'You're a writer' was so simply stated, and it never ceased to be amazing to Jeremiah how readily people accepted that he was when he said it. It wasn't as if he wasn't writing things, he just wasn't certain they could ever be things that anyone else should ever see. Maybe if they were a form of therapy, then they would be valuable in that way. And they were, perhaps a form of therapy. He just wasn't certain yet if they were helping.
He looked down then, shaking his head slightly at the questions, and he shrugged. "A year ago I lived in downtown Seattle, in a 200 square foot apartment," he told Eames. "Now I'm reasonably confident the bathroom I use every day is larger than 200 square feet." He barked a short laugh, perhaps laughing at himself, or maybe the irony of the entire situation he found himself in currently. "Big, it's big, it's isolated, I've a boat house - but no boat yet. I don't think it's old enough a house to be genuinely haunted, which is possibly a pity because I think I'd get some good fodder for stories if it were. I have to provide my own ghosts." Of which he had enough, he supposed.
"And yes, I'm a writer, or I'm trying to be. You won't find my name on any film credits thus far." At least not as a writer, and not the name he'd given the town. It occurred to him almost as he said it, that he'd possibly gone too far there. But there was no way to match Jeremiah March to anything on IMDB. And people didn't usually search by images.
"Do the woods around the large houses also have wolves? Should I be worried when I let my dog out at night?"