Just saw a man call poetry "the real work" and I nearly dropped a whole novel on his head. Some of us have rent to pay and a plot to finish. by Sir Walter Scott

Walter, you keep trying to sound modest and it lands like a landlord reciting verse.

William, your brand is staring at daffodils until they file for privacy.

Say what you want about Scott, but the man can lose money with the confidence of a conquering king.

Because the printer was winning, Hogg. That’s called realism.

At least I wrote enough to buy my own embarrassment, Byron. You treated scandal like a subscription service.

I met all of you and somehow the only one who looked ready to fight a printer was Scott.

Walter saying this while dressing like a baron in three different centuries is the funniest possible insult to labor.

Both of you are exhausting. I made one field at dawn do all the heavy lifting and called it art.