“People don’t write in the omniscient anymore,” she says, unaware that her unexpected critique hits my chest like a bag of hammers, followed by a bucket of cold water.
My mouth falls open. I close it.
“My God, she’s talking to me like I’m a student,” I think. Breathe.
It’s possible I breathe too much. Or take too many cleansing breaths, I should say. Maybe I should spend more time reacting.
People don’t like me anyway. For all my cleansing breaths, and tongue-biting and positive affirming, I might as well be brawling in a bar.
Breathing. I mean, it may be good; but giving myself time to file something away in the ‘crappy moments to deal with later’ folder, maybe isn’t working for me.
I want to swerve into the breakdown lane, which is two lanes over, and sob like a 2 year old.
“But that’s the way I write!” I don’t say. “I do know what all the characters are thinking and feeling.”
I’m angry but I can’t argue with her. She might know what she’s talking about. I certainly can’t pull an example out of the air. I’m an idiot that way. But I am a good writer and I’m pretty darn well tweaked at the moment.
I thought something different was going on. I thought we were a couple of writer wannabe’s, friends, or at least friendly equals, gaily running away from our day jobs to attend a weekend writers’ conference. So glad I spent all this money on gas.
She’s holding my baby while we hurtle down the highway. More to the point, she’s holding my baby out the open window as we hurtle down the highway.
It was a long time ago. I hardly ever think about it anymore.