The Questioning

Sam peers at me across the table. He looks bored already, which I decide to interpret as too many late nights. “So,” he says. “What is your blog going to be about this time?”

I scratch my head, thinking. “I don’t know, Sam,” I say. “I think I’m going to…”

“Wait,” he interrupts. “It’s not going to be all self-analytical, right? You’re not going to start with an unrelated subject, link it to your point in an agonizingly long and often forced explanation, and then finish it off with one line that attempts to tie it up in a cute little inspirational bow, are you?”

“Um, no, of course not,” I reply, mentally crossing off all of my options. “I’m, uh, going to try to do something different today.”

Sam sighs, casting a longing glance at the entrance to the room. I decide to interpret it as a door fetish. He looks back at me expectantly. “Okay, so what’s it going to be?”

I scan my brain, trying to pull some useful nuggets from recent events. “Well, my friends are here this week from America…,” I offer cautiously.

Sam nods brusquely, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning toward me. “Good, good,” he says encouragingly.

“But they don’t arrive until the morning, so…” I shrug, defeated.

Sam exhales, and drops his head so that it’s almost touching the table. I decide to interpret it as a weak neck. “Alright. Anything else?” he growls without lifting his head.

I stare up at the single light bulb hanging over the table and chew on the end of my pencil in a mock thinking pose. I know I have nothing, and for a brief moment, I consider explaining to Sam that I’m up against the Impossible 10-Post Challenge and have done nothing worth talking about this week other than sit at home and obsessively read the Twilight series.

Suddenly, a relevant nugget emerges in my mind. “Actually,” I declare excitedly. “I haven’t really talked about my writing class yet. I keep saying that I will, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“YES!” he shouts, standing and slamming his big meaty hands on the table. “That will do just fine. What will you say?”

Buoyed by his enthusiasm, I consider the question for a moment. “Well, I discovered that I’m crap at dialogue,” I begin thoughtfully, “and it seems that every time I write about a character, it’s some big beefy guy named Sam.”

Sam furrows his brow. “Sounds interesting,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest and walking slowly around the table to stand beside me. He thinks for a moment and then places a big beefy hand on my shoulder.

“Here’s a thought,” he says, looking down on me with piercing blue eyes. “Because you’re crap at dialogue, you could use your blog as a way to practice getting better. Then, you could also take the opportunity to explore this Sam character more. Who is he? Why does he do the things he does?”

I nod joyfully, silently thanking Sam for being an orphan rescued by a gang of wolves who taught him the essential lessons about survival which he brought to the police academy where he became both feared and revered for his maverick approach to combating gangs. “I think that’s a great idea.”