An ex-boyfriend of mine called me last night to tell me that he's written a story, and is wondering whether it would be a good idea to show said story to his Famous Author Friend. We chatted about this possibility for a few minutes (I privately think that doing this is kind of lame, but I didn’t say so in so many words), and then I said politely that I'd like to read the story. Which I wouldn't especially, but that's what you're supposed to say when someone tells you they've written something, right? It’s common courtesy. But then there was this long pause, and he said, “Um . . . maybe you can read it sometime, but . . . you’re kind of . . . in it.”
Pause.
“I don’t come off very well, do I?”
Pause.
“Well . . . I don’t think I come off very well either.”
Now, the question is, why was my advice regarding the fate of this story in which I do not come off very well so necessary that ex-boyfriend had to call me twice in the same night to hear it? Do I really need to know, at 11:00 pm on a Monday, that people in Santa Fe are writing unflattering novellas about me?
I have to stop answering my phone.
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I got a 3.9 in my database class. That’s better than I did in the cataloging class, which I actually understood and sort of pseudo-enjoyed. Ah, the vagaries and mysteries of library school.
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