I  wrote this speech for a recent Grolier Book Shop fundraiser at the Bloc 11 Cafe in Union Square. Hope you enjoy it…

It’s tough being a writer. In my case even when I was born I was so ugly the doctors slapped my mother instead of me. My own father, not a literary man mind you, said ” What a treasure, let’s bury it!” I remember the tender moments with him though. He once said to me with love in his expressive eyes: “You are in the flower of young manhood Doug–you are a blooming idiot.”

And I could never keep a job. I once had a good gig at an orange juice factory–but I couldn’t concentrate. I mean even in restaurants I have trouble. I ordered a bowl soup at Bloc 11, and I told the counter person there was a fly in it, she replied ” We’ll charge you extra.”  I said:  “Ok give me pork chops, and make ’em lean.” She said  ” Which way?” Since I live in my head so much–I am socially awkward. I don’t know what to say in certain situations. I mean I went into an antique store and said” What’s new?”

I don’t make much money- a few teaching gigs here and there and a night shift at the local mental hospital. Paycheck to paycheck…get my drift? So I don’t live in the best neighborhood. Where I live they don’t ask you the time they just take your watch.

And god forbid if the mandarins should ever compliment my work! For god-sakes I translated the works of Eliot into English!

You know its good to live with a creative partner–take my wife… please! Well I am a poor writer–I don’t know if I told you this, and my wife needs plastic surgery–we had to cut her credit cards.

So I am on my last legs. I go to a psychiatrist, and I say Doc ” I going to kill myself”( I mean all the big deal poets have said that at one time, right?) He said ” Pay in advance.” I cried “I am in psychic pain!” He looked at me with that studied, compassionate expression and said ” Go to the window, and release your tongue.” I said ” What’s that going to do?”  ” Nothing,” he said “I hate the guy across the street.”