The Difficult Life of a Novelist

*Aspiring

I tried to look tough. Two guys with their sleeves cut off were walking a super vicious dog across the street at the corner. I steered my vehicle into the turn, windows down. I knew from my days on the streets: sleevelessness always means business.

by Gilberto, from Pexels. “Free to use” license.

As I rounded the bend, thinking I was actually pulling off the I am the one who knocks persona did I realize that Jordan Smith’s “Only Love” was blasting loudly out of my minivan.

“It’s my daughter’s mix tape! I just dropped her off at the school!” I hollered. But it was too late. I could hear them laughing as I sped away.

I went home to sit on the front porch. I opened my laptop and got to work on my fantasy novel about the elves and the magic portal. At least I got this, I thought to myself. And this thing’s gonna sell. It’s gotta sell! I’m on my last foil packet of tuna and my son just asked for new shoes. I wanted to talk with my wife about the shoes this morning while she fixed her hair, but all she said when I walked in was, “did you just fart?” and it threw me off.

“Of course not!” I challenged defensively. “I always smell like this.” I’ll think of a better comeback later today, and lob it at her this evening. She won’t know what I am talking about. But I’ll know. I’ll know who won the battle of wittiest retort.