I had the good fortune to participate in a fiction writing workshop with a famous writer of short fiction and novels today. I had submitted a piece that addressed adoption in a sideways, maybe magical-realist way. The famous author asked me why I had written it and, when I replied that I’m adopted, asked me to tell my adoption story. She wasn’t picking on me–she had used this technique with other participants already, asking them why they wrote their stories and then suggesting they write the story of what really happened instead.
Folks, my adoption story is boring. It’s the classic Baby Scoop Era story everyone thinks of when they think of adoption. I warned her about that and told her the story, ending with “…so they got me when I was two months old and I’ve never known anything else.”
The famous author let a beat go by…
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