A couple of name changes, but at last our hero is close to that point in the narrative which your writer of pulp reckons is a circumstance so funny, he can't stop laughing when he thinks about it. At the same time he is only too well aware that Attic Dwelling can lead a person toward moments of eccentricity which are wholly in the mind of the beholder and it's perfectly possible no other soul in the universe will share his idea of funny. And it's always possible there's a craft issue, what the professionals might call "structure." The flow of words and ideas that lead to climax. And there's that horrible question of why it is a person chooses to write. Far too easy to dismiss that sort of curiosity by answering that question with "I find it therapeutic." The questioner can then nod his or her head and reply with something like "Have you ever tried Quaaludes?" Either way, your writer of pulp is at peace in his attic so long as his cackling doesn't aggravate his Tick bites.
One of the things about therapy, it never actually ends this side of death. In a
sense being alive requires therapy. The more noble will subsume their being to
something like a career, others will find release by reaching for a moment of
climax by pursing an ambition to achieve a goal and if that goal is achieved
they then find themselves saying, "there's more work to be done." The actual
climax is momentary, and when it's gone there's a confusion of understanding
until a new brighter goal is defined, and if no new goal is defined they become
incredibly boring around past achievements and will spiral in that pompous way
toward words like legacy. Who cares really? Well, as a writer of pulp I do. I
care deeply and passionately, I'm not immune to the unseen forces, which as
everyone knows is a kind of slope contained within matter, and I am moved toward
achieving Book Ten of The Rabbit of Usk. What happens afterwards? I hear the
concern, and I understand it. My answer, "Coffee Table Books."