Why I, The Real Estate Novelist From “Piano Man,” Never Had Time For A Wife
Also: stop sitting at the bar and putting bread in Billy Joel’s jar. It’s gross.
By Talia Argondezzi and Jeff Bender
Every day of my life since that stupid song came out, I’ve been dogged by one question: “Paul, how come you never had time for a wife?”
A few know-it-alls just assume I’m a real estate broker who is also struggling to write a novel.
You seriously think that wouldn’t leave me enough time for a wife? Do you have any idea how easy it is to attempt but fail to write a novel? You can do that in like five minutes a day, leaving you almost eight full hours per day (after eight hours of sleep and eight hours of real estate brokering) to procure and keep a wife.
It’s clear these people have no fucking idea what a real estate novelist does.
The hustle is nonstop.
Ever hear of The House of Mirth? I wrote it. The House of the Spirits? Mine. The House of the Seven Gables? I wrote half — that’s three and a half gables. The Haunting of Hill House? The House on Mango Street? Bleak House? Paul. Paul. Paul. Those novels made the careers of Wharton, Allende, Hawthorne, Jackson, Cisneros, Dickens. RENGW (Real Estate…
