Posted by: jeannineatkins | September 28, 2007

More memories of becoming a writer

Writing a story, making twelve copies, then tucking these into an old cardboard box set on the floor of Bartlett Hall gave me a delicious stomachache. Students came by the dark office wing to pick up a stapled story. About a week later, we gathered around a metal desk and pulled marked-up copies out of backpacks.

One afternoon a young woman who seemed like everything I wasn’t –well dressed, well loved –said of my angsty, autobiographical protagonist, “I felt like I was reading about myself.”

Professor Fetler nodded in agreement.

No way, I thought, but that someone had briefly believed in my world, or that my world wasn’t so foreign to everyone else’s – these hopes keep me writing to this day.

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