"It's an all-ages show, so they won't be
selling a lot of booze, so there's a high cover."
"How's the play coming?"
"Fuck off about the play, okay?" she said, and spat on the sidewalk.
"All right, then," he said. "I'm going to start writing my story
tomorrow," he said.
"Your story, huh?"
"Yup."
"What's that for?"
"What do you mean?" he asked playfully.
"Why are you writing a story?"
"Well, I have to! I've completely redone the house, built that soundwall
-- it'd be a shame not to write the story now."
"You're writing a story about your house?"
"No, *in* my house. I haven't decided what the story's about
yet. That'll be job one tomorrow."
"You did all that work to have a place to write? Man, I thought *I* was
into procrastination."
He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I guess you could look at it that
way. I just wanted to have a nice, creative environment to work in. The
story's important to me, is all."
"What are you going to do with it once you're done? There aren't a whole
lot of places that publish short stories these days, you know."
"Oh, I know it! I'd write a novel if I had the patience. But this isn't
for publication -- yet. It's going into a drawer to be published after I
die."
"*What*?"
"Like Emily Dickinson. Wrote thousands of poems, stuck 'em in a drawer,
dropped dead. Someone else published 'em and she made it into the
canon.
Pages:
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69