I've been writing for over twenty years. When put that way it makes me feel old, but I vividly recall first taking pencil to paper and penning short stories when I was as young as five. It started as mindless entertainment for a child with an overactive imagination, but as the years went by it became a bit of a therapy. As a shy, depressed teenager I lost myself in vast worlds of my imagination, fleshing out the tales of characters that embodied both real aspects of myself and the people in my life and those traits we all wish we had. As a young adult I found my interest in writing waning a bit. By all means I should have been writing about the things that were happening and the feelings I had, but a combination of stubborn pride and a deep-seated shame at my own shortcomings dried up my well of creative outlet, as it were.

It wasn't until the summer after I graduated high school that I felt the desire to put my thoughts on paper again. I was nineteen and working in a greenhouse; not a career by any stretch of the imagination, but I would have wanted nothing less. I loved the outdoors. I was energetic. I was lean and strong, with spiky black hair, and I loved that I could come to work in ripped jeans and t-shirts. The crew at this greenhouse was a motley one indeed. Most of the men were gay. In hindsight I suspect a number of the women were too. There were college students, hippies, rednecks, semi-retirees, and people who just felt like working in a greenhouse. I don't know what category I fell in. I was a spitfire, that much was certain. I immediately found a beef with one of the older women who seemed to make it her mission to call me out on my supposed incompetence. I was learning, damn it. This was a whole new world for me. I worked in fast food all throughout high school for fuck's sake. And I was eager to learn. I was young and free but I had something to prove. I acquired a paranoid theory that many people suspected I would fall flat on my ass at an early age. I made it my mission to ensure this did not happen. I suppose theoretically I went about it in all the wrong ways, but the smile on my face when I remember those days says otherwise.

It wasn't until I started talking to Pam that I found a real niche there. She was 28, incidentally the age I am now. The first day we talked was pretty underwhelming; I was out of cigarettes and she offered me one of hers. I remember thinking she was attractive. At the time I was so deeply in the closet I was finding Christmas presents, but even then I felt the connection between us. It wouldn't be until a couple weeks later that we would bond.

On that day, during lunch, I was taking full advantage of the thirty minute reprieve from the sun and heat. I inhaled my ramen noodles and yogurt and chain smoked three cigarettes. I also noticed Pam sitting across the table from me, looking over a stack of papers. She was tanned, her hair was dark red and complemented her bronzed skin and grey-hazel eyes. Yeah she was attractive, but where the present-day Winter would have flirted with her shamelessly, an insecure, socially-retarded teenaged Winter simply said:

"What are you reading?"

She explained to me that she was working on a novel and had brought in her latest addition for another of our co-workers to critique. In an uncharacteristically ballsy move I mentioned that I wrote some and I could really use some other dedicated writers to keep me motivated. She encouraged me to bring in a writing sample and she'd be happy to look it over for me. Long story short I spent the following evening dredging through my computer searching for a bit of writing I would feel comfortable sharing with her. I eventually just said "fuck it" and printed off everything I'd written in the past few months, my attempts to stave off boredom and stress. But she liked them. She offered me hints to enhance and expand my work. And the rest is history.

We spent the next several months exchanging writings, offering critiques, hanging out for hours after work just talking and confessing our secrets. She was the first person I ever confessed my suppressed homosexual curiosity to. "Well, one way to find out if you're gay. Look at some pictures of women in Playboy or something. If they turn you on, you might be gay." I was mortified at the time, and amused even today to recall such advice, seeing as the cookie-cutter Barbie doll type that is so typical of Playboy and similar publications is far from my ideal of the perfect woman. But I could easily see myself saying the same thing in her position. She was also the first person to tell me I was attractive whose opinion I actually valued. "You look good. You're strong. You have a nice musculature. I think you're quite hot, honestly."

Those times weren't enough to keep me from fucking up, though. I had been warned several times in the past couple weeks by the effeminate and misogynistic assistant manager that I was spending far too much time chatting up the girls and not nearly enough time ensuring the plants in my care did not die. He was so condescending and smarmy that my rebellious, devil may give a shit side kicked in and I ran a bit wild. I wandered around, talked to everyone, sat in my car for twenty and thirty minutes smoking cigarettes, until that day when I was busted chatting up the girls in the head house.

"Christine." The short, stubby figure of the assistant manager darkened the doorway on this hazy, overcast day. "I warned you. You have two weeks."

"Fucking sweet," was all I had to say. I didn't care anymore.

But I did. That evening at the end of the shift I stood in the break room, smoking a cigarette and reflecting on the day. Pam came in. I knew she knew what happened, but I kept my back to her.

"I heard the bad news."

Why did I even give half a shit? It was just a job, a summer gig for most people who had a path carved out for the future. But for me it was the thing of the moment. I had nothing else to fall back on. I had nothing to motivate me to the next "just a paycheck" gig. I was not in college. I had no future prospects. I had no future.

"Yeah, you fucked up. But I know you're bound for bigger things than this, Christine. This is just a speed bump. It can slow you, but don't let it stop you."

I fell into her arms. Beneath all my chest-thumping posturing I was a scared, sad, tired, lonely girl who needed a support system. And I was far more comfortable confessing these fears to a woman than a man. I'd be fucked if I'd let a man see me in a moment of weakness.

"I love you," I choked out through the tears I'd held back for hours. "You've changed my life." And I meant it.

I took advantage of most of the two week probationary period I'd been granted before I was officially fired. Yeah, I half-assed my duties, but every day was just another in the final cherished moments I had with Pam. We still exchanged writing. I started a fresh new piece the night I got fired, one that hit closer to home than I knew at the time. It was just a random snippet, a documentation really, of a moment she and I shared together one day there at work. An innocuous moment really, the two of us seated in the sticky hot humidity deadheading petunias. I shared it with her the next day. I didn't think much of it at the time; it was hardly earth moving, but her analysis of my write-up, written in pencil on the back of the page I'd given her, proved otherwise.

Christine,

This is the best writing I've read of yours. I read it several times, thinking it was because I knew the situation, but it wasn't that (this might sound crazy). You could truly 'feel' with this piece. The images were described very well.

The things I highlighted were excellent imagery and also gave the story a 'soul' so to speak. If you can continue on with this with the same 'soul' I believe you won't have any trouble getting it published--honest! (I can't wait to read more!)

I know yesterday wasn't a very good day. Perhaps if you write about it you'll feel better. Writing...when I first started it was almost a therapy for me...I got out my anger, hurt, etc. through words (at the time, poetry). But I wrote some of my best during the roughest times of my life. Perhaps it will be the same for you.

Keep writing! It's great!

Pam

P.S. Also, the dialogue was very well written and believable. I think the key to your writing is to 'feel' when you write.

I kept that letter. I tucked it away between the pages of the Irene Radford paperback I'd picked up at a library book fair. It would be the last time I would ever see her. I dug it up tonight for the first time in nine years. My first instinct was to cry, but I didn't. Instead I re-read her words, over and over. I knew that she would want, nay, expect me to write about it instead. I said I'd make you proud of me, Pam. If you could see me now, I like to think you would be.