“What is that?”
I glance up to find my coworker’s face a few inches away from my own, squinting as she tries to make out my chicken-scrawl handwriting.
I quickly move my hand to cover the page.
“You don’t want to know, trust me.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Well, I just asked you what it was, didn’t I? Obvs I want to know.”
I refrain the urge to tell her that “obvs” is not a word at all, no it isn’t, check it up, it is not a word. Instead, I push my glasses up my nose and lean over the paper again.
“Just something I’m writing.”
“For college?”
“No.”
“So for what?”
I glare at her, but she doesn’t seem fazed.
“For myself.”
“Ooh, like a to-do list?”
“No, not like a to-do list.”
She waits. I sigh heavily.
“I write. I’m a creative writer.”
Her eyes widen.
“Wow, that is legit cool! You write poetry?”
“Legit,” I say, after a long silence, “is not a word. Check it up. And no, I do not write poetry. Poetry is for people who think they’re deep and are really, really not.”
She looks offended.
“I like poetry.”
“Thank you,” I say, returning to my writing, “for proving my point.”
She’s quiet for a moment, trying to figure out whether she was just insulted.
“So, if you don’t write poetry, what do you write?”
“Fiction.”
“Fiction. I know what that is, I think. So, you, like, make up stories and stuff like that? Like Yael Mermelstein or Riva Pomerantz?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Apparently, monosyllabic responses are not enough to scare this girl off.
“So, you’re in the middle of writing a book now? Ooh, is it going to be published with, like, a cool cover and everything! Will I be able to buy it in stores?”
With all the dignity and cold fury I can muster, I turn to her, my nostrils flaring and jaw clenched.
“Yes, I am in the middle of writing a book now. As to its publication, I have absolutely no idea whether or not it will be published. If it is then, yes, you will be able to buy it in a store. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I would like to continue my writing.”
And with that, I returned to my first draft. Something was definitely wrong with that sentence, why would he have done that when—
“What’s your story about?”
I sighed.
“Itisahistoricalfictionaboutapilgrimgirlwhoiswashedaboardadesertedislandafterfallingoffthemayflowerandneedstouseherwitsandinstinctstosurvive.”
She thinks about this for a while, her brow furrowed.
“Weird.”
“Yes,” I say in exasperation, folding up the paper and shoving it into my bag. It is obvious I am not going to get any work done as long as this girl hangs around asking stupid questions. “It is very weird.”
“Why do you do it, then?”
“Why?” I ask incredulously. “Why?”
“That’s what I asked.”
I look at her for several long moments.
“Because I want to,” I say.
Then I stand up, bag in hand, and walk out the door.