I called Kevin around 10…

I called Kevin around 10 p.m. last night, meaning to just chat for an hour or so before bed; I had to get up at 7 a.m. this morning. He was in a particularly chatty mood, which is rare and enjoyable enough that by 1 a.m. I had abandoned any plans or desire to sleep, and was happily nattering away with him about this and that. Nothing important. Much fun. We talked a lot about humor, and why it was so much harder to be funny on the page than in person. Kev had me splitting my sides with laughter a couple times during the conversation, but kept insisting that if I told you guys about it here, it just wouldn't be funny. He was probably right, but oh, you missed out on some good funny.

But then, oh, around 2-ish, we got onto the subject of fiction and creative nonfiction. I don't want to misrepresent his position, which isn't so far from mine in the end anyway. The important thing is that we ended up disagreeing, over and over again, and trying to find out why we disagreed, and figuring out where we were going past each other, and the whole thing got exhausting, and I think I was feeling defensive as a writer, feeling like I was being analyzed and told what to do by someone who just didn't get it and who had no actual expertise to back him up (aside from being an avid reader and very smart, but hey, what does that have to do with anything) and so around 4 a.m. I burst into tears, effectively ending the argument and leaving Kevin bewildered, wondering where in the world he'd gone wrong. He thought we were just talking.

The moral of the story is, speak carefully around the Mary Anne when it is very late at night. And carry lots of tissues.

We made up just fine, by the way, about five minutes later, and I did get three hours sleep, so I'm in a perfectly good mood and half-awake today. I suspect I won't get as much work done on the plane as I'd planned, though. :-)

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