by Lisa Berquist
My brother is an author, not a famous one, who lives alone and lost his editor job at a suburban newspaper five months ago. It seems as though no one wants to read anymore or get inky fingers. At forty-six, he’s looking for a new girlfriend and bravely posted the following photo on a social networking site for wine lovers: a profile shot, semi-flattering, a tight smile that I recognize as fake, his toast-colored hair neatly combed. It’s okay, I guess, but he goes on to explain in his headline that he’s a writer and to check out his other photos, especially the one at his bookstore signing, where he stands alone, hands clasped, same tight smile, in front of a table with no book lovers in sight. I’m not sure how his search -- for a woman or a job -- is progressing, but I’m questioning whether women are interested in dating an unemployed, non-famous writer. He’s been talking about changing careers to accounting, at which point I’m sure he’ll morph into a babe magnet.
Lisa Berquist is a freelance writer based in the Chicago area. Her work has been published with Golden Apple Press.