10:48 a.m. Professional jealousy, professional courtesy, professional suicide. Poetic license, poetic justice. Slams, poetic and otherwise. The topics for today. Last night I saw Henry Fool on the teeny tiny TV. There can be no other topic.

Well, actually, I could talk about pedophilia, explosive diarrhea, vomiting, extreme right-wing politics verging on the establishment of a police state, or the Nobel Prize, all of which were also in Henry Fool.

But instead, we must reflect on the profession of writing and the huge, gaping maw of evil that would envelope anyone who tries to enter the Elysian fields unaware. That evil is known as jealousy. Soul-consuming, talent-erasing, time-wasting jealousy. The worse state you can be in, short of panic.

The photo, opposite, could be of anybody, but in my case, it's a photo from the web, of Marilynne. Marilynne, my Marilynne. I've learned to spell her name correctly, of course, because I've looked it up so often. Once I give you her last name, if you don't already know her, you will press on the URL, go to Amazon or any other worthy book site, and I will never see you again. Bye?

If you've stayed behind, out of pity, thanks. If you've come back, I tremble. But I will explain.

You see, for every writer who writes, there will always be the Other, the Doppelganger, the Twin, the Onus, the Curse. Sometimes, as in my case, poor Marilynne knows nothing of me and she, indeed, has a different doppelganger to worry about and a different name to learn to spell correctly. Somebody else haunts Marilynne, just like Marilynne haunts me.

In my case, it all happened innocently enough. I was finally going to get published. For all my life up until that point, I had only one goal: to get published. The goal was so strong and so clear to me that I never bothered to look past it and wonder about what I would do the day after I got published, or the day after that. It's a little like getting married. Some people just want to get married. Get to the altar, get into the duds, smell the incense, tear open the silvery presents.

The trouble begins when you take off the veil. Believe me.

So, getting published. Like marriage, it's a process, not a goal. Getting published. Whoooie! What a thrill. Now, all this happened for me a full twenty years ago, and I'm just now able to talk about it, so you can imagine the impact it had at the time. Plus, I was less mature then; prone to worry and panic, fearful and apprehensive, insecure and neurotic. And those were the good qualities.

When the roller coaster of success starts to make those clackety-snack sounds as it begins its ratchety climb, you really ought to be fastening your seat belt and hanging on for dear life, rather than looking over your shoulder or suddenly being asked to get up and move aside for another, bigger passenger who has reserved your space. It wasn't Marilynne's fault, believe me.

But it was only years later that I learned how chaotic things can get behind the scenes in publishing. Suffice it to say that if a book comes out at exactly the same time as yours, from the same publisher, with almost the exact same name, you too, I think, would sit up and take notice. Even if you had the mental-heath stamina of Dr. Laura or the wide-eyed optimism of Ed Norton, you'd begin to wonder. It would begin to eat at you.

And of course, if people began to confuse the two books from that moment forward, it would become a bit troublesome. And if people began to say that one book was better than the other, I mean, really really better ... I mean, we're not even talking the same league or continent or universe ... well ... now, we're turning a sickly shade of green and the roller coaster has reached its pinnacle way too soon, and the terrifying plunge into that evil maw has begun.

And because I have this rule of length -- I don't want to take up too much of your time -- I'm going to politely exit this story for a moment and resume it tomorrow. Plus, I'm really getting upset here, and that's just not mature. And, I don't want to offend. I've got to pull my Highlander sword out of my convenient raincoat and slice the Hydra head off this idea: there can be only one.

That's just not true. Maybe, just maybe there can be two.

Tomorrow, we'll talk more.