“So, I wrote a blog post yesterday,” I said, “sort of a comedy erotica thing. It was just a generic love scene where I replaced all the dirty words with made up words like ‘wangdoodle’ or ‘pickle-pocket.'”

We were at a round metal table outside a Starbucks in a generic California strip-mall. There was a Noah’s bagels on one side, and an empty space that used to be a book store on the other. I pulled my croissant apart while Rachel sat down across from me, setting down her cup of coffee.

“Yeah, I read it,” said Rachel. “It was hilarious. Kind of hot though. Really weird.”

I smiled and shrugged. “Hilarious, kind of hot, really weird. Just like me.”

She snorted over her coffee and rolled her eyes. “Weird, anyway.”

I sipped at my grande Pike’s Place roast. “So, yeah. It was just this goofball thing I wrote. But it was really popular. It got more than twice as many views as any of my other posts. I’m not really sure how to feel about that.”

“Maybe you’ve got a gift for writing erotica.”

“I know, right? Maybe I should just go all in and write erotica for a living.”

Rachel smiled. “But it has to be comedy erotica.”

“I’m not sure if I could keep that up,” I said. I paused for a bite of croissant. “No pun intended. I mean, it’s kind of a one-trick pony. How many gibberish words can I make up to describe sex acts? But what if that’s all people want? What if I try to write something else, and people are just like, ‘when are you going to write more of that funny sex stuff?'”

“Oh my god,” said Rachel, her face deadpan, “what if you got Shatnered?”

“Shatnered? Is that a sex word I made up?”

“No, I mean like William Shatner.”

I cocked my head. “I don’t follow.” I raised one eyebrow. “Am I going to have to start…talking with overly…long dramatic pauses?”

Rachel rolled her eyes again. “What I mean is, what do you think of when you think of William Shatner?”

“Star Trek, I guess.”

She rapped her fist on the table. “Exactly. He hasn’t been in a Star Trek movie in twenty years. He’s an accomplished producer, writer and director. He’s had literally hundreds of roles throughout a successful fifty-year career. And yet, what’s the first thing people think when they hear William Shatner? James T. Kirk.”

“So, I’m going to be the comedy sex guy? No matter what I do, no matter what I accomplish, when people hear ‘Matt Kincade’ twenty years from now, they’re going to think, ‘Oh, he’s that guy who writes the weird comedy sex stuff with made up words?’ That’s my future?”

She nodded sadly. “‘Fraid so.”

I stared down at my coffee cup. “Jesus. That’s terrifying. How can I stop this?”

“You can’t. Many have tried. Shatner. Mark Hamill. Sean Connery. Leonard Nimoy. It happened to all of them. I mean, it’ll be great, at first. You’ll be famous. You’ll have nubile college girls wanting you to sign their cleavage, giggling and asking you to squibble their jibbles or whatever. You’ll be on top of the world. There’ll be money, women, drugs, you name it.” Rachel sipped her coffee. “But then, it’ll get old. You’ll want to move on to other things. Only the world won’t let you. Pretty soon, you’ll cringe every time you see someone approach you in the street with a pen and a notebook. You’ll probably scream at some fan who interrupts you while you’re trying to have a nice dinner with your family. You’ll flip over a table, throw a bottle of champagne at the wall. Somebody will call the cops.”

“My god.”

“Oh yeah, it’s bad.” Rachel made a sympathetic face. “And that’s the start of your downward spiral. Your cocaine habit will get out of control. You’ll spend all your famous author money on hookers. You’ll wind up living in your car, offering to schlibble dibbles for five dollars so you can buy a crack rock.”

“I always wondered what rock bottom was going to look like for me.”

“Well, that’s it. You can’t get any lower. Then you’ll have your moment of clarity. You’ll probably find Jesus. You’ll accept your place in life as the comedy sex writer guy. You’ll start accepting appearances on television shows, parodying yourself. You’ll realize that some people would do anything for the fame that you’ve spent years running from. You’ll start to understand that everything your fans do, they do out of love. You’ll find balance. You’ll find peace. Are you going to finish that croissant?”

“You know what? You can have it. Suddenly I’m not hungry.”