I’m reading this new-to-me author, Rachel Hawkins. I’m in the third book of this Hex Hall trilogy that my author brought home. She’s into these stories of empowered women saving the universe from whatever evil is en vogue right about now: vampires, witches, dystopian universes, etc. My author, meanwhile, is writing a short story for her writing class. I look up from time to time, and she’s still typing away which is good because I’m almost done with this and I know there’s a fourth book around here somewhere.
My author looks over at me a moment, and doesn’t seem to see me, but then she focuses on the cover. “It’s good, right?” she says.
I nod. In life, I wrote a lot of children’s fantasy, so the stuff she has around here has kept me busy over the years. There was a window when she wasn’t reading as much fiction, and she’d come back with these dry non-fiction reads that even she wasn’t actually interested in reading. I understood why she bought them: she wanted to “engage in the discourse of academia.” But none of that was really her passion. A lot of those books languish on the shelves in the upstairs of the house that she shares with her husband, child, and some cats. Oh, and obviously, me. I’m her muse, by the way.
I glance up to see what she’s doing. She’s gone back to typing. She’s pretty busy these days. We used to spend hours talking about life, about writing, about my books. But now it’s like she barely needs me anymore.