“You’re that girl who walks around her room naked,” the guy said.
“What?” I asked. For dinner I’d agreed to sit with a friend at his fraternity table. I didn’t know the guy asking the question.
“You live on the 6th floor,” he said. “Facing our dorm.”
The other guys looked at me. “That’s not me,” I said.
“That’s you?” said another guy.
“No. It is not,” I said. My friend laughed. “It’s probably the girl next door to me,” I said. She looked a lot like me. She was the type to walk around her room without any clothes on and the curtain open. Though that felt unfair to say.
“I know it was you,” the guy said. “It’s cool, you know.”
My face burned red. I didn’t know how to convince he was wrong. I didn’t want to tell the truth–I would never have just walk around my room like that. I didn’t want to sound like a prude. But I didn’t want to sound that… carefree either.
“You think what you want,” I said.
When you read a novel, how much does it influence how you see the author? After reading Stephen King, what do you think about him? Or Margaret Atwood? Nora Roberts? JK Rowling? Neil Gaiman? Mark Twain? Put your favorite author here. How much of a novel should you apply to its creator?
Does knowing about a writer’s real life help or hurt your reading of her fiction? When you share your work, do you ever worry how it will reflect on you?