Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Wooden walls and amber water glasses, all warmly lit by understated chandeliers, and a real sense of attention to detail do make it feel like we’ve been transported away from Las Vegas and the hustle and bustle of the convention to Paris of another time.
My dress fits right in. Kind of.
“So, look,” Steve starts just as the waiter leaves to put in our order. “I lied.”
“I mean… I know. I thought we covered that.”
“No, not that. About something else.”
I feel myself getting hot. “What? About what?”
“Not wanting to apologize. I do want to apologize for something.”
“No, really, you don’t—”
But he stops me. “I know. But I want to. I want to apologize for getting so heated. That’s not how I normally like to roll. And I guess what I realized, is that… shit, this is weird to say, but… I do care about what I write. Wrote. I haven’t written anything at all in… doesn’t matter. Of course I care. All I’ve ever wanted to do is tell stories. That’s it. From the time I read my first sci-fi when I was a kid—and it wasn’t even a good one, it was just some ratty paperback I found in the attic of my grandparents’ place that had, like, a cartoon spaceship on the cover and I thought it looked cool—but from that moment I was… I was hooked. I was, honestly, in love. And I determined that that was what I was going to do. That was who I was going to be. A writer. A writer whose work lifts people from their everyday lives and helps them escape for a little while.
“And, y’know, the thing is… I do. That’s what I do. It doesn’t look exactly how I thought it would, but that’s what I do. And when you—whose work I’ve read and who I do admire a lot—accused me of… I dunno. Put it this way: I don’t give a shit what Leslie Munch says or thinks—apart from the fact that I hate paying lawyers for dumb crap—but I care very much what you think. And I suppose it hurt a little to realize you thought I would try to… I wanted you to think I’m a good writer. That’s all.”
He sips his water.
And I sit, stunned. Because his story of falling in love with words sounds so familiar. Because he’s so honest about it. Because he cares what I think. I’m so stunned, in fact, that I can’t really find proper words. So, instead I just ask, “You’re the reason I got invited to this, aren’t you?”
He swallows his water and, as he puts his glass back down on the table, says, “Yeah.”
There’s a moment where neither of us say anything. We just sit, listening to the bustle of the hotel in the distance and the clink of silverware against the plates of the only other people in the dining room, sitting far on the other side.
“Can I ask you something?” I say after a protracted second.
“Of course.”
“Will you read this?” I reach into my bag and pull out my tablet, onto which I have loaded the PDF of the thing I wrote yesterday. At Britney’s discouragement, I did not run out and find an all-night printer.
“What’s this?” he asks as I hand the tablet over to him.
“A thing I wrote yesterday.”
“What kind of thing?”
“A novella.”
“A novella?”
“Or a really healthy short story.”
He scrolls the screen. “You wrote this?” I nod. “In an afternoon?”
I nod again. “My mom is old-school. She insisted I take speed typing classes when I was in sixth grade. I think she thought it would give me an advantage.”
“Jesus,” he mutters to himself. “You’re sure you didn’t just plug some keywords into an AI and let it pump it out?”
“No! I—” I start to declare, but he cuts me off.
“I’m joking. I know we don’t know each other that well, but I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t do that.”
“It freaks me out even thinking about that. That an AI might replace real writers,” I say. He shrugs. “It doesn’t freak you out?”
“Eh. I’m a sci-fi bro. I’m kind of fascinated. But no, an AI could never do what someone like you does.”
“Why? Whaddayou mean?”
“It’s lacking a central ingredient.”
“What’s that?”
And then… he reaches across the table and puts his hand on my chest. Right over my heart. And I feel it flutter. Then he sits back, but my heart continues fluttering.
“You want me to read it?” he asks. I nod. “Now?”
“Yeah, I just… I don’t know. My head’s a little twisted around and I want to… You’re really good. And you know what you’re doing. And I just want to know if I’m on the right track.”
“Your appetizers, madame et monsieur,” the waiter says, placing down my salad and Steve’s bowl of French onion soup and then floating away.