Page 44 of Loathing My Boss
I want family.
Just like everyone else in this world, I want what I’ve never been able to have.
I say, “I like the community. Being here, seeing people excited and loving something, I like that. I like feeling like maybe the parts of me I don’t think matter inspire someone to believe the same parts in themselves do.”
Her shaking fists loosen as all strength leaves her. Her tongue flicks out, wetting her lips as she drops her gaze. Her mouth opens, but she shakes her head before words come, then she sinks back under the blankets, putting her back to me. “I’m…tired,” she says. “Goodnight, Viktor.”
Hoping I’ve not ruined something between us, I say, “Goodnight, Crisis,” and do my best to let her lavender air lull me to a few spare hours of rest.
Chapter 16
?
I think…I need to reevaluate some things. Or. Everything.
Crisis
“It’s mundane, lacking all vivid and concise enough language to get the point across. The common description words do nothing for imagery. I’m positive the author was writing, half asleep, after having drunk a tall glass of something with both broccoli and peanut butter in it.” The idea of a smile flirts with Viktor’s lips as his gaze catches on mine. “He probably almost died. And it shows extensively in his work.”
Pregnant silence—ripe with surprise, shock, and horror—hangs in the air around the table.
After listening to Viktor critique stories last night—sparing no kindness even for one of his own—I’ve been struggling to catch my breath. My entire opinion of the man has evolved into a foreign creature, ready to devour me. But this? This is the last straw.
It’s workshop. The first of two that this writing retreat has scheduled. The day I was looking forward to.
All the attendees have broken up into smaller groups to pass their writing around. Little Red Riding Hood is in our group, along with a few other men and women, who just spent several minutes oohing and ahhing Viktor’s sample.Little Red went so far as to crack open the colored pens she brought and scrawl eager comments dappled with hearts all over the MLA formatted pages.
Everyone at our table insisted that they start with amasterso they’d have an even more refined barometer for everyone else’s work. But after no one supplied any comments of substance for a draft even I can pick out flaws in, Viktor took matters into his own hands and critiqued the sample himself.
Publicly, he ripped up his own work, and I hear his voice echo in the back of my mind.
It’s tolerable enough, but it doesn’t really matter to me, no.
I can’t explain the physical recoil that is taking place in my entire soul.
Little Red clears her throat. “Mr. Bachelor, if I may ask…why did you have a broccoli and…peanut butter…concoction before writing this scene?”
His smile takes on an even more humored edge as his attention slips off me to find her on the other side of the table. “I’m told both those things are good for me. And I’m not one to argue when someone makes me something.”
“I think someone was trying to poison you,” Little Red whispers; the rest of the table concurs.
I, obviously, tense.
Viktor only shrugs. “Perhaps. Perhaps they know I’d drink poison if they handed it to me.”
Do not test that theoryrepeats in my skull while Little Red braces herself, pushes up her glasses, and says, “Okay! Me next. I-if that’s okay with everyone?”
Enthusiastic nods all around make me think no one wants to follow Viktor, knowing that his own work isn’t even good enough for himself. Despite their reasoning on having him go first, ultimately, writers are fragile,emotional creatures. And when we solicit a critique, somewhere deep down we’re hoping it comes back as a five star review.
Or, at least, as something we can still work on without a total upheaval.
Little Red’s sample lands in front of me, boastingOdessaas her name. Odessa. How pretty. I wonder if it’s her real name or the one she picked for herself. Either way, it doesn’t matter.
I bury my thoughts in the distraction.
Chatter from the other tables rises and falls as we review the five hundred words stretched double-space across the two pages. Since I’m only a PA here for the kicks and not aprofessional authororaspiring writer, I sit, and read, and judge without painting any such judgments across the canvas.
The same cannot be said for Viktor, whose pen tracks across the lines, leaving scarce a word unmarked. His pages bleed by the time everyone’s ready, and he also gets the first verbal comment in edgewise.
