inside
and out. Now’s not the time to get emotional. I still don’t know enough about
what he’s thinking to let down my guard. And I have to renounce my defensive
nature so I can see the plan through.
Coolly, I say, “Oh, well… that. Yeah. I mean…”
I shrug helplessly. “Your idea didn’t work. I wasn’t… feeling … it.” I
try not to sound too eager when I add, “I think it’s safe to say the original
version was much better.”
“Ah.” He rolls his eyes. “I see.”
His know-it-all smugness immediately gets my
back up. “You don’t see anything.”
“I see enough.”
Suddenly I’m sure he doesn’t know the
truth. He’s bluffing, trying to get me to confess to something that he doesn’t
even know the first thing about.
I laugh at him. “You’re so full of it.” When
he puts his arms down, resting his hands in his lap, relief that my secret’s
still safe makes me blurt, “You know, I can’t write in this stupid
city.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Temperamental?” he
questions sardonically.
I don’t appreciate his smirk, but I want to
take advantage of this rare good mood he’s in. “Something like that,” I admit.
“I’m staying with my friend, Gus…”
“Your ‘friend’?”
“Yes. My very gay friend. And he lives in an
apartment the size of a mini-wheat.” My description earns another one of his
barking, rusty-sounding laughs. “And his neighbors have three settings: sleeping,
screwing, and screaming. So I tried to write in some other places—you know,
coffee shops and libraries and even a park—but… it’s hopeless. I’m blocked.”
“That much is obvious. So… what do you want me
to do about it?” He stands and picks up his iPad, which he carries to his desk
and slides into the front compartment of a leather laptop bag that’s already
holding a computer probably worth more than what my dad paid for my first car.
With deft fingers, he zips and snaps and clasps everything closed as he states,
“You provide the writing; I provide the editing. That’s how this works. I can’t
help you until you give me something decent.”
“I gave you thirty-six chapters of ‘decent’ to
begin with. You’re the one who’s obsessed with fine-tuning it.” I stare at my
nails as I say this, so I don’t see his reaction to my statement.
I don’t need to see it, anyway. The
now-familiar impatience in his tone when he says, “That’s my job,” gives me a
good idea of what his face looks like: he’s wearing the “something-smells-really-bad-in-here-and-I’m-pretty-sure-it’s-your-writing”
expression.
Resigned and hating myself for it, I reply, “I
know. But…” Don’t you dare say it, Jayne, you stupid idiot. Do not trust
him, just because he smiled a few times and has managed to have a conversation
with you that doesn’t involve shouting. “…I feel like I’ve forgotten how to
do my part of the job.” Jane, you moron.
“You’re burnt out,” he declares as if it’s the
most harmless thing in the world.
“That’s not good, though!” I lament, taking my
cues from him and packing up my stuff. He’s obviously getting ready to leave. A
glance at the futuristic clock on his desk tells me it’s after 5:00. “You act
like that’s something as harmless as being hungry or tired.”
“It is,” he says shortly. “And I’m late. So,
here’s my advice: no writing for a week. Unless you become inspired, that is.
But don’t make yourself sit down and write.”
“But—”
He sweeps past me to his office door and turns
off the light. The room is still surprisingly bright, thanks to the west-facing
windows. “But nothing. I have to go.” He doesn’t move, though, until I join him
in the empty outer office, which has been abandoned for the night.
“I just want to get this thing to print,” I
say, my voice on the verge of a whine as we walk together to the elevator.
“And you think I don’t?” He stabs fiercely at
the “down”
and out. Now’s not the time to get emotional. I still don’t know enough about
what he’s thinking to let down my guard. And I have to renounce my defensive
nature so I can see the plan through.
Coolly, I say, “Oh, well… that. Yeah. I mean…”
I shrug helplessly. “Your idea didn’t work. I wasn’t… feeling … it.” I
try not to sound too eager when I add, “I think it’s safe to say the original
version was much better.”
“Ah.” He rolls his eyes. “I see.”
His know-it-all smugness immediately gets my
back up. “You don’t see anything.”
“I see enough.”
Suddenly I’m sure he doesn’t know the
truth. He’s bluffing, trying to get me to confess to something that he doesn’t
even know the first thing about.
I laugh at him. “You’re so full of it.” When
he puts his arms down, resting his hands in his lap, relief that my secret’s
still safe makes me blurt, “You know, I can’t write in this stupid
city.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Temperamental?” he
questions sardonically.
I don’t appreciate his smirk, but I want to
take advantage of this rare good mood he’s in. “Something like that,” I admit.
“I’m staying with my friend, Gus…”
“Your ‘friend’?”
“Yes. My very gay friend. And he lives in an
apartment the size of a mini-wheat.” My description earns another one of his
barking, rusty-sounding laughs. “And his neighbors have three settings: sleeping,
screwing, and screaming. So I tried to write in some other places—you know,
coffee shops and libraries and even a park—but… it’s hopeless. I’m blocked.”
“That much is obvious. So… what do you want me
to do about it?” He stands and picks up his iPad, which he carries to his desk
and slides into the front compartment of a leather laptop bag that’s already
holding a computer probably worth more than what my dad paid for my first car.
With deft fingers, he zips and snaps and clasps everything closed as he states,
“You provide the writing; I provide the editing. That’s how this works. I can’t
help you until you give me something decent.”
“I gave you thirty-six chapters of ‘decent’ to
begin with. You’re the one who’s obsessed with fine-tuning it.” I stare at my
nails as I say this, so I don’t see his reaction to my statement.
I don’t need to see it, anyway. The
now-familiar impatience in his tone when he says, “That’s my job,” gives me a
good idea of what his face looks like: he’s wearing the “something-smells-really-bad-in-here-and-I’m-pretty-sure-it’s-your-writing”
expression.
Resigned and hating myself for it, I reply, “I
know. But…” Don’t you dare say it, Jayne, you stupid idiot. Do not trust
him, just because he smiled a few times and has managed to have a conversation
with you that doesn’t involve shouting. “…I feel like I’ve forgotten how to
do my part of the job.” Jane, you moron.
“You’re burnt out,” he declares as if it’s the
most harmless thing in the world.
“That’s not good, though!” I lament, taking my
cues from him and packing up my stuff. He’s obviously getting ready to leave. A
glance at the futuristic clock on his desk tells me it’s after 5:00. “You act
like that’s something as harmless as being hungry or tired.”
“It is,” he says shortly. “And I’m late. So,
here’s my advice: no writing for a week. Unless you become inspired, that is.
But don’t make yourself sit down and write.”
“But—”
He sweeps past me to his office door and turns
off the light. The room is still surprisingly bright, thanks to the west-facing
windows. “But nothing. I have to go.” He doesn’t move, though, until I join him
in the empty outer office, which has been abandoned for the night.
“I just want to get this thing to print,” I
say, my voice on the verge of a whine as we walk together to the elevator.
“And you think I don’t?” He stabs fiercely at
the “down”
Similar Books
