“OK, here goes,” he said, standing and striding to his writing desk.
‘Where are we going?” she asked.
He sat down, cracked his knuckles, and opened his laptop.
“I am going to write The Great American Novel.”
“Huh,” she said dismissively. “It’s been done. Huck Finn. The Scarlet Letter. Moby-Dick. Project Hail Mary.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, wind starting to seep out of his sails, “this will be MY Great American Novel.”
“I’m telling you, it’s been done,” she said. “Try shooting lower.”
“What, the Great American Short Story?”
“For the love of God, Montresor!” she said.
“Fine, I’m not Poe — but I’m me!”
“Now you’re starting to make a little sense,” she said. “Just write The Greatest Novel You Can Write. You’re not the one who gets to decide whether it’s the next Great American Novel anyway.”
He grinned. “Why are you always right?”
“I don’t know, but that’s why you love me,” she said.
