In a coffee shop sits a man. His identity is of little importance. What he does is of greater interest. For the man whose name is S.J. Keillhouse, who was born in Guildford, England, but grew up in St. Paul, Minnesota, who attended Brown University, but never graduated and who later would go on to pen a number of pieces for The New Yorker and produce a weekly radio show for public radio, is a writer. Mr. Keillhouse sits at a table in the coffee shop and types away at a laptop that has been set up to sound like a typewriter with every keystroke and carriage return. The noise emanating from his computer gives the cafe an overall feeling of a newspaper office. Occasionally, there is a pause in the typing as Mr. Keillhouse removes the pipe from his mouth and sips coffee from an oversized mug that the restaurateur keeps on hand for her best customer, who is nearing seventy in both age and cups of coffee per week. The pauses are more for dramatic effect and coffee intake than anything else. If it weren't for his three vices - drinking too much coffee, keeping an empty pipe in his mouth and an unhealthy flair for the dramatic - the typing would be continuous. That would drive the other cafe patrons batty, which is why Mr. Keillhouse took up the three vices in the first place. What it is exactly that Mr. Keillhouse writes is anyone's guess. He is a man with plenty on his plate, work-wise and plate-wise. His usual breakfast, which he takes at the coffee shop consists of four eggs, a slab of ham, three sausage links, three golden brown pancakes and hash brown. His lunch is a roast beef pita, which he also takes at the coffee shop. For dinner, he actually leaves the cafe for his favorite diner for a full meal that one would know if one also knew what day of the week it was. This is all to say Mr. Keillhouse is rarely starving and he is extremely prolific. The catch is that he works on so many projects that no one has any idea what particular project he's working on at any given moment. He could be writing his next novel, his next article, his next radio sketch, his next screenplay, his next play, his next review or his next song. No one knows and in the big scheme of things, much like his identity, the specifics aren't that important. The important thing to remember is this: Mr. S.J. Keillhouse is a writer. The coffee shop where Keillhouse writes is known to many in the small town of Pratchett as The So-So Life. To the loyal few who are regulars, it's simply known as The So-So. As in, "Hey, Bob, what time are you dropping in at The So-So." Or "I hear Old Man Kennery is eating breakfast at The So-So. We better hold off on going until he's cleared out. You know how he tends to stink up the joint." One Emith Wull runs the So-So. She opened it 1956 as a way to make a living while trying to launch her career as a romance novelist. The cafe was originally called The Good Life, but after twenty-five years, twenty-five thousand book and novella rejections and five failed marriages, Ms. Emith Wull changed its name. If nothing else, it shows her resiliency, for if your average person had gone through what she had gone through, he or she would have likely changed the name to The Bleeping Life. Of course, after thirty-five years, one of Ms. Wull's works was actually published. The first romance novel she had ever written, The Shake and Bounce, had finally had enough time to age. At least that is how Emith likes to describe events. In truth, the publishing company of Rhyme and Rooster had stumbled across the manuscript in an old file drawer and thought the story rather quaint. Back in 1956, it was thought to be too racy, so it was filed away in a drawer labeled "Racy Stories Bound To Be Quaint in Thirty-Five Years". So, really, Emith wasn't too far off. When Ms. Wull received the news that Rhyme and Rooster were printing her book, she was ecstatic and toyed with the thought of changing the name of The So-So back to The Good Life, but in a moment of clarity she remembered her now seven failed marriages and 34,999 book and novella rejections, which tempered her jubilation. Mr. Keillhouse began coming to The So-So back in 1960, when he moved to Pratchett. At that time, he was simply looking for someplace cheap to live and somewhere to work. He found an apartment above The Good Life (as it was named back then, if you've forgotten) and got a job as beat reporter for the local newspaper called The Pratchett Express. In 1960, The Pratchett Express was just a daily paper that came out once a week if Mr. Ridder was sober and twice a week if he wasn't. Drink tended to play tricks on his brain and when under the influence often developed a keen sense for breaking and developing stories that weren't actually happening. Those "special editions" of the Express were compiled several years after Mr. Ridder's passing in part to commemorate him and in part to ridicule him, but all in the name of good fun. Mr. Keillhouse took over all editing and publishing responsibilities when Mr. Ridder died. This position he held very briefly, not because he wasn't up to the task, but because he felt it took away the time and energy he needed to eat three hearty meals and work on his writing. The editing job went to... "Sidney," said Edith. She stood next to the table where an elderly gentleman sat hunched over a dilapidated typewriter. She held a pot of hot, black coffee in her hand. The table stood in front of a large picture window that offered a view of a blue sky, snow-covered meadow and snow-covered trees and shrubs. The sun came shining through and lit the entire mahogany surface. "Sidney Johnson Ritter." The man named Sidney typed a few more letters, reread a sentence and gave a sharp cough before looking up at her. "What is it, Edith?" "Sidney, I've been calling your name for the last fifteen minutes. Breakfast is getting cold. So if you could stop your scribbling for a moment, venture out of this godforsaken study and eat something. Whatever you're working on will still be here when you get back," said Edith. "I'm sorry, Edith. I was just working on a rough draft of something to submit to The New Yorker," said Sidney quietly. "Again?" said Edith, adding her usual cluck of disappointment. "Sidney, I love you and I think it's wonderful that you enjoy writing, but this obsession with The New Yorker isn't healthy." Sidney rolled his chair back, looked at his typewriter and struggled to push himself out of the chair. He shunned Edith's outstretched hand and with a huff managed to stand up. He shuffled to face Edith and said, "It may be an obsession, dear, but it's also my dream." Edith slowly reached out her hand again and this time Sidney didn't refuse. She gently gripped his elbow to help guide him through the door from the study, down the hall, through the kitchen and down a step to the breakfast nook where a plate of eggs and ham, a glass of orange juice and his pillbox waited for him. Edith tightened her grip as he lowered himself into the chair. She poured some coffee into his cup, only half full, since the doctor had told him he had to reduce his caffeine intake. Dr. Kennedy had in fact told him to cut out the caffeine entirely, but Sidney had launched into such a tirade that Kennedy had finally relented. "How about we compromise, Sid? If you promise to only drink half a cup of joe in the morning, I'll give you two mulligans in addition to the three I already give you not to smoke that pipe. How does that sound?" said Kennedy. Sidney shifted on the examining bed, grumbled and said, "Make it three and we have a deal, Doc. Deal?" He held out his hand. Kennedy sighed. "Deal. I'll see you on Sunday. Remember, Sid, half a cup."