![]() ![]() He talked about his hometown and his ex-girlfriend, the college where they met, my own plans for college. Museums he wanted to check out now that he lived in Los Angeles. We talked about my writing, which he raved about, having read the contents of the red binder, my novel in the making. A constant smile on my face threatened to break when my cheek muscles quivered. I had been talking, laughing, hooting with Mr. And now, here’s this man whose eyes fix on her in a way that make her feel powerful, so when she receives his phone number, she only briefly hesitates before calling. She is not a teenager easily impressed, and with a distant father and an alcoholic mother, she’s spent her childhood wrapped up in worlds of her own imagining, only sharing her writing with a few trusted people. Starting with her eighth grade English class, Ortiz recounts the five-year-long relationship she had with her teacher, a man fifteen years older who immediately catches her attention with his encouragement of her writing. Ortiz’s excellent memoir, Excavation, is an experience no different. No matter the specific subject matter, there will be at least one moment, a feeling, a crash into clarity that makes one realize: I’ve been here too. ![]() When one reads a book published by Future Tense, one should expect to feel willingly uncomfortable with the author’s honesty. ![]()
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