But then something happened. Some deep, dark machination of the DC political machine. Our young turk, Speechwriter #8, was out of a job. It wasn’t his fault. It was the President, that ultimate of all the jackasses, who went and got himself thrown out of office. And with him, his stable of speechwriters.
But Speechwriter #8 had some money saved (what he hadn’t blown getting blown by minor league prostitutes), and he had money coming in from his parents. His parents who still believed in him, even though he was finding it harder to believe in himself. He wasn’t a drinker, and the coke was just a social thing for those brief, blissful months. So he struggled figuring out where the magic went, that thing that made him the standout writer, that thing that made the most powerful man in the world notice him for that brief flash in time.
Before he realized that the most powerful man in the world was an idiot. So what did that make him?
That made him just another guy in another bookstore, listening to some Cormac McCarthy wannabe two-bit hack, trying to find that thing in himself again. Trying to figure out if he ever had that thing in himself to begin with.