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.