Johnny Scribbler has just come in.
"If you're going to stay open lad, you are going to have to get rid of that squeak on that door.Boy it'll drive you mad, if you don't, mark my words"
I'm not telling him, but it actually proves useful for the present, let's me know who is coming in or going out, and therefore saves me money, because it's either new custom, that I need to be ready for, or else it could be someone doing a flit before crossing my palm with the necessaries and that won't help any of us, least of all my creditors!
"Anyway Johnny can I be of help."
"Well all I really came in to say was have you heard about this Frontlist thing,
www.thefrontlist.com"
"Nah what's that all about?"
"It's writers checking out their own stuff,reviewing it, then if enough folks like it you get to the top of a sort of league and if you're at the top then some suit in a proper publishing house has a ganders at your work,better than just sending it off on the writers version of the never never ain't it, cos it goes with a bit of respect behind it, others have said they think it's got a little something, it's like queue jumping for quality."
"Sounds good,what sort of writing are they interested in then?"
"Completed novels at the present,but they just want to see a bit of it,there is a bit more to it than I've said, but that's the gist of it,like all things you only get out what you put in,unless you're a tea leaf of course then as far as I'm concerned you only deserve the grudgings!"
"Anyway this is a cafe Johnny, are you here for coffee or tea, bit of a sandwich or something?"
"Nah, sorry me lad, gotta shoot, gotta tidy up the script a bit you know."
There he is gone like a rain cloud in the desert, passed out through the squeaky door without a hint of a further penny getting in my till and all I hear is
"And oil that bloody door" floating through from the other side before it fully shuts.
