“What floor?”

“Seven.”

“You a writer?”

“Yes… I am a writer.”

“This elevator doesn’t sound too stable.”

“Old hotel, old elevator.”

“Oh great, don’t tell me it’s stalled between floors.”

“This is the second time for me. Yesterday I spent twenty minutes before they got it going again. Wait, don’t hit the emergency button or all hell with break loose. Pick up the phone and press zero.”

“This is Cormac McCarthy, the elevator has stalled… Un huh, all right, please hurry.”

“I didn’t get to ask my question at your little talk today.”

“Little talk?”

“Why don’t you use quotation marks?”

“You write fiction?”

“Yes. Also, why the hell are all you characters wackos? How about using all that talent and write something exceptional about ordinary people.”

“What kind of fiction?”

Novels. And the violence, why all the violence and doom and gloom?”

“What kind of novels?”

“Well, my last one was about a man who lost his family and cobbled his life back together.”

“Cobbled?”

“I have started every one of your novels and never finished one of them.”

“Who’s your publisher?”

“Never been published.”

“By choice?”

“Not my choices…I continually have to go back and figure out who is talking.”

“Who do you write for?”

“What do you mean?”

“That explains it.”

“What?”

Ah, there it goes. What floor again.”

“Seven. Explains what?...”

“Here’s your floor.”

“I’m holding this door until you answer me.”

“Do not write to please. Write what is inside you. I repeat, DO NOT write to please.  Now will you kindly let go of the door.”

“One last thing?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Will you consider quotation marks?”