Foolishly thinking myself up to this obvious challenge I answered, “And why not?” The aforesaid words were punctuated by a crossing of my arms over my chest and a tapping of my foot.
It stared at me in disbelief. “After what you put down in print so far…” It drew up short recognizing the scowl on my face as a bad omen of its future.
“I have been busy,” I tried my best excuse, hoping it wouldn’t see through the lie. Most short stories are fooled by this particular falsehood.
“So why are you just sitting here now?” The question—once voiced—could not be denied. I postured defensively and pretended to look for a pen in my desk drawer. “Is it… twitter?” I could hear the pages shuffle.
“Of course not!” I answered a bit too quickly drawing even more suspicion to my possible lack of fealty.
“Then facebook? I know you have feelings for facebook… I’ve seen how you look at it!” A loud tearing sound issued from the makeshift cover.
“Look, no! Facebook is just… a friend.” I wondered what it would infer from the redness I felt as heat in my cheeks. This conversation wasn’t going the way I’d planned.
“I knew it was the blog!” It drew out the word blog with the most distasteful accent on the term imaginable.
“This isn’t my blog I’m writing for now…” I wanted to take back the words but the damage was done. It could see the truth. An involuntary shudder ran through me as I reached for the pages. “It isn’t what you think…” I softly stroked the paper.
“The reasons you started me? They aren’t gone, immutably changed? Do you even remember?”
I clutched the novel to my chest. There was nothing left to do — except write.
Do you make excuses? What’s your personal favorite?