We were all studying together after dinner. At least, Reeti was studying. Tim and I had our laptops open. I was marking up another student’s essay, and he was doing whatever he did.
“Not really. Everyone I know is in my workshop group. I can’t go up to random strangers and ask if they’d like to read the opening chapters of my unpublished novel.”
Tim glanced up, his glasses gleaming silver in the glow of his computer screen. “I could read it.”
My whole self flushed. He might as well have asked me to take off all my clothes and stand naked in the middle of Great Court. I trusted Tim. I wanted to know what he thought. I knew he would be honest and even gentle in his critique. But letting him read my story was worse than letting him see me in the Underwear of Death. This wasn’t my body he’d be judging. It was me, my heart, my soul, my most private self, revealed on the page. What if he hated my writing? Or he didn’t hate it, but was kind in a way that suggested I should really consider doing something else with my life, like becoming a dog walker or a parking lot attendant.
I couldn’t bear it.
I shook my head. “Thanks, but I need another writer, I think.”
“What about Sam?” Reeti asked.
“I don’t know.” Expose myself to Sam’s needle-sharp intelligence? No. “Middle-grade fantasy isn’t exactly his thing.”
“Oscar Diggs,” Tim said. I looked at him, surprised. “You told us he offered to read it.”
“When it’s ready, he said.”
“It won’t ever be ready without feedback,” Tim pointed out.
“He does know the genre,” I admitted.
“Did you ever read that book of his?”
I dropped my gaze to my laptop. “I’m going to.” As soon as I found the copy Tim had loaned me. “I haven’t had much time to read.”
“Too busy having sex,” Reeti said.
Tim turned red.
I wanted to pat his arm. But maybe that would only embarrass him more. “I’ll send it to Diggs after Dr.Ward has read it.”
“Who are you more afraid of?” Reeti asked. “Oscar Diggs? Or The Ward?”
Put that way... Oscar Diggs was a kindly gnome. The Ward was a witch with the power to advance or destroy my academic career.
I sent the proposal to Diggs.
And spent the next four days on edge, waiting for a response. Maybe, I reasoned, he didn’t have time to read it. Maybe he read it and was taking time to write helpful suggestions to make the story better. Maybe he and my workshop instructor were upstairs at The Duke, drinking whiskey and laughing together over my incoherent style, my dependence on stereotypes, my failure to grasp the most fundamental requirements of grammar and punctuation.
By Thursday, when the writing workshop met, I was a bundle of nerves. Thank God the instructor had basically told my classmates to ignore my story. But sitting in the conference room, listening to them read aloud, offering affirmation and advice, was surprisingly grounding. Even reassuring. Most of them were at least a little freaked at the prospect of writing their dissertations. I wasn’t alone.
At the end of the three hours, we smiled around the table at one another like shipwreck survivors who have managed to make it into the same lifeboat.
“Right, then,” our instructor, Brian, said. “If that’s all...”
“I think we should talk about Dee’s story,” Shauna said.
For a moment, no one spoke. My heart, which had settled into a more or less regular rhythm, jolted into high speed. “Oh, that’s okay.”
“I’m afraid we’re out of time today,” Brian said.
Chairs scraped. A few students closed laptops or notebooks.
Erinma looked down the table at me. “I just want to say I like the witches. All the female characters are very strong now.”
“I...”Was so relieved. “Thanks.”
