It is 1961. Escaping from an unwanted date, Holly invades Paul's room through his window, while he is lying in bed and starts poking around his things, and starts questioning him. She asks:WHAT DO YOU DO, ANYWAY?
I'M A WRITER, I GUESS.
YOU GUESS? DON'T YOU KNOW?
O.K., POSITIVE STATEMENT. RINGING AFFIRMATIVE. I'M A WRITER.
THE ONLY WRITER I'VE EVER BEEN OUT WITH IS BENNY SHACKLETT. HE'S WRITTEN AN AWFUL LOT OF TELEVISION STUFF, BUT QUEL RAT. TELL ME, ARE YOU A REAL WRITER? I MEAN, DOES ANYBODY BUY WHAT YOU WRITE OR PUBLISH IT OR ANYTHING?
THEY BOUGHT WHAT'S IN THAT BOX.
YOURS?
MM-HMM.
ALL THESE BOOKS?
THERE'S JUST THE ONE BOOK, 12 COPIES OF IT.
"NINE LIVES, BY PAUL VARJAK."
THEY'RE STORIES.
MM-HMM. NINE OF THEM.
TELL ME ONE.
THEY'RE NOT THE KIND OF STORIES YOU CAN REALLY TELL.
TOO DIRTY?
YEAH, I...SUPPOSE THEY'RE DIRTY, TOO, BUT ONLY INCIDENTALLY. MAINLY THEY'RE ANGRY, SENSITIVE... INTENSELY FELT, AND THAT DIRTIEST OF ALL DIRTY WORDS - PROMISING. SO SAID THE TIMES BOOK REVIEW, OCTOBER 1, 1956.
1956?
THAT'S RIGHT.
THIS IS KIND OF A RATTY QUESTION, BUT WHAT HAVE YOU WRITTEN LATELY?
LATELY, I'VE BEEN WORKING ON A NOVEL.
LATELY, SINCE 1956?
A NOVEL TAKES A LONG TIME. I WANT IT EXACTLY RIGHT.
SO, NO MORE STORIES.
WELL, THE IDEA IS I'M SUPPOSED TO NOT FRITTER MY TALENT ON LITTLE THINGS. I'M SUPPOSED TO BE SAVING IT FOR THE BIG ONE.
DO YOU WRITE EVERY DAY?
SURE.
TODAY?
SURE.
IT'S A BEAUTIFUL TYPEWRITER.
OF COURSE.
IT WRITES NOTHING BUT SENSITIVE, INTENSELY FELT, PROMISING PROSE.
THERE'S NO RIBBON IN IT.
THERE ISN'T?
NO.
OH.
