Inside me is a book, whining to get out.
Like most whiners, he tries to make me feel guilty. "You love reading about other people's books more than you love writing ME!" Deal with it, WIPey. It's not all about you. Stop pouting. Or I'll give you something to pout about.
I can't live my life for you, WIPey. I have bigger fish to fry. And...well...first I have to research where to find the type of fish I want to catch. Then plan an expedition to that area. Buy all of my fishing gear. Seek out some professional fish-catchers to show me the ropes. Practice the proper techniques until I feel confident enough to make my first cast. Refine my methods. Take care not to overturn my boat or fall off the dock with excitement when I get a nibble. Re-bait when my worm has been chewed to bits. Try crickets, or a spinner bait. Yank my line to set the hook. Allow my little fishie to run until he wears himself out, until he's good and ready to be caught. Reel like the dickens to land him. Gut him. Fillet him into edible sections. Announce to the family that I have caught a fish. Allow my catch to marinate. Consult several cookbooks for proper frying fundamentals. Heat the oil to just the right temperature. Dredge the fillets in a salty, crunchy coating. Name my new dish. Try not to get burned while immersing my fish in boiling oil. Serve it up fresh, making sure not to set a plate in front of people who don't eat fish. Try not to be disappointed by diners who declare my meal to be too hot, too cold, too spicy, too bland, too inventive, too routine, overdone, undercooked, ambrosia, or poison. And above all, be prepared to perform the Heimlich maneuver on anybody who chokes, and make sure to have a lawyer on retainer in case somebody plants a bone in my perfect entree.
That, WIPey, is why I cannot devote myself to you 24/7.