“Are you kidding me? You’re writing is amazing. You’re funny and witty, and the dialogue is fantastic. And the chemistry between the male and female lead characters…well, it’s surprising you can write it so well.”

I’m thrown off balance by her backhanded compliment. What does she mean by that? Why wouldn’t I be able to write the romance very well?

I’m just about to ask her to explain her comment when she slides by me and heads to the door, stopping just at the threshold to look back at me. I’m sure I look like an idiot with my jaw hanging open, a confused expression painted across my face.

“I’ve got to pee and then I’m heading back to bed. But seriously, from what I read tonight, this play could be so great. You need to have a little faith in yourself.”

And with that, she disappears inside and I’m left reeling from her comments. It’s always weird to hear critique about your work. When I was in college, many of my friends would cope with drugs and alcohol, the pressure eating at their self-esteem. There’s a thick outer shell a playwright must develop to remain true to their work and their craft.

Thinking over Joey’s feedback though feels like the most flattering thing I’ve heard in a very long time and a great boost for my ego.

I smile to myself as I shut off the light and lock the sliding door. Her compliments are something good I’ll take with me to bed, along with the image of her shapely legs underneath that borrowed t-shirt. I got a good look when she stood and walked past me.

Who the fuck am I kidding? I might be going to bed, but there’s little sleep in the forecast for me now.