The Uphill Slide

There is always something.

Late

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I’m reading the assigned essays. They make me feel and see and want to touch. I’m transported into other places, other rooms. I’m inadequate to this task. Afraid of being outed. A fraud. A spy among real writers. Why are you here? You don’t belong. I want to belong. I’m Grandma Moses. Late to the show.

I walk through the door to my creative writing class.

 

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