Chapter 25

She stood in the doorway, unmoving, expectant. I tried a different approach. “Look, creativity is like a…a fountain, or a geyser really. A geyser. Do you know what they are?”

No response, just that unwavering, unnerving stare. I found myself stammering. “They’re hot springs that shoot up out of the earth. Writing is like that. I get an idea but it has to boil beneath the surface for a while until it’s ready to come out. Only when it doescome, it’s intermittent, short bursts some days, whole rivers the next. It’s not a faucet you can turn on and off at will. I can’t control it. I write when I can, when I’m inspired, not when I want to. Do you understand?”

I could tell she didn’t. Her eyes were wide and hard, the immovable gaze of a statue.

“A half hour,” I told her. It seemed a fair enough compromise to me. “Give me thirty minutes to wrap this up and then I’ll take you to the store. Promise.”