To her benefit, Wanda has never met a writer proper. She senses something—emotions—just barely under the surface of his toned-down reactions, of his quieter demeanor, of the words he does and doesn't say.

"What kind of things do you write?"

And the curiosity is, at least, genuine. All sorts of people make it to Solvunn (to Abraxas at large), and for someone of her caliber, she finds the mundane aspirations of a cozy (hah) writer's life a lot more compelling than her own story of having become a witch. Being normal beats all the weirdness, in her book.

—but the questions beam onto herself like the light of lantern does, and she can't help but shrug.

"All of it," Wanda echoes. "Consecutively." Though it does bring a point of wonderment and curiosity. She glances over at Alan Wake (Alan? Or Wake? What would be appropriate?), a contemplative look in her eyes. "It sounds like you might have some experience in not remembering all of it?"

A case of amnesia, or something akin to it? Could be something of a concern, if it happens often.