Page 8 of A Storybook Wedding
From what I’ve heard, most writers aren’t natural extroverts, and I’m no exception. So the fact that this wasn’t going well for me was kind of to be expected. Dillon Norway was in a circle with several very comfortable-looking people, so I thought perhaps it would be wise to veer in that general direction. Only I had no idea how to insert myself into their conversation (read: mingle), so I sort of maneuvered my way next to them, pretending to study the back cover of my book while technically just eavesdropping on the conversations around me.
Norway was listening to another faculty member discuss a recent stint at Yaddo as a few others looked on in awe. Only when I heard a lady behind me comment under her breath, “I guess they’re just accepting anyone at Yaddo these days,” did I realize the speaker in Dillon Norway’s group was that Nate Ellis guy again. I turned around to check out the hater and glimpsed her name tag: ALICE DEVEREAUX, FACULTY. She was maybe a hundred years old (fine, seventy) and was sharing this particular opinion with another similarly bouffanted fossil in orthopedic shoes whose name tag I couldn’t see and Lucy, who surprised me by nodding in agreement. That struck me as being off-brand for her. One would think that a prerequisite skill of the assistant to the director of this program would be the capacity for professionalism and the ability to keep her opinions to herself. I made a mental note of the observation and filed it away into my cranial Haters Gonna Hate folder.
Did Nate Ellis deserve such a scathing sidebar commentary? I didn’t know, seeing as how our only interaction up until that point had been a brief moment of confusion at the whiteboard.
But now, in his workshop, while these three demon writers try to terrorize me, I suspect that yes, perhaps he is just another highbrow literary snob, and perhaps Alice Devereaux and her centenarian cronies would like to partake in a Mike’s Hard Lemonade with me later on this evening.
I shall ask, I decide, as Trite Tim continues to wax academic about all the things that are wrong with my submission.
It’s as I am daydreaming about my imminent future befriending Alice Devereaux’s mah-jongg group that I am interrupted by Professor PEN Award himself. “Cecily? Do you have any questions for the group?”
I shake my head no. Of course, I am awash with questions, from How dare you all? to What the actual fuck? but for now, it just seems wiser to let sleeping dogs lie, as they say.
“Are you sure?” he prods. “Earlier, you wanted to say something.”
I nod primly. “I’m sure.”
He emits what might be a sigh, but it’s clipped, so I can’t be sure. “Well, everyone, please make sure you submit your responses to Cecily so she can review them. Also, it’s required that your signature be on your critique letter. Okay, guys. Let’s take a ten-minute break, and then we’ll dive into a lecture on setting. Go ahead and grab some coffee or a snack, and I’ll catch you back here in ten.”
Three loose pieces of paper slide my way from the offending parties in my group, letters that will undoubtedly not make my “instrument sing,” or whatever Dillon Norway’s exquisite metaphor was. I place them in a pocket folder that I’ve strategically hole-punched and added to the back of my binder for handouts and such as my colleagues stand, stretch, and leave the West Room in the annex, where we are gathered.
Before I can escape to the restroom, Nate Ellis hands me a letter. His, I’m guessing. He looks around before speaking and lowers his voice when he does.
“I’m sorry, Cecily. That wasn’t supposed to go down quite the way it did. Are you okay?”
This, I think. This whatever-this-is pretending to be kindness. This will be my undoing. Tears well up in my eyes. Stop it, stop it! Don’t even think about getting upset in front of this man. I gulp, eyes fixated on my binder in all its organized glory. A drop splashes against a divider tab, but I ignore it. Instead, I nod silently, swallowing my humiliation in much the same way that I have learned to swallow my optimism and hopefulness over the past thirty-six hours.
“You sure?”
I nod again, harder this time, willing him to leave.
When he does, I exhale and cautiously look up. I’m alone. I can breathe. You’re fine. You’ve got this, I tell myself. I put away Professor PEN Award’s letter of defamation in my pocket folder without allowing myself to read any of its words. Then I duck into the ladies’ room and dab at my tears. I check myself in the mirror.
Okay, so it’s not exactly what you thought it would be. But it’s a learning experience.
You will become a published author.
The girl in the mirror doesn’t look so sure.
You. Can. Do. This, I tell her.
CHAPTER 2
Nate
They say, “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.”
Well, whoever wrote that dumbass quote clearly never taught in an MFA program.
First of all, these people. What is it about adult students? They’re all either trying way too hard or have given up trying altogether. Absolutely zero middle ground.
They’re nasty to each other too. Grown-ass people who’ve completely lost their manners.
I mean, you had to be in there to see it. They just ripped this poor girl to shreds. Her work was decent too. Not my speed, but her piece was written for teenagers, so I’m not the intended audience. I’ll tell you this: it was a fuck ton better than that “Lotus Blossom Soup” nonsense that other one wrote.
They made her cry.
Then me? I just sort of panicked and left her there. I didn’t want to embarrass her. Figured I would give her some space.