I showed him coffee spots on one page, cigarette burns on another.
"Well, maybe—" he said, but I don't think anything would have convinced him.
When the last story came back, Trlk was so depressed, I felt sorrier for him than I did for myself.
It was time. We had been working hard. I got out a bottle.
I poured a little lotion for Trlk.
The next afternoon, we tackled the problem in earnest. We went to the library, got a book on writing and took it home. After reading it from cover to cover, I said, "Trlk, I think I've found the trouble with your stories."
"What is it?"
"You don't write about things you know, things that happened to you, that you have observed." I showed him where it advised this in the book.
His eyes brightened. We went right to work.
This time the stories glowed, but so did my cheeks. The narratives all involved a man who lived in a hotel room. They recounted the seemingly endless love affairs with his female visitors.