Page 60 of The Carrie Diaries (The Carrie Diaries 1)

Who cares? “Picking up litter on the side of the road.”

“Ah. The old litter routine. Works every time.”

“George.” I hesitate. “Did you read my story?”

“Yes, Carrie. As a matter of fact, I did.”

“And?”

A long silence during which I contemplate the practicalities of slitting my wrists with a safety razor.

“You’re definitely a writer.”

I am? I’m a writer? I imagine running around the room, jumping up and down and shouting, “I’m a writer, I’m a writer!”

“And you have talent.”

“Ah.” I fall back onto the bed in ecstasy.

“But—”

I sit right up again, clutching the phone in terror.

“Well, really, Carrie. This story about a girl who lives in a trailer park in Key West, Florida, and works in a Dairy Queen…Have you ever been to Key West?”

“For your information, I have. Several times,” I say primly.

“Did you live in a trailer? Did you work at the Dairy Queen?”

“No. But why can’t I pretend I did?”

“You’ve got plenty of imagination,” George says. “But I know a thing or two about these writing programs. They’re looking for something that smacks of personal experience and authenticity.”

“I don’t get it,” I mutter.

“Do you know how many stories they’re sent about a kid who dies? It doesn’t ring true. You need to write what you know.”

“But I don’t know anything!”

“Sure you do. And if you can’t think of something, find it.”

My joy dissipates like a morning mist.

“Carrie?” Sebastian knocks on the door.

“Can I call you tomorrow?” I ask quickly, cupping my hand around the receiver. “I have to go to this party for the swim team.”

“I’ll call you. We’ll make a plan to get together, okay?”

“Sure.” I put down the phone and hang my head in despair.

My career as a writer is over. Finished before it’s even begun.

“Carrie,” Sebastian’s voice, louder and more annoyed, comes from the other side of the door.

“Ready,” I say, opening it.

“Who was that?”