Are You My New Mentor or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

ME: An eager young writer down on her luck with a complete manuscript.


YOU: A begrudging professor in Milwaukee who really wanted to move to France and make arthouse films exploring the nuances of desire through the motif of an egg—a blue egg, like a robin’s egg or something. We both got soy lattes at the coffee shop near campus and you mistook our double reach for a meet-cute and you asked if I was a student. When I told you I was thirty and a lifeguard at the gym, that I’d written a book, you took the latte even though I’d ordered mine first.


ME: Not the next Georgia O’Keeffe but very good at photographing flowers.


YOU: A middle aged woman with a Frida Kahlo bumper sticker who I met in the parking lot after a hike. You said you were a feminist and when I showed you my pictures on my iPhone you said they’d never be as good as a painting.


ME: A New York-based actress bringing a headshot to a casting service.


YOU: An eager casting director who told me I’d be perfect for a scene where a crowded bus drives off into the distance.


ME: Your girlfriend.


YOU: Busy tonight but totally proud.


ME: A Los Angeles screenwriter working as a waitress who got tipped big tonight.


YOU: A contest for emerging artists.


ME: Got each line of my poem to ten syllables, except for the one meant to break the pattern.


YOU: Said I should read more Frost.


ME: Your student in a Highly Selective Program.


YOU: Don’t want to talk about how to “make it.”


ME: An email sent to the address you listed on your website. In an interview once, you said you loved seeing new talent.









Sludge Man: No Way Home

“We want to make a deal.  Only thing is, you’ll have to compromise your deepest ethics and principles.”