My Writing Professor: A Lesbian Romance

by Nicolette Dane

  MY WRITING PROFESSOR

  A Lesbian Romance Novella

  Nicolette Dane

  Copyright © 2016 Nicolette Dane

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All romantically involved characters within this book are consenting adults over the age of 18 and are not related by blood. All rights reserved.

  About The Author

  Nicolette Dane landed in Chicago after studying writing in New York City. She flitted in and out of various jobs until she decided to choose herself and commit to writing full-time. Nico most enjoys writing about young sapphic love. Her stories are realistic scenarios of blossoming lesbian romance and voyeuristic tales meant to give you a bit of a peep show into the lives of sensual and complicated young women. Be sure to check out Nico’s Amazon Author Profile for more lesbian romance!

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  Table Of Contents

  My Writing Professor

  An Excerpt From: Chef Cutegirl

  An Excerpt From: Sweetheart Starlet

  You May Also Enjoy...

  Psst... Look Back Here

  MY WRITING PROFESSOR

  *

  “I JUST DON’T understand the main character’s motivation,” said Daniel, looking up from the stapled bundle of papers and across the table at me. He had a bit of a smarmy look to him, an air of confidence, like he was certain that he was correct and he was always ready to tell you that you were incorrect. “It’s, like, what’s the point?”

  “Okay,” I said, meeting his gaze but disinterested in arguing. If I had learned anything during the time in my creative writing graduate program it’s that you don’t argue with criticism. You just learn to take it. You absorb what makes sense and discard the rest. It didn’t make the negative criticism sting any less, of course, but when you’re putting yourself out there for a class of fifteen or so writers to tear apart, you need to grow a thick skin, realize not everybody gets what you’re trying to do, and internalize that it’s nothing personal.

  “I think you need to be a little more specific,” said Harriet Drake, our professor for this writing workshop class. Harriet was a beautiful woman in her early 40s, slender and fair with bright blonde hair — most certainly dyed, as her roots hinted — and a generally cool and calm demeanor. Harriet had recently published a novel that was well-received and lauded, and there was talk that she was to be nominated for the National Book Award. Because of this, her class was the popular one to try to enroll in for this semester. I was thankful to have gotten in.

  “I don’t see a reason for Angie to even be at the cafe,” said Daniel. “It seems so… inconsequential, you know? Just random.”

  “I think Angie’s motivation is that she wants to talk to the barista,” said Casey, coming to my defense, lightly chewing on the end of her pen as she stared down into the pages of the story in her hands. “It doesn’t have to be logical because people aren’t logical.”

  “Yes,” said Daniel. “But I think there are other, more concrete ways to get her into the cafe at this particular moment,” he said, tossing my story down onto the table. “Sure, Angie wants to talk to the barista, but you can’t just force her into this situation without showing us some greater motivation for being there in the first place.”

  “I don’t disagree,” said Harriet, running her willowy hand lightly over the side of her face as she contemplated my story. “But I think you also have to leave room for randomness or chance or synchronicity or whatever. We can suspend our disbelief if the story is compelling enough.”

  “I didn’t find it very compelling,” admitted Daniel. He was a tough critic, sometimes a bit of an asshole, but I think ultimately he was fair in his assessment. This was, after all, an MFA writing class and to be honest none of us, despite the fact that it was a well-known writing program, were all that good yet.

  “Penny,” said Harriet, looking over at me. “Do you have anything you want to say? Any clarifications?”

  “No,” I said. “I think everybody makes some good points.”

  “I appreciated the randomness of it,” interjected Minju. She smiled at me softly, always having something kind to say. But not in a placating way, you know, she spoke in earnest.

  “Thank you,” I said, returning her smile.

  “I think that’s about it for tonight,” said Harriet, looking down at the dainty watch on her slim wrist. She handed my story, full of her own critiques, around the table and toward me just as the rest of the class had begun doing. “Next week we’ve got Bernie, Erica, and Mac,” she said. “Please make sure to email your stories out in the next couple of days.”

  As everybody began sorting their things, standing up from their seats, and preparing to leave, Minju approached me and offered a consoling smile.

  “Don’t listen to Daniel,” she said in a murmur to keep her opinion between the two of us. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “It’s okay. I don’t take any of this too personally.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “Most people here don’t know what they’re talking about anyway. They’re just trying to sound intelligent.”

  “Right,” I said with a soft laugh. I collected all the critiqued stories in front of me on the table, organizing them into a big bundle, and slid them into my oversized leather satchel purse. “Critique day is always hard,” I admitted. “I mean, you’re never sure what people are going to say and whether it’s good or bad it really gets the adrenaline pumping.”

  “True,” said Minju, grinning at me. “Are you going to head over to the Barcelona Bar with everybody for an after class drink?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I suppose I can have one drink.”

  “Great,” said Minju with excitement on her face. “I think Harriet’s going out, too, so maybe we could buddy up with her and try to get more familiar.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Us and everyone else.”

  “Why not?” said Minju. “I hear that Harriet is, um… into women.”

  “So you propose taking advantage of her sexuality to get into her good graces?” I said teasingly. “Minju, aren’t you married?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “But c’mon, a girl can still flirt.”

  “What do you think your husband would say to that?”

  “I think he’d just laugh and say, ‘whatever!’” she said, giggling and pleased with herself.

  As we continued to talk, most of our classmates had begun to file out of the room though Harriet was still seated at the table, scribbling something down in her little black notebook.

  “I’m going to ask Harriet if she’s going,” said Minju.

  “What?” I said. “C’mon.”

  Minju slinked her way across the room and slowly walked up to Harriet. After a moment, Harriet looked up from her notebook and offered Minju a smile.

  “Minju,” said Harriet.

  “Hey Harriet,” she said. “Are you coming to Barcelona with everybody after class? I just thought I’d invite you.” Harriet laughed softly.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll be there.”
<
br />   “Great,” said Minju. “Penny and I are going as well, so we’ll see you there.”

  “Terrific,” said Harriet with a bemused confidence.

  “Okay,” said Minju. “See ya!”

  As Minju bounced back over toward me, she had a brightness on her face. She picked her bag up from where it lay on the table next to me and she motioned me on with her head.

  “Let’s get moving so we can get a good seat,” she said. As Minju spoke, the two of us getting comfortable with our bags and preparing to leave, Harriet watched us out of the corner of her eye. I looked over to her and caught her gaze for a split second, causing her to quickly look away. As my eyes returned to Minju, I saw that she was already on her way out of the classroom and I swiftly changed gears and followed her out.

  *

  Barcelona Bar was a quaint and rustic little Spanish tapas restaurant and bar that had been around for probably fifty years or more. It was just a few blocks away from our university, a renowned arts college in Chicago, and it was the usual haunt of most everybody in the writing program and had been for as long as anybody could remember. It was a tradition to go to Barcelona, something unquestioned. I remember after my very first class in the writing program someone asked me — it might have been Minju — if I was going to Barcelona. I had no idea what it was. But by the time I got there that first night and saw basically everyone from the program, I knew exactly what it was.

  To get into the bar, you had to walk down a couple of concrete steps as it sat lower than the street. Not quite the basement but not quite the first floor either. After pulling open the big wooden door, you were greeted by a dark and cozy ambiance, very antique, like you were entering the hull of some old ship. The coloring was comprised of reds and browns and tinted orange. The walls were wooden, the decor could be described as Christian nautical. On one wall there was an oversized cross and on the other was a broken-looking ship’s helm. Low ceilings and low light.

  “Oh man,” mused Minju as we walked into the bar. “We’re already late.”

  Barcelona was hopping with many of the other writers in our program, the fiction writers, the poets, the nonfiction writers, and even some of the children’s book writers. There was quite the convivial presence as you entered the bar, the sounds of lively conversations and clinking glasses. Minju and I threaded through the packed crowd, saying hello to the people we knew, trying to make our way to one of the booths near the back.

  “Look,” exclaimed Minju as we neared a small cluster of booths. “Pullman and Stout are sitting there with some of the other instructors,” she said. Robert Pullman was the program head and Jenny Stout was a director of the program and part of the fiction faculty. “I bet Harriet will join them. We should jump into this booth next to them.”

  “All right,” I said. The roundtable booth that we saddled up to was empty, though there were some empty glasses on the tabletop. Minju handed me her bag as I guided my own bag deeper into the booth.

  “You settle in,” she said. “I’ll get you a drink.”

  “Gin and tonic,” I said.

  “Got it,” she said with a grin and then she quickly scurried off.

  Once I got myself situated into the booth, a couple of my friends from the program came up and began to sit down as they said their greetings.

  “Penny!” exclaimed Erica. She had a happy visage, beaming with excitement, her chin-length dirty blonde hair a bit of a mess. “Can we sit with you?”

  “Totally,” I said. “Minju’s with me, though, so we need to keep a space for her.”

  “Got it,” said Erica. In addition to her, a few other friends sat down, Andrew and Sarah. Everybody was already in their own conversation, gleefully bouncing ideas back and forth, the main discussion obviously writing, and the people sitting with me at the booth even held conversation with some of the others who were standing next to us outside the booth. It was a frenetic atmosphere, a cavalcade of extroverts, while I sat there feeling a bit like an out of place introvert.

  “Drinky,” said Minju, handing me my glass. She climbed into the booth and sat next to me.

  “Yo Minju!” exclaimed Erica. “What’s shaking?”

  “Same,” said Minju, tipping her highball glass slightly toward Erica. “Are you ready for your critique next week?”

  “Yep,” said Erica. “My story’s already finished. I just hope that Daniel doesn’t go on a tear with me like he did with Penny.”

  “I’m all right,” I said. “I try to not let it affect me much.”

  “Thick skin,” said Erica. “You don’t really show that much emotion in class,” she said. “I think that’s a good thing.”

  “Remember when Melissa basically cried during her critique?” said Minju in a murmur, her eyes darting around to make sure that Melissa wasn’t waiting in the wings to hear her. “That was gnarly.”

  “She has, um, emotional issues,” said Erica. “I don’t mean to say that in a bitchy way, it’s just true.”

  “You can’t let the negative critiques get to you,” I said. “If you put yourself out there like we do, you’re bound to have both positive and negative reactions. You can’t make everybody happy.”

  “Truth,” said Minju.

  “Hey!” said Erica in a loud whisper. “Harriet just walked in.”

  We all looked toward the front of the bar to catch Harriet entering. She moved with a confident fluidity, standing straight, eyes lighted with a knowing fire. Harriet wore black leggings, clinging to her legs, a black pencil skirt, a white blouse with some sort of floral print on it, and a thin black leather jacket unzipped over top. I mean, she just looked really cool and beautiful and she was hard to ignore. As she made her way through the bar, many people stopped their conversations to look at her, to admire her, or just because whatever aura she was pushing demanded your attention. It was like when a really wealthy person enters a room and you can’t help but look at them. They just look rich.

  “Scoot in,” said Minju. “Maybe we can get her to sit with us.”

  “You’re nuts,” I said. “She’s obviously going to sit with the other faculty.”

  As Harriet got closer, I could see that she had applied bright red lipstick to her lips and reconfigured her softly curled hair into a loose bun. With a black leather bag over her shoulder, she sashayed across the floor of Barcelona and neared us. To all of our amazement, Harriet came to our table first, stood there at the edge, and smiled sweetly as she looked down at us.

  “Hey there,” she said. “Good class tonight.”

  “Yeah,” said Minju absently.

  “Are you ready for next week, Erica?” asked Harriet.

  “Definitely,” said Erica. “I’m pumped about my story.” Harriet laughed softly.

  “Great,” she said, “Penny,” Harriet continued, looking down at me with a slight grin. “Don’t take anything too personally from tonight. That’s just the nature of the workshop.”

  “I know,” I said, looking away from Harriet demurely. “Thank you.”

  “I enjoyed your story,” she went on. “There were issues, of course, but just keep doing what you’re doing. You’ll find an audience.”

  “Do you want to join us, Harriet?” asked Minju, speaking up excitedly.

  “Hmm,” mused Harriet, her eyes darting to the booth next to us where the other faculty sat. “Maybe in a bit,” she said. “I’m going to sit with the other instructors for now.”

  “Cool,” said Minju. “We’ll save a spot for you!”

  And with that, Harriet smiled at us and sauntered the few steps over to the table next to us, lowering herself down into the booth of her peers. I couldn’t help but feel elated that Harriet mentioned she liked my story, even if it might be just a consolation on her part from my harsh critique. Even though the writing program was quite the familiar place, professors going out to the bar with students, everybody on a first name basis, there was something distant about Harriet, like she was on a higher plain, like she was some
sort of celebrity. I wondered if the other instructors felt that, too, or if it was just us starstruck students.

  “Can you imagine being tight with her?” asked Erica. “Like, what if you were friends with her and put a book out and she wrote a blurb for you? Do you think that would be an instant best seller?”

  “I think she has the same agent as Joyce Carol Oates,” said Minju. “What if she got you a meeting with her agent?”

  “What if you hung out with her and Oates?” said Erica, wide-eyed.

  “You girls are crazy,” I said, taking a small sip from my gin and tonic. “Just because you become friends with her doesn’t mean you’re going to sign with her agent or hang out with Joyce Carol Oates.”

  “But you could,” said Minju. “Their literary world is very tightly knit.”

  “Why would she want to hang out with any of us anyway?” I said. “We’re just her students. None of us have book deals or are getting literary award nominations. She runs with a more elite crowd.”

  “Don’t crush my dreams,” said Minju with a teasing deadpan. “Don’t kill this for me, Penny.”

  “I’m just trying to bring you back to reality,” I said, looking down, sipping my drink, grinning.

  I glanced over my shoulder and watched as Harriet interacted with the other faculty members in the next booth over. She was quiet, occasionally interjecting her thoughts, but never becoming too loud or emotional. Harriet didn’t have an alcohol drink in front of her, rather, she sipped lightly from her glass of water through a straw. There was something very proper about Harriet, very contained, very reserved. I’d never considered it before, but she kind of reminded me of myself. She seemed like an introvert, content to live in her own world, but prepared to make her voice heard when need be. Although my friends next to me were interested in Harriet simply for her writing connections, I felt a weird affinity toward her as a person that made me want to know more.