Page 81 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

It’s just that it’s fallen to the wayside. Both articles have, if he’s being honest with himself. But at least his article about the queer South is looking close to readable.

“I like what I have, Michael,” Eli tells him.

“You’ve had two weeks to deliver something more to me. Something beyond bullet points and boring nights at jazz clubs. I need details, Eli. The readers want the messiness, they want that drive to keep reading.”

“I know.”

“It doesn’t seem like it. Maybe it’s time to rethink this whole thing.” Michael gnaws at the end of his thumb. “You’re not as ready as I thought you might be, Eli.”

“It’s . . . it’s tough. To write about,” he tells Michael. “It’s harder to quantify what’s happening when there’s nothing physical going on.”

“I don’t expect you to sleep with him. That’d be a conflict of interest.”

Eli winces, breathing slowly. “No, I mean, there’s no physical change. It’s all mental, all happening in his head.”

“That’s bullshit.” Michael stares at him.

Eli’s used to Michael’s directness, but this is new.

“Because I’ve read the emotion in your work, Eli. I’ve read your perspective, and you’ve never had a problem writing about something that you’re passionate about.”

Eli doesn’t have the answer to a question Michael didn’t ask. Though he’s surprised to hear Michael speak so candidly about his writing. The most he ever heard in terms of feedback never stretched much further than Our audience doesn’t want to hear about this.

“Well . . .” Eli begins to say. “What do you suggest?”

“You’re not connecting.”

Eli swallows. “I like to think that Peter and I are becoming friends.”

“No, not with him.” Michael points to his computer. “With the article. And right there, you just pointed out the biggest issue.”

“That we’re friends?”

“You’re afraid to hurt his feelings.” It’s not a question, not a thought. Michael isn’t wondering. It’s a statement, a fact. Plain and simple.

Eli resents just how correct Michael is. God, it would be so much easier to hate Michael if he didn’t actually have an eye for good editing and writing.

“The very nature of this article means that you’re going to make an enemy of Peter, Eli. And you have to be okay with that.”

“What if I don’t want to be?”

“Well . . .” Michael hesitates. “Tough shit. I tell you what to write, and you write it. That’s how things will work when you’re a writer. And if you don’t like it”—Michael nods to somewhere behind Eli, through the glass that surrounds his office—“the elevator is right there.”

Eli rubs his hands on his knees.

It’s complicated, hoping that this article will never make it to print, that Michael will miraculously see the error of his ways and publish the real article. Maybe this was a stupid idea, maybe Eli was ignorant to think that he could ever make a difference.

But Michael just said that he’s read the emotion in Eli’s voice, the perspective. Couldn’t that be enough? If Eli just showed Michael what kind of difference they could make, then maybe he could convince Michael to let him run it.

“You have to be willing to offend people with the things that you write, Eli,” Michael continues, and Eli listens. At the very least, this is sound advice. As a journalist, you can’t ever be afraid whose feelings you might hurt, not when reporting the truth is the most important part of your job. “You can’t be afraid.”

“I’m not.”

“This article says otherwise.” Michael points with his pen to the monitor in front of him. “Prove to me that you’re not afraid, and we can still put together something great here, Eli. You’re a strong writer, with a strong voice. I just want what’s best for you.”

Another odd bout of sincerity where Eli expects it the least.

“Right.” If only Eli could believe Michael’s ever wanted what’s best for him. “Okay.”