jelliebeers

I had written the most epic love story of all time.

I was on the Williamsburg bridge, listening to my Walkman and riding my bike.  An interview came on the public access station .  The person I wrote my story about was reviewing it.  I didn’t think anyone had read it but THEY did.  I had waited forever for this.

The voice sounded deep and mature, almost unrecognizable.

It was some literary program and it was a very in depth review. There were examples sited and passages read. I couldn’t finish listening to the program all at once. I’d have to wait until later when I had calmed down a bit.

I rushed home to my mom. She had listened to the entire program. “Was it bad?”

All the parts that I herd were pretty flattering.  “Well it got bad towards the end…”

I asked what she meant but she insisted that she couldn’t explain. It seemed like they had an issue with my style of writing. Suddenly, I felt a panic in my chest. I couldn’t remember who I wrote the story about.