Theft by Finding: Diaries 1977-2002

by David Sedaris

There’s a woman in my writing class named T. who was pregnant at the start of the quarter and had her baby a few weeks ago. Every so often over the past few months, she’d make a comment, but she’s never read any of her writing out loud. I can’t help but think she was drunk or stoned today. She said out of nowhere that she would like her story read and that Rose would be the one to do it. “I’m tired of hearing all this average stuff,” she told us. “It’s time for something good.” Rose started and was stopped by T. a few seconds into it. “You didn’t give people time to relax,” T. said, slurring her words a bit. The story, when Rose finally got to it, was about a young woman dressing for a lesbian party. She has recently decided she is attracted to women and wears jeans and cowboy boots. Once dressed, she leaves the house. The end. T. was angry that the story wasn’t longer. “It seemed longer when I wrote it,” she said. Then she blamed Rose for reading too quickly and making it sound less substantial. She told the class that she herself is a lesbian and that none of us could relate because we’re all afraid to confront our gayness. People in the class looked at one another, not knowing what to say. The women weren’t too keen to learn they were all insecure lesbians masquerading as heterosexuals. T. criticized people who think realism is using the word shit. She went on and on until someone told her to shut up. Then she put her head on her desk and fell asleep. She even snored.