Bypassing hollow small talk, she told me she liked my essay’s language, calling my descriptions of the woods and cold blue lakes “pretty and atmospheric.” From the author of ten books, this praise felt meaningful. Trying to conceal my glee, I just said, “Thank you!” “But truthfully, it’s too cryptic,” she told me. “It’s well written, but there’s no blood there.” She encouraged me to bare my heart in my sentences. “Your essay is just pretty air.” I bit my lip. I had the piercing urge to walk away, but doing so would have been ridiculous. “There wasn’t so much blood on the trail, unfortunately,”
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