I think novelists may come equipped with a certain number of stories to tell—they’re built into the software. And when they’re gone, they’re gone.”
“You’ve retired?” she asked, sounding calm and remarkably unhorrified. “Or is it writer’s block?”
“Well, it’s certainly not chosen retirement.” I realized the conversation had taken a rather amusing turn. I’d come primarily to sell her on John Storrow—to shove John Storrow down her throat, if that was what it took—and instead I was for the first time discussing my inability to work. For the first time with anyone.
“So it’s a block.”
“I used to think so, but now I’m not so sure. I think novelists may come equipped with a certain number of stories to tell—they’re built into the software. And when they’re gone, they’re gone.”
“I doubt that,” she said. “Maybe you’ll write now that you’re down here. Maybe that’s part of the reason you came back.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
