Page 108 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“No,” she counters immediately. “I wanted to write books.”

There’s a difference in her mind. I can see it.

Blog posts are different. Controlled. Measured.

Books are bigger. Riskier.

“I’ve been reading your blog, Clara,” I say.

Her head snaps toward me. “You have?”

I nod.

Her eyes go wide.

And something warm unfurls low in my chest at that look.

Surprise. A little awe. A little fear.

“You read it?” she repeats, like she’s trying to decide if I’m joking.

“Every post I could find,” I admit. “You’re good.”

She stares at me like I just told her the sky is green.

“You’re not just good,” I add. “You’re honest. You don’t hide behind pretty language. You say what you mean. That’s rare.”

She swallows.

The carnival noise fades for me for a second.

“If you want to write books,” I continue, holding her gaze, “then why the fuck don’t you?”

She lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, but not quite.

“Because writing a blog is one thing,” she says slowly. “It’s shorter. It’s immediate. You post and you get feedback. You know if it landed.”

“And a book?” I prompt.

“A book is,” she murmurs and pauses as she searches for the right word. “Exposed.”

Her voice drops on that last word.

“You spend months. Sometimes longer. You bleed onto the page. And then you hand it over to the world and hope it doesn’t laugh at you.”

I understand that more than she probably realizes.

“That sounds familiar,” I murmur.

She looks at me sideways. “You burn your feelings into wood and pretend it’s about nature.”

I huff a surprised laugh. “You noticed that, huh?”

“I notice things,” she says quietly.

We start walking again, slower now.

“I think,” she continues, “that I hid behind the blog because it felt safer. Like I could say something meaningful without risking everything.”