Writers are an unglamorous lot.
If they are any good, that is.
They spend most of their time at a desk, banging words out of a keyboard.
That makes it understandable why popular glory is reserved for buffoons, because they are good at doing things with a ball or warbling some tune.
They often look a lot better too, which is generally believed to be vital for attracting females.
And of course looks are important, but not nearly as much as most people think.
I once lost a girlfriend to a gorgeous Frenchman - the odious Jean-Philippe - for a week.
She came running back.
"He just sat there," she explained, "He never said anything.
He drove me nuts.
" My career as a budding writer trying to break into the big world of dating started woefully.
In my early teens I was not a pretty sight.
Although likable enough in many respects, I looked a nerd.
At school nobody, bar other nerds, wanted to have anything to do with me.
I was a walking embarrassment, too small, too chubby and too pimply, with thick eyeglasses, my hair in a ridiculous spit curl, and a mother who dressed me like a miniature accountant.
This produced the loneliest spell in my life, which was especially cruel because it was at an age that normal boys and girls were gathering into mixed groups that shared fun-filled weekends at the beach, cinemas, dance-halls, wild parties and lots of other entertainments.
I sought solace in books.
Mountains of them.
In a matter of months I exhausted the whole juvenile section of my local library.
By forging an ID card I got into the adult section, and there I began to read like a madman, stuff far beyond my age.
From Livy's History of Rome via Shakespeare's plays to the modern classics and all kinds of non-fiction.
I enjoyed learning about things, although it never made me forget what I was missing.
Then, one day, as a huge favor for some service I had done, one popular boy invited me to a party.
I could hardly believe my luck.
Given the enormity of the occasion I even rebelled against my mom and refused to wear one of my little nerdy suits but went in jeans and a shirt.
Sadly, admission to the party was as far as my privilege went.
As usual nobody wanted to talk to me.
My host made a few half-hearted attempts to introduce me to others, but especially the girls froze in my presence.
Crestfallen I withdrew into a corner and was just contemplating early departure, when I noticed a very beautiful girl sitting alone like myself in a corner, looking just as miserable as I felt.
I went to my host and asked him about her.
"Oh, that's Ann-Mary, her dad has just died," he said.
"It's a real bummer.
Nobody knows what to say, so they all leave her alone.
" To be quite honest I cannot remember whether I was moved by genuine compassion or mere expedience, but I went over and asked if I could join her.
She reacted with joy and gratitude.
It was the first time any girl displayed pleasure in my company.
So I was delighted.
My luck held, because she turned out to be a devout catholic and I had just finished a four-volume tome on the History of the Roman Catholic Church (mainly because of the fascinating and gory ways in which saints attained sainthood, but that's beside the point).
It felt natural to ask about her father.
Bingo! Obviously she had been aching to talk about that and we spent a few wonderful, albeit melancholy, hours together as she talked about her sorrow, her feelings, her memories, her regrets.
I listened and found that my reading had prepared me for this.
I understood what she was talking about and could react sensibly and articulately.
Later that evening, when the music became slow and intimate, we even danced.
She taught me how.
To my amazement that single event promoted me from nerd to local hero.
Pretty girls even smiled at me in the schoolyard.
It made me realize that words are far mightier than looks, which was very good news for an ugly duckling like me who would ultimately grow into nothing more than a big ugly duck.