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.
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.
I’d run out for some Shrimp and Grits too, and a nice chardonnay, please.
Rock on.
Do you have any idea why your piece got the recommendation from Google search result advertising guru Themelis Cuiper? Your web-site is example of something.