrote memoir. Publisher: 'Your life isn't interesting enough.' Became a hitman. Now it's interesting. Kidding. Just a barista. But I think about it. While making your latte.

"Is this autobiographical?" "The divorce, yes. The murder, not yet."

Writing children's book. Sent to child reviewer, age 7. 'This is sad,' she said. It's about a bunny finding friends. 'The bunny dies.' No he doesn't. He finds friends. Happy ending. See? Page 32. 'He will.' That's not how this works. I'm the author. She looked at me. Slowly closed the book. 'He will.'

"How autobiographical is your novel?" "The cat is based on my cat." "And the serial killer?" "Also my cat."

Writers' retreat: 7 writers, 1 cabin, 0 WiFi. Day 1: introductions, wine, shared hopes. Day 3: we've formed factions. The literary fiction people won't speak to the genre writers. The poets have barricaded themselves in the bathroom. Day 5: there are only 4 of us now. We don't discuss the others.

At a support group for fictional characters, a man stands up: 'My author gave me a tragic backstory, a love interest, and detailed my hopes and dreams in chapter one.' The room gasps. Someone whispers: 'He's not going to make it past chapter three.' Another adds: 'Classic death flags.' The man looks confused: 'What do you mean?' The facilitator gently says: 'Sit down. Enjoy the snacks. Don't get attached to anything.'