One last thing I believe and that I feel is the secret to being a successful fiction writer.
Have fun… If sitting alone in a room and making up a story you want to tell is not fun and challenging, you are doing it wrong.
— Dean Wesley Smith blog, 07/25/2025
The tall blue-skinned man hunched over his smartphone while his companion held onto his beer for dear life and stared across the bar at something 1,000 miles away.
“Look here, mate,” said the blue-skinned man, showing his friend the tiny screen. “’Ere’s your whole problem. You’re not having fun.”
“Fun?” said his mate. “This is supposed to be fun? Are you nuts?”
“All right, boys and girls,” cried the blue-skinned man, raising his voice to be heard above the din.
The tavern quieted down. Over in the corner a reptilian woman with five tentacles wrapped around her pool cue looked up from the table in annoyance. Six mice playing poker on top of the juke box paused the game to see what the tall stranger had to say. Only a dog-faced man and his cat-faced date ignored everyone around them as they nuzzled each other’s neck out on the dance floor. Ah, love.
“My friend here is a writer,” said the blue-skinned man, clapping a hand on the shoulder of his friend, who winced. “He just took umbrage at my suggestion that he needs to be having more fun as he makes up his stories.”
“What’s an umbrage?” asked a blond young man a few seats down the bar.
“You dope, it’s like when you imitate a great piece of art to honor it,” his blonde companion said.
“That’s homage,” a haughty nearby patron sniffed.
“You’re missing the point,” said the blue-skinned man. “My friend thinks making stuff up and telling stories is serious business.”
“Surely you jest,” one of the poker-playing mice cried.
“I’m not even talking,” said the reptilian pool player, whose name was Shirley.
“Bah,” said the blue-skinned man, sitting down again. “Wisdom is wasted.”
The writer uttered an expletive, stood up and faced the room.
“Dad-gum it,” said the writer. “Next round’s on me.”
The room exploded in applause, and orders flew at the bartender.
Over the excited din, the writer leaned up against his blue-skinned friend.
“Is that fun enough for you?” he growled.
The blue-skinned man grinned. “That’s the spirit, mate.”
