You will think that she is the coolest thing in the world. A fabulous, A-plus writer.
She will bend and stretch all the latitudes and cartographic lines of your known world and draw maps with her words that you won’t understand.
You will want to swim the waters she pours into those rivers, just like when you are between her legs, diving in and all, every bit of her like mother earth.
Every word she writes scares you. She is that good. You will tell her this.
Babe, you will say, you are a superstar in the making. Holy shit. Do you know how good you are?
No, she will reply.
Well, you are that good, and you will sell this book, you say to her, and it will do well.
She will cry on the other end of the phone when you tell her this.
A top-notch piece, on top of all that. Until she starts writing about you.
One day, something she writes will hit you sideways.
A full-throttle 90 degree particle of truth. You will start to inch backwards from her, stumbling, as you say,
I don’t know if I want to be just a character in your story. Cause, you know, I have the right to tell my own stories. I mean, I read your work and I feel exposed, naked and violated.
Her face will contort. A finger of hers will be in your face and she will say,
So you want to talk about being naked and violated?
She will take that finger and point to the things she writes about. She will remind you how much courage it takes to write so raw.
If her writing makes you feel naked, then she will tear off her clothes and with that finger, point to all the stretch marks and scars on her body. She will remind you that she writes about the hard shit.
She is sorry that she made you feel exposed, she will say, but she means it when she asks,
If you can’t bear to read about yourself, how are you going to write your own stories?
I don’t know, you will say twice, because she has a point.
She will pass on some wise advice:
You’ve got to learn to write like a mother fucker. And you know that she is right.
She will say this,
I write about you because you’re worthy enough to make it into my story, to find permanence on my page.
But, by then, she will have her back turned, so you’ll never be absolutely sure that you heard her right.