I have a t-shirt that says Careful,or you'll wind up in my novel. Most people read it and snicker. Sometimes they tell me they like it. It's funny, or at least I think it is.
Once in a while someone will ask if I really am writing a novel. If my brain is engaged (because I don't usually think fast, as badly as I want to) my answer is, "Isn't everyone?" Because really, it sounds pretentious to say yes.
(And really...isn't everyone? I think it's true pretty much everyone has a book in them. If they're not actively writing it, they're at least doing it mentally.)
But yesterday... I was sitting in Border's sipping my iced tea, trying to cough up further ideas for Max's book. As I was contemplating what Max might come up with that was true to his snarky self but not too terribly offensive (face it, if Max could talk, it would be laced with profanities), this scruffy looking guy walked into the coffee shop, snorted, and before the girl at the counter could ask what she could get for him, he grunted, "She ain't writing no fucking novel."
I turned towards them; I don't think I was actually going to say anything because too many things were spinning through my head at once ("Well, if I was, it wouldn't be about that." "I'm blogging about you, Rude Dude." "Double negative much?") Before a coherent thought could make it from the spinning mass in my brain out my mouth, the girl told him happily, "No. She finished it a couple months ago."
Scruffy guy just grunted again, paid for his coffee, and left.
I am totally giving her a free copy...
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