...just before she sat down to write!

He asked her to write about him. She rolled her eyes, “there’s nothing exceptional about you that will make me waste Camel ink”. She liked arguing. She couldn’t take the lifelessness of a conversation where everyone agrees to everything.
Coming back to the point, he insisted that our female protagonist try penning down her thoughts. Random thoughts, being penned down gains some non-randomness. No, actually he asked her to write a book. In an unassuming manner she refused as if, he expected her to write one then and there and had she said yes, she would have had to start of right away. Anyways, she refused. He persisted. Now, modestly she said, "I cannot write well", knowing exactly what would follow. "No Nina, you have that spunk in you to write a brutally honest book...that spunk that many lack", he said. How she wished she had that spunk, that spunk that would make her tell her editor that he is the most imbecile, spineless man walking on Earth, or her very married cousin that throwing up after two months of marriage is not something that would make her ‘jealous of her lucky cousin’. Anyways, she was trying to avoid the topic of writing a book...or even just writing.
It’s not the first time that she found myself in such a gluey situation. She wanted to gloat in the feeling that people actually believe she could write and write well too. But as ever, she couldn’t kid herself. She knew it was just sheer chance that made me say things I did. There was nothing intellectual or even remotely rational about half the things I said. Mostly it’s the ego playing games, making her say things that she wouldn’t under normal circumstances. And then, of course she managed to stumble on people who found some wicked pleasure in ticking her off.
Her friends said they wanted to be apart of the foreword, her brother wanted half of the royalty she would get and he...he wanted to write the foreword...and also publish the book ( Guess, he knew there would be no takers anyways). She was waiting for someone who would take up the responsibility of writing the book as well. She wouldn’t really mind lending her name to it the way she’d, to the plentiful quotes written by a journo–friend who didn’t want to make-up fictitious people for the fictitious quotes she made-up. Finally, he managed to convince her to write a short story, if not an epic, a novella, if not a novel.

She sat down to write...

As for the people who actually expected to read some intellectually stimulating piece of dramatic prose, didn’t she always say that she was not a good writer?!