There were two cars to be washed ahead of mine. I pulled a chair in the sparsely furnished, dank waiting room and flipped open the laptop. I refused to waste a minute idling that could be spent writing. There was a manuscript to be crafted, edited, perfected. Mine.
When he was done more than an hour later, so was I. Almost. There were a few sections to be fleshed out later on, after the errands and the evening crab legs and beers on the Halifax.
I put the final touches on it just after midnight, though I'm sure I'll find something to change tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that, until I turn it in and the professor pops it in the mail. For publishing.
For publishing. Can a story be too honest? And am I being dishonest by not putting it out into the world under my own name? I'd like to think I'm protecting more than me.
I'd like to think it's the closest to real that I've ever been.
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