Every time the writer passes a parked car or catches sight of himself in a shop window I whisper the question: who is that bloated buffoon? Then I try not to giggle as he sucks in his gut. Listen, just because I mirror his image doesn’t mean I always like what I see. More importantly I am under no obligation to make him feel good about himself. Quite the opposite.

Wait a minute. Put down the phone. Before you call the ASPCW (the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Writers) hear me out. Sure, I can be a real dick about such things. I love pointing out the times he wanders around in public looking like his mother dressed him for school picture day or when he’s got a smear of melted chocolate on his forehead (don’t ask). But as his reflection and critic, I feel it’s my duty to always keep him a bit off balance. Just because I have fun doing it doesn’t make me a bad wildebeest.

“The sting of self-consciousness is where the magic starts.”

While he hates being awkward, he loves awkward things: eccentric oddities, benign idiosyncrasies, curmudgeonly quirks, and clownish personality traits. He’s convinced you can find vast, universal stories inside even the smallest human foible. All you have to do is crawl inside and get them.

The relationship between the writer and me is nothing if not complicated. That’s mostly on me. No one likes a wildebeest nibbling at their self-esteem. But it’s the sting of my needling that opens internal doors and pushes him to write. Without his story writing, neither of us would exist. In the end it’s a fruitful friction. Besides, what would he do without it, spend his days eating popcorn, counting romantic tropes on the Hallmark Channel?