As I drove my parents through the French Quarter:
Mom: Everyone thinks they are an artist.
Me: Well, everyone has different tastes.
Mom: Please, some of the paintings I saw were just paintbrush strokes…
Me: Well, I don’t know.
Mom: You’re an artist.
Me (surprised): No I’m not. I can’t draw or paint. I’m a writer.
Dad (mumbling and then in a mocking tone): “A writer!” Yeah, you’re a writer. A writer who writes nothing.
Old man’s got a point.