A framed pencil sketch of a man hangs on my parents' den wall, its shiny gray simplicity separating it from the plaques and photographs that hem it in. The drawing's eyes do not pierce or stare at passersby because they are focused toward the window, toward another time.

Like most things, the proposition had arrived because I knew somebody who knew somebody who said, You want to make some easy money? And since I was a dedicated, impoverished creative writer, everything about me was for sale except my art, which nobody wanted to buy. The job seemed simple. Moan for money.