And so I've seen firsthand the damage this addiction can do. We came from a large family of writers, and we all understood the heady rush you get from seeing your first few stories made public, but Bill was different. With Bill the posting of stories soon became more important than actually writing them, and it seemed just about the most important thing in his life. He would spend maybe five minutes maximum typing a story, and then immediately, before the ink was dry, set out posting it everywhere. This was in the days before the internet, so posting stories was a matter of running around town with a stack of xeroxed pages, a bucket of glue and a brush and slapping them onto every wall he could find, anywhere that passers-by might read them...

"You know, Unca Bill," I told him, "Posting is fine, but I think you'll find it more rewarding if you spend a little more time actually writing your stories, and making sure you really have something worth posting before you do so. You keep using the same plot over and over, like you're just taking your last story, changing the names and enough small details to justify calling it a new story, and then going nut slapping it up all over town."

I wasn't telling him anything he didn't already know. He knew how bad he'd gotten, how his posting obsession had taken over his life. He hung his head and wept, "I know! I know! But it's just .......... posting a story, it makes me feel recognized. Like people see the new title and my by name there, that BY BILL PUPKINO, and it's like, I AM somebody!!!"

"But you already are somebody, you're a member of the Writing Pupkino Family. You don't need to post stories to feel validated. And as it is people are starting to complain. You were in such a hurry to put your last one up you glued poor Mrs. Grady to the side wall of the Piggly Wiggly!"

"WELL WHAT COULD I DO??! SHE WOULDN'T GET OUT OF THE WAY! JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE WRITER'S BLOCK YOU'RE JEALOUS OF MY SUCCESS! GET OFF MY CASE!!" he screamed, and stormed out, slamming the door on his way out.

Soon he was living in his car, spending all his money at KINKO'S and the glue store as his postings lost all semblance of art, becoming little more than graffitti stuck to every vertical surface downtown.

Ordinances were passed prohibiting the public display of fiction, and Bill became an outlaw. Which is why to this day you'll still see placards and stencilled warnings on alley walls and bus shelters with the warning: