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Peregrines by Suzy McKee Charnas Mary Anne said, "I'm really sorry, Edie, but here it is the end of June and we only have two people signed up for your session." I thought, God damn it all to hell; so what else is new? I said, "Oh." She sighed sympathetically over the phone. "I don't know what to tell you. We have lots of takers for Bill Ballingham and Susan MacCain's classes, but somehow … Look, I'm being interviewed tomorrow on local radio about the workshop. I'll take the opportunity to talk you up. But unless there is a last-minute flurry of sign-ups, I'm afraid you're just not on this year." We chatted awhile longer, me feeling my usual urge to scream in protest while simultaneously apologizing for the failure of my name to attract business. There went my autumn respite in Ashland, plus the fifteen hundred dollars the playwriting workshop paid for a two-week teaching stint. I'd even gotten my interstate travel |
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