I was talking to a couple of acquaintances, one of whom is in the process of building a house. Let’s call her…oh hell, it’s late. We’ll call her A. A was exhausted and still had months of work to put in before the house would be complete. Exhausted, she flopped down at the table and sighed. The other one…Z…asked what was the matter.
“Oh, I just have so much work to do. The whole house still needs to be painted.” A’s eyes lit up and she addressed the both of us. “You wanna come paint this weekend?”
I blurted out “No!“, then explained that I had scheduled some novel-writing time that weekend. (Also? There is no chance in hell I’m painting your house.)
She grinned and offered to trade, then said, “Don’t worry, I’m kidding. I can’t write.”
Z jumps in: “But writing a novel would be way easier.”
“A has to paint the whole house. That would take way longer.”
I sputtered and had nothing to say, which if you know me says a lot. It’s faster to write a novel? Really? Then what the hell is my problem?