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I screwed up my nose and shook my head.
“Might have to read a little bit more,” I admitted.
“Sell me your book,” he demanded.
“What?”
“Sell me on the concept of your book.”
I reached out and grabbed a can of creamed corn, turning it over and over in my hand. I couldn’t tell him about the book I’d been writing. I just couldn’t do it. The story had been stupid. Pathetic. How could I possibly think I could let strangers read my writing if I couldn’t even handle the man I loved telling me it needed more work?
I looked up at the man — the stranger — beside me. He waited patiently. An attentive look in his blue eyes. He didn’t seem in a hurry like everyone else was in the supermarket right then. He looked like he’d stand there all night waiting for me to tell him about a stupid story and a pathetic protagonist and my delusional ideas of being a writer.
“Do you enjoy writing?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“What do you enjoy about it?”
“Getting lost in the story.”
He was silent a moment. Then said, “Just getting lost?”
I slowly shook my head. “No, not really. Getting . . . wrapped up in it, I suppose.”
He smiled.
“Tell me about your story,” he urged.
I shook my head.
“What made you start writing it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you hope to achieve by writing it?”
“I want . . . I want to touch people’s lives. Give them a moment to escape reality.”
“Tell me about your story,” he said.
I laughed.
“I bet it’s a good story,” he said.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know I’d like to read it.”
“How could you? I haven’t told you about it.”
“Then tell me about your story.”
I huffed out a frustrated breath and then started speaking.
The story that came out was not the one I’d written.
“When we meet her, she appears weak,” I said.
