im not at all interested in you , i said plainly with an uncontrollable quaver in my voice , a rocking tremble in my hand as i stuffed my manuscript pages , pen and pencil into my notebook , knowing the instant when it came out of my mouth that to tell this human that i was not interested in him was a crazy thing for a writer to say , a destructive thing for a writer who should be interested in everyone they encounter , who ought to trust serendipity to provide the perfect plotting to the writer who was truly open to all experiences , and who ought to have sympathy for all her fellow human beings , no matter how irritatingly awful ( or stinky ) the individual might be , no matter how inappropriate their interest might be in the writer .