It can be a thin line between a writer and a would-be writer.
So tonight I’m sitting here with a laptop waiting for my daughter to finish her piano class. And this man asks me what I’m working on.
“You’re not writing a novel, are you?” he says with a laugh.
And stupidly, oh so stupidly, I tell him that, yes, in fact, I am.
And of course, that was the end of my writing session. He took this as his cue to regale me with his own failed attempts at writing, and what conspired against him, and before the 45-minute lesson was up, I had learned about his ex-wife (unsupportive), his current wife (needy), and his three grown children (ingrates). Not that I didn’t find it all interesting, and the man perfectly pleasant. I did. But I will now have to sit in my car to write for the next six weeks of piano lessons unless I grow a backbone between…
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