We were all standing around, water cooler style, and there was a lull in the "how I spent my Canada day" conversation" stories. So, I said "We were sitting on a patio on Sunday evening, and Ed had just ordered a coffee, when he said to me 'I have a confession to make.'"
You can imagine how everyone's ears perked up.
I continued my really quite lame tale. "And he said, 'That coffee I served you this morning was decaf. I'm really sorry. I bought it at the corner store by accident. They changed the colors of the cans, and I grabbed the wrong one by mistake.' And I said something about how I accidentally put 1% instead of skim in my coffee one time at work because the cafeteria switched milk brands. And I said I forgave him, and I didn't even have a headache, though I did sort of feel draggy all day." I thought I'd kicked too much the day before or something.
"And then we bought real coffee at the corner store," I went on (and on), "And I mixed the decaf (we had leftovers -- funny how no one thought that fake coffee wasn't working for them, and felt the urge to finish the pot) with the real coffee in my french press. The coffee I make in the french press is usually too strong, and gives me a headache the other way -- too much caffeine."
And my coworkers all stood there as if there might be a punch line. So the point is, even if I sold my novel and it was a best seller and I was offered a contract for five more books, I would never give up my day job. You can't buy an audience for a story like that. (And I'm sure, considering my vast genius, my boss and I could work something out so I could do my book tours. Or convention season. Whatever.)