“What should I write about?”

Good question, I think to myself. What should you write about?

“Well, what would you like to write about?” I cringe when I hear myself ask this.

“Uh, I’m not sure.”

Surprise.

“Well, what are you interested in?” Cringe.

“You mean, like, hobbies?”

“Something like that, sure.”

“I don’t have any hobbies, really. I mean, nothing I’d wanna write about, you know.”

I become aware of my pattern of prefacing my well-intended questions with “well.” I decide to take another tack.

“Well.” No question this time. Let him sweat. There’s an awkward pause, during which time it’s possible that my student does in fact begin to sweat. Or is it my imagination?

“Well.” I’m turning up the heat. Poor guy doesn’t even realize it. His shirt begins to grow black holes under his arms. There’s a single bead hanging from the tip of his nose. Time to go good cop.

“Would you like me to give you a suggestion?”

His relief is palpable and pungent. It oozes from his pores like a week-long diet of nothing but garlic.

“Could you do that?”

“Sure.” Bad cop pause.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Huh?”

“Your favorite color. You have one, right?”

“Yeeaah. I guess so.”

“So, what is it?”

“Blue?”

“You don’t know?”

“Huh?”

“You said it like a question. ‘Blue?’”

“Oh. Okay. Blue.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yep.”

“So … what do I write about?”

“Blue.”

“Blue?”

“Is that still a question for you?”

“You want me to write about blue?”

“I want you to write about your favorite color. You said it was blue.”

“Well …”

“Well?”

“So, you want me to write about blue?”

“Yep.”

“How do I go about doing that?”

“How do you go about having blue as a favorite color? Same way.”

“Huh?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“Uh. Okay. How much do I write? How many words do you want?”

“How many words will it take you?”

“Uh. I dunno.”

“Well, when you’re finished, count them. Then you’ll know.”

“Uh. Okay. How do I start?”

“I’ll give more than that. You start with a beginning. You follow that with a middle. After that comes the end. Three parts. Bim bada boom.

“Uh. Okay. And when is it due?”

“How old are you now?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind. Turn it in next week. Sound good?”

“Uh. Okay.”

“Don’t give me your first draft.”

“Uh. Okay. What do I give you?”

“Your second draft.”

“Oh.”

“Good luck!” I stand up and open the door.

“Uh. Okay! Thanks!” He’s gone.

I close the door and sit at my desk, picking up where I left off, trying to think of something to write about.