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"But I love writing," I tell her. Stutter william fichtner a little trying to figure the words. "I love to be with writers. It's why william fichtner I love being with you, right?" "That's the only reason? Because you think you can get writing advice from me?" "Shit. Damn. NO. I that's not what I mean. Okay--can we just rewind? Put one on the scoreboard for woman-kind. I fucked up. Fine. It's not what william fichtner I meant and you know it. Don't jerk me around that way; you're not my wife. Why the hell are all my friends women now? What happened to all my guy friends?" She says she's sorry and that I drove my guy friend away. Just teasing. Goes back to telling me why she doesn't like the short story I sent her, and the book I have a contract to produce even less. "Your stuff is like a movie. I see everything that's happening, but I don't know what anybody's thinking." "Uh huh," I say, remembering the cardinal rule of constructive criticism is you shut up and listen. But I'm thinking really hard I always put a lot of thinking in my stories.
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