Last night I had dinner with seven other writers at an Italian restaurant (manicotti, meatball, salad with blue cheese dressing, chianti). I never before met the two women on either side of me, or a few of the others for that matter. We talked about weather, of course, and about the food. Where we’re from, what genre we write in (most of these people are poets). The talk turned to “what we’re working on,” and that’s when I ordered the wine. I’m not comfortable talking about what I’m working on unless I, a. know you very well, and even then, b. will change the subject. I’m not alone in this. One of my closest friends for twenty years is a poet and in all of our lunches or dinners through the years we only ever talked about writing when we read together at some event, and even then we don’t. Rick, another very dear friend, was there last night and we sideswipe the writing conversation nearly all the time. We’ll send each other drafts for comments, but don’t really talk about it

I never saw the point. I’m interested in what they’re working on, sure, kinda, but I’d rather really just read the final copy. If they do mention it, I’m really looking for little more than, “A collection about warts” or the like, no details. Peek my interest and step back. And who am I kidding; I’m not going to ask what anyone is working on, particularly people I don’t know. I don’t think it’s rude; I’m more comfortable with my work if it goes from brain to screen without getting blown around in the air between other people. I don’t mind the question; I get it all the time. But my answer will be little more than “some work about teaching,” or “several things going right now,” which doesn’t answer the question at all, which works best.

I find it revealing that the writers I know well also simply don’t really talk about it. We’ll talk about the process, or the stages of publication, or past work (ugh), but what’s on the front burner now is simmering and it’s best not to get too close.

It might be different for poets, or even novelists. But then those monikers right there in the previous sentence explains a lot–they are, in fact, “poets” and “novelists.” I’m neither, and what I do do does not translate to such a label. “Hi, I’m Bob, I’m a non-fictionalist.” Memoirist comes closest, I suppose, but most of my writing is not (my last book and my next book excepted, since both are full-length manuscripts about a certain time and place in my past). I write essays, or observations. A book slated for 2025 is a Sedarisest-style book about teaching; it’s not a memoir, so in that case I could be called an essayist, but that’s not accurate either since, it’s very memoiry, but, well, never mind.

The point is the manicotti. Growing up my mother always pronounced in manigaut (I’m not even sure how to spell this, but assume it is said as might an Italian who doesn’t speak English–without offense to my Italian cousins, and you know who you are). I was old enough to order my own food when I pronounced it that way and some server somewhere looked at me for a minute and replied in all her Virginian perfection, “OH! ManiCATTi!” Okay. Last night I heard a lot of menu items pronounced by the staff in a very non-West Virginian way of saying it, so when I knew I was going to order this dish (avoidance there, thank you), and when our excellent server, Jaimie, asked what I would like, I replied, as might my mother fifty years ago, “Manigaut.” She looked over my shoulder for a few seconds at the menu and replied, “Oh, the manicAtti, excellent.” Sigh.

Do you say what is the proper way to say things or do you say what they simply need to hear, are used to hearing? “I’m working on a piece about being nineteen years old.” “I’m working on a group of short essays, really nearly flash non-fiction, about stages of life, the patience we need when our children are very young and the patience we need when our parents are very old.”

That usually gets an accepting “Sigh. That sounds so good.” But it sucks, so I can’t agree, it might be good later, maybe tomorrow maybe in a dozen years by someone else. And that’s why I don’t talk about it.

Another writer I’m very close to is working on quite an involved work of fiction and is already nearly 100,000 words into it, and does not mind talking about it. But it helps, I believe, that writer clarify all the various aspect of this work, so talking about it somehow sharpens the mind about it. And I truly loved hearing about it.

But that’s not me. I don’t do small talk to begin with, and certainly have more trouble with it when even I don’t know what I’m talking about yet. So I’m more of the grunting type. “What are you working on, Bob?” “A book.” “Nonfictional stuff.” “Being nineteen.”

I was honest and as thorough as I could be. Jaimie returned and asked if I wanted anything else. I was about to order another chianti but hesitated. In America, shouldn’t that be che ante, hitting the ch, instead of the keeantay, pronouncing it as it should be in Italian? And if not, then why are we calling it ManAcotti? It’s Managaut.

A real non-fictionalist would know that.

Proof: