Him, chatty, while adjusting my spine, if that’s what that’s called: So, what’ll you do this morning?
Me, vaguely: Oh, do the shopping, go home, try to write something, maybe, sort of…
Him: So, are you writing a book?
Me: Well. No. I can’t say that. Well. I dunno.
Him: So you’re not?
Me: It’s just. It sounds so terribly presumptuous to say you’re writing a book, when you haven’t written it yet and you have no idea how it’s going to turn out or if anyone will want to see it…
Him: Mm hmm.
Me: So I can’t say that. But it would be terrible to get to the end of my life and say “I should have written a book, but I never did.” If I never even try, I definitely never will.
Him: That’s great! … Come back on Wednesday.