Memoirs of a writer.
I scribbled something in my notebook, read it, shook my head and marked the page with an angry ‘X’. If I read the page later and still wasn’t impressed, it would end up in the waste paper basket.
“Good morning, Mr George.”
My writing table faced the window. Anybody who passed by in the compound could see me writing. However, I didn’t expect anybody to pass by that early except of course the owner of the house who had a mini-warehouse at the back of the building. She stopped in front of my window and looked at what I was doing.
“Good morning,” I replied cautiously, expecting her to move on and leave me alone with my thoughts.
“Why are you at home and not at work?” she inquired.
I wondered why she was asking. She had never been interested in what I did for a living as long as I paid my rent.
“I am a writer. This is my work.”
Technically, I wasn’t a writer because until then I had not written or published anything for public consumption.
“Ha,ha,ha!” She laughed with derision and looked at me with pity.
“You are a writer? You better get a job like everyone else instead of deceiving yourself that this is a job. Is this how you plan to feed your family?” She walked away, still talking to herself and shaking her head. “He says he is a writer. Wonders will never end.” Continue reading