We writers are cowards. Give us any choice, and nine times out of ten we'll take the easy way out. That is why we're always telling you how to be writers – we're afraid to face the fact that you don't want to be writers. Many of you, however, dream secret dreams even more honourable. You would like to be the family of some writer, and I don't blame you a bit – I myself have often wanted to be Harlan Ellison's father.

Don't give up. If you keep plugging away, someday your big break will come. An important editor from New York will call you and say, ‘Let me speak to Ursula, please.’ That's it! You've made it, and from here on it's downhill all the way.

Or is it?

No, the rough stuff is only beginning. Being a member of a writer's family takes know how. Let me give you a little test. Suppose that you are a writer's wife and mistress of a kitchen equipped with electric stove, electric refrigerator, mixer, blender, trash compactor, kitchen sink, and three thousand dollars worth of groceries. When you stroll into the writer's study and walk around the furnace, do you say: a) I have a headache; b) I can hardly wait for the movie; c) I'd like to help you with that correspondence; or d) Give me some of your coffee …?

That's right, the correct answer is d. That really wasn't so hard, was it?

Here's a little tougher question, a two-parter. Suppose that you are a writer's small son. It is one week until Christmas. What do you tell the writer: a) If there's really a Santa Claus, why can't you get a grant? b) Eddie's dad lets him play Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer real loud all the time; c) Can I type my list for Santa? d) All of the above.

Now for part two. After your father has agreed to type out your list, which of these items DON't you ask for: a) TV rollerball game; b) The crash-and-burn race set they have on Saturday Night Live; c) A real car; d) A book.

You see, it's not really as easy as you thought. Perhaps before you go into this thing any deeper you should ask yourself whether you are truly qualified.