"What are you doing?" My words come out a squeak. "I wanted to see what was happening in your book," he explains, his lips twitching. I snatch the book from him. "Well, now you see I'm right. There is no plot." I hate the defensive edge in my voice. I thought I rid myself of any shame long ago. For witchtit’s sake, all I do is help other readers embrace reading the very same thing without shame, yet my face is as hot as a stovetop. I’ve reverted to my younger self, easily wounded by others’ criticism over what I read. Though I swore I’d left that insecurity behind, the deep stab of my first
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