You don't have to be an alcoholic to be a novelist; Hemingway proved that. The old boy should have got on lithium and went to some twelve step meetings. He would have written a few more books that way. Instead they found him splatted all the entrance to his house in Ketchum. He went out to dinner, came home and pulled two triggers on a single shotgun. His mind had deteriorated to the point where he couldn't think of a few words to compose for Kennedy's inaugeration. That's really not what I'm here to talk about, though; I'm here to talk about me, and you; we are really what matters.