Reporter: We’re here today with Steven T. Chapman, author of…
Me: That’s Ste-van.
Reporter: I’m sorry?
Me: My name. It’s pronounced Ste-van.
Reporter: We spoke to your mother in preparation for this piece, and she pronounced it Steven.
Me: She’s mistaken.
Reporter: The woman who gave birth to you is mistaken on how to pronounce the name she gave you?
Me: If she is my mother. One can never be certain of such things.
Reporter. What’s the T stand for?
Me: Terribly annoyed.
Reporter: Could I call you Mr. Chapman?
Me: You seem quite capable of such an action.
Reporter: Mr. Chapman, how would you describe your style of writing?
Me: Cat herder.
Reporter: Cat herder?
Me: Yes. I start off chasing one idea, but inevitably three or four others emerge. Then I spend all of my time attempting to push them in the same direction.
Reporter: But you eventually get them organized, do you not?
Me: No, I simply become exhausted and quit.
Reporter: Are you saying your books are incomplete?
Me: Oh, quite. Any author who says they truly complete a book is a liar.
Reporter: All authors are liars?
Me: And thieves.
Reporter: I don’t understand.
Me: There hasn’t been an original work since the first cave scribblings, and I believe even those were derivative. Authors are prolific thieves.
Reporter: Why do you write if not to express original ideas and concepts?
Me: Groupies. You know, the screaming hordes of libidinous women desperate to become naked and perform outrageous acts of carnality solely to be in my presence.
Reporter: Mr. Chapman, I think you’re speaking about rock-n-roll stars. Singers are the artists who have groupies.
Me: What do writers get?
Reporter: Book clubs?
Me: That sounds dreadful. Are you positive?
Reporter: Pretty sure.
Me: You mean those groups where women sit around getting drunk on cheap wine while attempting to convince one another they actually read and understood the assigned book?
Me: Who wants that?
Reporter: Apparently, authors.
Me: Where does the sex come in?
Reporter: Again, I think you’re referring to musicians and their fans.
Me: So, no screaming hordes of half-naked females?
Me: No casual sex with anonymous women?
Reporter: Not that any writer has ever discussed.
Me: Now I understand why Hemingway killed himself. The media should do a better job of reporting such things. No wonder your profession isn’t trusted.
Reporter: Let’s discuss your latest book.
Me: Screw the book. I’m taking my royalty check and signing up for guitar lessons. Later.