You're a skywriter who makes very little money because so much of what people want you to write is treacly drivel. "Marry Me Kristy." "Congratulations Mom." "Plattsburgh Plymouth Blowout Sale." It's enough to make you crash your plane into a barn.
You decided long ago that you wouldn't whore out your instrument any longer. Only in the service of poetry, of truth, or of absolute urgency would you employ your talent for Atmospheric Calligraphy as you like to call it. It's caused you to go many weeks without any income, and you're close to hanging up your pilot's scarf.
Today you're going to start cashing in when a brilliant unpublished novelist who has turned to kidnapping hires you to skywrite all of his eloquently composed ransom notes for the next few weeks. He won't be able to pay you until he receives the ransom, but the notes will be so perfectly expressive of the desperation that can grip a man in modern America that you'll feel indebted to him just for allowing you to pen those sentences in your elegant trails of white. When you go to prison, you'll still be able to hear the sputter of the propellers as you would scribble the novelist's words into the sky. It will have been worth it just to get his voice up there.
Happy Skywrite Only Truth Day!