Because a screenshot of the story his author mentor raved about concerning the Basses reveals that he actually, in fact, cannot write:
The text reads:
His hand held a firm grip around the glass Scotch. It was like the glass was a part of him and if he let it go he'd lose a piece of himself. He took one long gulp and finished off the glass.
"Keep them coming, Joe," hes poke across the bar. The surly bartender poured some more of the brown liquid into his glass. He titled it towards Joe and took a sip. As it hit his mouth, his lips curled and he swallowed. The glass was still clutched in his hand.
Charlie Trout had spent every Birthday at this bar since he was thirteen years old, and this year was no exception. Charlie sat ont he exact same stool, drank the exact same brand of Scotch and ordered from the exact same bartender year after year. One would think Charlie Trouts Birthday party would be full of friends, sex women and located at an exclusive Manhattan club. But that was not the case. Charlie's Birthday was always just a part of one. Or two, if you count Joe the bartender.