In my 36th year as a would-be and penniless writer, I found myself exiled to a dark rough and tumble city in the Far West, guns blazing as a steely-eyed wordslinger for hire.  But then one day I stumbled upon Lisa Cron’s Wired for Story. The book’s first pages caught my attention.  But alas, the price wasn’t right for a poor, humble teacher on a Chinese salary.  I had bills to pay, a mistress to please, and habits to feed.  Plus there was the local research base full of giant pandas; the damn things generated reams of Chinglish prose I would have to revise for a pittance.  Already my inbox…