It was a chilly day in November and I remember it well, the fog creeping in over the seawall and the air so heavy with water that everything felt saturated with it even though it wasn’t actually raining. The dull weather stood in sharp contrast to my bright mood; I was on top of the world that day, developing an identity and a career. I was young and competent and unafraid, because I had seen my own potential, and I wasn’t afraid to grab for it.
She came to my house uninvited, trailing along behind someone else, and promptly took time to comment on my house (‘surprisingly clean for a young person’) and my person (‘I wasn’t expecting you to be so fat’) and then she promptly delved into what I did. And I told her, and a little sneer started to creep across her face as she proceeded to tell me how to do my job. A job, I note, that she had failed at before, forcing her to transition to a different career, and then another, and another.
She, a failed writer, wanted to tell me how to be a writer. (Continued)