"Why?" he asks, squatting down by his front tire.
uh . . . "It's for a project."
"What kind of project?" Which makes me look up from the camera. Post-high-school Goth. Facial hardware.
"Do you write books?" Eagerly. As if writing books were really as exciting as really it is.
"Well, writing one. Like everybody, right?"
He thinks this is very funny.
"That's cool." And he stands around to watch.
What I do.
Until I'm done.
And then YoungSon and I ride off. We wave good-bye to him as we loop and swoop away and he waves back. Happily. As if he were much younger.
This is after a day where I have to explain in committee that I'll be streamlining my schedule so I can write a (bad, possibly execrable) novel in November.
"Have you ever finished anything?"
"Ever published anything?"
"Poems. A few. But you know . . . that's not really the kind of question you're supposed to ask. . . it's kind of like asking a lady's age. Or weight."
And then later, from another, "Well, good luck. That's just like my son. He's an extremely talented writer. Last year his sixth grade teacher said . . . "
This is after my brother-in-law points out, "You realize at this rate, it will take you at least . . . what? . . . nine, ten years to finish your book."
This is -
Replay this loop: "Eagerly . . . That's cool."
Over and over.
And now get back to work.