When I was at the Melbourne Writers’ Festival, I was initiated into a secret-sort of knowledge; a fact – I hope – more momentary than universal, spoken more in jest than in spite. Still, depending on who’s drinking, and how much, this is the very important feeling among some people:
“Poets hate prose writers,” he said into my ear. “They are pampered, trumped-up, and over-flattered.”
I raised my hand, like a schoolgirl. “I – ah – I write prose.”
The poet laughed. “Naturally, I will make an exception in your case.”
******
I wonder, though, if he did.
