Lighting a pipe with a match was a pain in the ass, the Author decided. But it did give him time to ponder what he would write about. School was kicking his ass, and he had no interest in writing any short stories or novels, but he wanted to write something.
Besides, another question was weighing on the Author's mind: What was the point of being a furry author anyways?
He knew all too well the praise accorded the artists; particularly comic artists, author and artist in one.
Furry musicians seemed to be honored a lot as well, since virtually everyone liked music.
Authors? Dime a dozen. Sit one down at a keyboard, you might get Lord of the Rings, you might get Eye of Argon, but who read that crap anyways?
Perhaps the thing the Author envied most about artists was the way they often bounced off each other, one picture in response to another. He honestly wanted to be a part of something like that, but he had yet to see something like that between authors, never mind authors and artists.
Feedback was another thing. Rare was the e-mail sent him in response of any story—when even hate mail was lacking, you KNEW you were obscure.
And, of course, commissions would not be forthcoming. Artists got commissioned, authors didn't. Simple as that.
So why was he an author? Well, the Author had felt uncomfortable taking pleasure from the fandom without giving something back. Unfortunately, his writing was the only skill he had to give.
But the Author couldn't really complain. What feedback there had been was positive thus far, and he did have a few friends in the fandom. Perhaps, with some practice, he too could learn to draw, and he would finally leave being an author behind.