Bustin’ Out in Charleston

I’m supposed to be sharing my inner most secrets at a memoir writing conference. At last night’s session, I was told it was ok to cry, and let us read our work aloud without judgement. I had to pretend to take an extended visit to the ladies room.

So this morning, I played hooky. I feel like the bad student as I sit in Jestine’s Kitchen, drinking  a RC rootbeer, waiting on shrimp, collards, and black-eyed peas. Let the others talk of the alienation of their childhood and the wounds of their feminine spirit. I’m feeling pretty damn good at Jestine’s.

3 Replies to “Bustin’ Out in Charleston”

  1. In my opinion, there are few better ways to be a writer than soaking up juicy ambiance in a cafe. You go, root beer girl. You know you rock, hooky or no hooky.

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