“But if it’s easy, why aren’t more people writing?”
“They are,” I said.
“Well,” she said, “you know what I mean — selling things to the magazines.”
“Oh, selling!” I exclaimed, and shook my head. “That’s terrible! The writing’s easy. You just go ahead and write the stuff. But trying to sell it, that’s where the rub comes.”
She laughed then and said, “You do think of the most humorous things, Mr. Lam. Won’t you sit down and talk with me a little longer?”
“I hate to presume on…”
“Well, after all, it’s Sunday and I’m here alone, and — of course, I don’t want to take up your time.”
“Not at all,” I told her. “It’s a pleasure — I’ll bet there’d be some red faces on the adjusters in that insurance company if I should uncover some new witness who would show that the accident absolutely was the fault of the other side, I think the insurance company knows what I’m doing and resents it, and are going to try to pin something on me so I can’t go ahead.”
“Well, I like that! Don’t you let them do it!”
I said diffidently, “I started to call on you yesterday, and then got frightened away.” I smiled, and then let my smile grow into a laugh of polite deprecation for my own timidity.