Emily sat at a small outdoor table with two other women. Both were young and dark and smart in their scarves. I didn’t think they, like Emily, were MFA students. But they had that look.
I wanted to introduce myself. From twenty feet away I glanced at Emily. Could I pull up a chair? She glanced back. Don’t even think of it.
No words were spoken. But I heard her plainly. This, friends, is telepathy. I went ahead and answered. Silently, of course. Meet me later.
She rolled her eyes and returned to her friends. This meant okay. And a couple other things I don’t care to share.
I sat inside Common Grounds. Emily soon joined me.
“Where are your friends?”
“They have classes. Not MFA classes. Real classes.” She bit her lip, then continued. “But they are interested in our program.”
I didn’t say anything.
“And I don’t want you meeting either of them.” She went on to tell me I what a bad influence I was. How the last woman she introduced never even applied. How I talked her into writing for magazines, and now she’s freelancing in NYC and dating an aspiring actor. That didn’t sound so bad, but I kept my mouth shut.
She paused. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Of course you do.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s called telepathy.” I explained. Writers need to be more aware of non-verbal communication. They over-write instead, especially thoughts and feelings. And a lot of dialog is too obvious. The reader knows what’s going on. It’s part of the fun of fiction.
Emily snapped down the lid on her cup. “There’s no such thing as telepathy.”
“Sure there is.” I stared into her eyes. Like Svengali. “For instance, you want to slap me.”
She picked up the cup. Then pushed her chair in, rudely. “It doesn’t take telepathy to tell you that.” She marched away.
That’s right, Emily. Neither of us does. But that’s what telepathy is.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com