“You did all that work to have a place to write? Man, I thought I was into procrastination.”
He chuckled self-deprecatingly. “I guess you could look at it that way. I just wanted to have a nice, creative environment to work in. The story’s important to me, is all.”
“What are you going to do with it once you’re done? There aren’t a whole lot of places that publish short stories these days, you know.”
“Oh, I know it! I’d write a novel if I had the patience. But this isn’t for publication—yet. It’s going into a drawer to be published after I die.”
“What?”
“Like Emily Dickinson. Wrote thousands of poems, stuck ’em in a drawer, dropped dead. Someone else published ’em and she made it into the canon. I’m going to do the same.”
“That’s nuts—are you dying?”
“Nope. But I don’t want to put this off until I am. Could get hit by a bus, you know.”
“You’re a goddamned psycho. Krishna was right.”
“What does Krishna have against me?”