You know it’s time for the Q&A when the author closes the book, takes a sip of water, asks if there are any questions, and then stares into the abyss, known as who the fuck will ask the first question. It’s that awkward silence like before a guy makes a move, the silence after the toast at a dinner party, the silence when your spouse says: I’ve been thinking. The author asks again, his throat papery dry: any questions, no, no questions, surveying the crowd. Well…Then, there it is: a life preserver, a rope ladder, a lit cigarette. You will live. And then another question. And now your shoulders relax and you start fielding questions like Derek. I, for one, can’t ask questions because of having been traumatized by a 10th grade science teacher who said that the phrase “there are no stupid questions” was wrong. Proof: my question.
Do you ask questions? If so, like what?
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