The Interview That Never Aired

They asked me how much of what I write is true. I told them “enough to recognize, not enough to hold onto.” They scribbled it down like it meant something, but I didn’t tell them which parts I borrowed, or from whom.

Then they leaned forward and asked why I publish at all, if the stories aren’t real. I said they’re real the way dreams are real- your body knows, even if your mind insists it’s fiction. That answer unsettled them. I could see it in their shoulders.

The last question was the worst. Who are you writing to? Not who, I said. When.

They didn’t like that one. The silence after stretched too long, and then the recorder clicked off.

That’s all anyone will ever hear of it.