Earlier this evening, I was on the phone with my friend Marla, who was making plans for a visit. Not only was I excited that I'll be seeing her soon, I was thrilled that she still wants to see me after all of the venting I've done this week about the upcoming move. (And, to be fair, the venting I do just about every time I talk to her.)
During the conversation, she mentioned that she'd told an acquaintance about some of our home-buying woes, because he bought a condo not long ago and would understand the headaches we're having. But the conversation didn't launch into a discussion about real estate, like Marla possibly thought it would.
"Wait a minute," her associate had said to her. "Is that the friend who lives by McCrochety?"
Apparently, Marla had, at some point in time, shown him a blog entry I'd written about her, and he decided to keep reading the blog because he liked my style. It may seem like a little thing, but after the crazy couple of weeks I've had, it was nice to get a compliment.
So thank you, guy-who-reads-my-blog. You brightened my day.
Of course, it wouldn't take much to improve upon the last review I got for my writing.
Several months ago, I took a fiction writing class and have been trading chapters with a few of my classmates, even though the course is long over. One of them e-mailed me the other day to say she had read the latest piece I sent but couldn't offer her comments, because she'd thrown up on the pages. She said she'd caught some stomach virus and gotten sick on the bus coming home from work -- with her only choices being the floor of the bus or her tote bag, she chose the bag, which, sadly, contained my work.
I really hope I will someday get a book deal, so I can get her to write a jacket blurb for me. Something like, "Erika's writing brings things out of a person that they'd never expect."
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