“Anything else is a waste of my time. I only read non-fiction,” he claimed proudly.
It was a blind date, and as far as it went, it wasn’t terrible; not good but at least it didn’t suck. She was, however, getting a little tired of all his conversation. She would have enjoyed the opportunity to offer feedback; some give and take; a little air time to express herself.
What are you seeing? she wonders. Who are you talking to? What on earth would possess you, she asks him silently, safely inside her head, to tell a novelist that reading fiction is a waste of time?