Crap Crap Crap

Crap Crap Crap

Crap crap crap that’s all this is my editor yelled. Day after day you come in here with these light weight stories and you expect me to publish them, what’s wrong with you? He sneered

What’a mean lite weight stories, I write about heart break, romance and unrequited love

Shit man all you write about are romanticized views of reality and they are not even your reality they are some sort of dark works colored with an Audrey Hepburn-esque brush.

I recoiled in my chair griping the arms tightly,” what are you saying, you have encouraged me to to write more you said my work was deepening and was good”. I shouted.

I said those things hoping you would move toward your depth toward your truth. Instead you serve up white bread drivel meant to melt the heats of women who lie on couches eating chocolates and spend the night getting themselves off.”

Your experiences are not like what you write, hell most of the women you’ve loved were wicked, they were drunks, they slept around, fuck a couple of them were whores  and yet you continue to write like you were stuck in the 1950’s.

By this time anxiety was cascading throughout my body, I wanted to run and run fast I had to get out but I couldn’t move it all just flew apart like some dime store puzzle.

The editor stared at me red faced then lit it up again. “Now your sitting there wanting to run away when you need to jump over this desk and beat my god-damn face in, but no your all caught up in your head.”

He took a breath walked around the desk to sit in the chair next to me and with a hand on my knee continued to destroy everything I had thought about my writing.

Let me give you an example. He effused. You write about these women in your life like they are the only ones with the flaws yet that’s not  your own experience, out of the 3 big loves of your life two died hating you and the third won’t talk with you. What’s that say man? Why are you not writing about that?

Look I said I’ve had enough, this is over I don’t want to hear another word, your fired.”

My editor stood up laughing and looked down at me saying “you can’t fire me, for christ-sakes man, I’m you.”

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