Boiled down, she was a writer and I wasn’t.
“This story, it’s terrible,” she said. “You’re writing fiction, for Christ’s sake.”
That hurt me a lot.
“Show, don’t tell,” she said. “And if you can’t do that, don’t bother.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Fine.”
“If I make changes, will you read them?”
“Only if you get them to me before next week.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because my residency is up. You have to pay me after that. I’m not reading this shit for free.”
“Are you saying you’ll read shit as long as someone pays you?”
I could see it on her face, she didn’t like the question.
“Seriously,” I said. “How much?”
She pointed at the door, told me to get out.
So I left.
And I realized she was right.
Show, don’t tell.