My mate, “Are you going to put (alludes to recent date) in your book?”
Me (huffily): “No. I told you; it’s not an autobiography. And anyway, it’s supposed to be a black comedy.”
Him: “Well, I thought it was pretty funny that you went out with him.”
My mate, “Are you going to put (alludes to recent date) in your book?”
Me (huffily): “No. I told you; it’s not an autobiography. And anyway, it’s supposed to be a black comedy.”
Him: “Well, I thought it was pretty funny that you went out with him.”
This is why I write about shoes.
You can discuss your writing with other writers–which I do because they get it–then one day you can’t even do THAT because eventually you have to just shut up and write the thing you’ve been cooking in your mind for so long. By the way–”am I going to be in it” or variants thereof–is a bizarre question. I DREAD that writer friends might base a character on me and my finding out about it. Couldn’t think of anything worse. I need my precious illusions about myself.