When I was in high school, my chemistry teacher approached me and asked with a sly grin, “You interested in mining?” I told him absolutely not. I was going to be a writer. Little did I suspect that he wanted to send me to a student conference on metallurgy where I could seek the fellowship of like-minded teens on a minimally supervised road-trip to the Big City. Undeterred by my abrupt negative response, he grumbled, “Well, you’re interested in mining your own business, aren’t you?” And he sent me anyway.
Now I realize I should’ve listened more carefully to everything he said.
I wrote about a particularly instructive episode in my studies with this crusty chemistry teacher – and my comely lab colleague – in my short story “Chemistry,” which is featured in my collection Boychik Lit. In that book, I include six short stories about coming of age, failing ever upward, and boy-girl chemistry. There’s also a glib essay on the fiction genre (only?) I call boychik lit.
It’s a Kindle book (also EPUB). It’s cheap (but not slutty) and a quick read on your smartphone while you’re waiting for her to finish in the bathroom.
