The Art of Ghosting

I once ran away from a literary cocktail party, out the back door and into the dark, fast through the slippery grass, gone. I believe to this day that nobody noticed, which is both a good thing and a not-so-great thing, proving I was as invisible as I believed I was.

I was a naïve and hopeful twenty-something. Unsure of myself. Unpublished.

The place was a summer writing conference: beautiful green-drenched college campus, two whole weeks spent discussing manuscripts and smacking mosquitoes in the thick heat, evening readings, hushed reverence over agents and editors visiting, whispers of careers being launched, a whole world of possibility, thinking this could change everything, thinking this was worth the tuition charged to a maxed-out credit card, not regretting that problem with the credit card, not yet.