Novelist. Convicted man. Repeat roulette donor. I spend my free time writing books long enough to be classified as furniture and feeling things no doctor has a name for. Below is what I do for fun, allegedly.
I take a small, manageable feeling - say, guilt - and stretch it across four volumes until the reader also feels it. People call them masterpieces. I call them the only way I know how to be on a deadline I owe money against.
My signature pastime. No equipment needed. I lie awake wondering whether God exists, whether I exist, and whether either of us has read the contract. I am very good at it. It is the one thing I never lose at.
A discipline I have mastered without ever choosing to compete. He has the estate, the beard, the calm. I have the debt and the epilepsy. We are both Russian giants. One of us is taller in the photo.
I travel abroad, locate the nearest wheel, and convert my advance into a thrilling little nothing. Then I write a novel about a man who does exactly this. It is called 'The Gambler'. It is, in every sense, autofiction.
There can only be one greatest bearded Russian novelist, and the casting department made its decision early. I bear no grudge. I bear a slight grudge. Here is the tale of the tape.
Started 'Crime and Punishment' for fun. Now I confess to crimes I have not committed. Long. Too real. The protagonist needs a nap and a sandwich.
Came for a thriller, left questioning free will at 3am on a Tuesday. No notes. Could not put it down, mostly because it is heavy enough to break my foot.
He owed me money and instead handed me 'The Idiot'. I am not financially or emotionally whole. Would not lend again.
Finally, a beach read where everyone is freezing, broke, and morally bankrupt. Relatable. The brothers fight a lot. There are several brothers.
Life is a roulette wheel and the house is despair. Still, I keep showing up. Mostly because I left my coat.
Offer me a loan