And when, late on a weeknight, you are wakened by short, meaningful raps at the door and open it to find Anna in a hooded, velveteen robe, eyes dark and mysterious, blindfold in hand: you know your time has come and you follow without question.
She picks up your laptop and waits for you at the door, reminding you not to leave home without ample snark, a few good literary jabs and shimmery, sparkling eye makeup.
Your heart races. You swallow down parental warnings to avoid using fuck as a verb, drinking homemade punch out of crystal goblets handed to you by good-for-nothing “bois” and bringing sepia-colored Shame on the family.
You are sweaty-palmed and slightly nauseous over urban legends about hazing, mutinous readers and the potential for an unruly comment thread to turn into an impromptu session of Circle the Fat.
But mostly, you feel jittery and excited. Hoping against hope as she blindfolds you, that when the cool, silky fabric is ultimately removed you’ll find yourself at the intersection of Good Storytelling, Meaningful Prose and Cultural Context, but that until it is you have to go out on faith, friendship and sisterhood because you won’t know for sure till you get there what’s in store for you down the road ahead.
