My blue pen. My writing desk. These things are dear to me. I don’t like them being touched. My papers were ruffled like you were looking for something. What is it, Monica? What do I have to do? I’m working on my novel. I’m wearing my bathrobe at five in the afternoon because I’m a writer. I’m trying to get in the zone, in my zen pose. You’re not a writer, you wouldn’t understand. No, I’m not going to get up for dinner. I already ate. I’m eating at home more lately. Not that you would know. Galavanting around like some… some businessperson. Your power suit. What is this? What are you even doing? Making money? You think that appeals to me? I’m a bohemian, baby. You’re looking at one cool cat. That’s what you call it, or what they call it, a cool per—rooster. I’m a rooster. No. No. Listen. I’m—yes, I’m writing fiction as a person. A human being. It’s not—no, please. Please, Monica. Monica, don’t throw that. I know it can be confusing, Monica. “Write what you know.” Why is my husband writing a novel about a human being who you don’t even know his name yet yes it’s a him, I mean obviously, “write what you know.” Don’t you know?
I’m just saying, maybe be less of a bitch much? Don’t make that face. Oh, come on. I’m being an asshole? I’m a writer now. I mean, I’ve always been—it’s just now, this is my focus. I really feel like I could get to the core of something one day. Like, I can feel it. I’m so glad it’s autumn because it’s easily the most inspirational season for me. I’m just like, lit right now. There are so many new terms and abbreviations I have to show you! No, I did not take speed. No, I am not on speed. No, I am not not on bath salts. Double negative. You got me. You get me, babe. LISTEN, I need it. I need it for my process. This is going to take, like, twenty years with the bath salts. I’m writing an opus and I have so much work to catch up with, so much of his life, and I don’t even know where it’s headed. I might be a while. Please kiss me before your car pulls up. Seattle is too far from me.
The Lincoln Towncar pulled away and left her husband the writer bereft of any company or emotional solace. He knew it would take years to gather what he had into a coherent work, something so comprehensive and convoluted and self-affirming and self-cancelling that you probably couldn’t call it a novel. Something had slipped, and in his mind, he was a human being person man living just a little bit south. Monica pulled away from her husband crying softly, as he did his best to act a willing conduit for the story of Nicky Otis Smith.
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