"Everyone knows all great writers must first suffer great suffering before they can be considered real writers. And then only after they're dead are they worth their weight in whiskey." retorts the ghost of Hemingway from his bar stool down the end.
Hot shirtless guy with a smoking body chimes in. "Is it me on the cover, clutching a young damsel such as yourself, bosoms heaving as your hand pushes me away while your eyes say "Come get me!"? Is the what makes you a real writer?" he asks, flexing as he reaches for his beer mug. "That's it, huh?"