I walk into his office. His desk covered in books, disorganized and bookmarked in seemingly random ways. Papers waiting to be reviewed and read. Plants, half dead that have been forgotten to be watered. Sunlight peaks through the window behind him as he sits in his chair. I met him at a reading which we both were asked to attend and share our writing at. Both of our pieces filled with both sadness and a redefining of ourselves. He came to me afterwards, sharing his appreciation for what I had shared with the small crowd at the bookstore cafe.
“I think you’re writing is impressive. There is so much emotion and rawness that is balanced with insight and reflectiveness. It makes your writing extremely engaging, despite it being in essay form”. He says to me, as he takes a sip of his coffee. I have a few suggestions for edits, however, nothing major. The bones of the work is there. You are a very talented writer. Did you ever take any classes? Major in writing or literature?”