Desperate

The rest of the evening consisted of me telling Mandy how insanely attractive Professor Styles was and how insanely hopeless I felt about graduating while I ate more spaghetti than what was humanely acceptable. Mandy sipped on her green tea as I spoke, head nodding every so often as she listened.

“I’m scared Mandy,” I finally admitted.

“I know, Char. I am too.” She replied softly.

“But you are an expert on all things Giotto, Duccio, and Cimabue! You have nothing to be afraid of,” I exclaimed exasperatedly. She rolled her eyes dramatically and waved off my compliment with a flick of her wrist.

“Those are three early Renaissance artists, they are hardly considered even a fraction of everything I have to learn in my major,” she said, seeming unimpressed with her knowledge.
“But still…” I muttered. Her eyes sharpened at me and she let out a huff.

“Listen, Charlotte. Everyone is scared,” I gave her a look. “Okay, maybe not everyone, but a lot of people are. And we all have reasons to be scared, stressed, lost. But I know that being scared does nothing for me. I can sit here and avoid the thousands of flashcards I’ll need to make or ignore the billion academic journals I have to go through for my thesis. But I know that it’s worth it, so I do it. You know that this is all going to be worth it, right?” She asked me like she didn’t know. And I guess she really didn’t.

“Honestly, I don’t know if it is worth it,” I respond. Her eyes widened and she scoffed at me, but the longer I kept the serious look on my face, the sooner her expression molded from disbelief to worry.

“I go to a school focused on the arts. I’m double majoring in professions that’ll kill me if I don’t offer something different, unique, inspired.”

“Your grades are stunning, Char,” Mandy said with conviction. I shrugged.

“But that isn’t enough. I can’t go through college feeling like this. Feeling like every photo I take, every paper I write, there will always be something lacking.”

“Which is?” She inquired.

“I don’t know. But it never feels good enough,” I could feel myself starting to get emotional.
“It’s good enough for your professors,” Mandy replied.

“I know it is. But it’s not about the grades anymore, it’s about me. And good grades will mean nothing if I can’t even feel totally content with the work I produce,” I said.

“Honestly, this paper you have to write for Styles will help you out. It’ll help you sort through your emotions. I’d suggest focusing on that and then once you get feedback on that paper, talk to him about it. See what you can do to figure out what “it” is that your missing. Find the “it.” And then do the same thing with your photography professors.”

I looked down, knowing that accepting her advice would be the best thing to do at the moment.
When Mandy went to bed, I started a pot of tea, grabbed my laptop from the kitchen table and began typing away fervently. If Professor Styles wanted me to be deep and personal, he was going to get it, and hopefully he’d be able to handle it.

Wednesday Morning

The last two nights were blurry and restless with me staying up until 3am working on that God-forsaken paper. I had managed to get back into my regular running pattern which consisted of waking up at the crack of dawn and running through the park close to the apartment for about 45 minutes. So as I walked into the Creative Writing class, I felt more exhausted than I had ever felt in my entire life. Exaggeration? Maybe. But nonetheless, I felt like an anchor slowly drifting down to hit the ocean floor.

As I sat at my desk, I noticed Professor Styles was already here. 10 minutes early. He looked focused at his desk, reading a book, long hair no longer up in his messy man bun, but drifting all over his face and hands which were both placed and curved around either side of his jaw. He was wearing a bright red button up, and once again, tight black pants. How do professors get away with wearing such tight apparel? I chose to ignore his clothing and thought about my conversation with my Senior Seminar Photography professor the day before.

“I’ve always been impressed with your work, Miss Pursell. What exactly are you asking of me?” My professor was without a doubt, confused. She had no clue why I was standing in front of her demanding she tell me why my work sucked when she never believed that to be an appropriate descriptor for my work ethic in the first place.
“This portfolio is going to make or break me, I need to improve before the BFA Exhibition.” My professor smiled at me warmly and it made me want to punch her in the face.
“Miss Pursell, you are very bright and very talented. I am not going to tell you how to improve because you know how to improve already. You know exactly what to do, but I will say this.” I looked up at her expectantly. “You need to let whatever you’re holding onto, go. Or you will never succeed as a photographer OR a writer. If you have more questions, you know my office hours, I’m afraid I need to get home or else my husband may fear I’m dead.” She laughed and walked away. Damn school, with it’s damn philosophical professors, with their knowing expressions and cryptic responses. I scolded myself for stopping her in the middle of the subway station, trying to have a conversation as a street saxophonist played over our voices.

Needless to say, Tuesday was another mind-fuck. So I had spent that evening typing away once again, talking about myself with all my emotions, fears, hatreds all out in the open. The knife was out of it’s sheath and I was spilling my blood all over that paper. But it’s what he wanted.

I heard a cough and looked up to see Professor Styles standing and looking at the classroom that had filled up so suddenly without me noticing. I really was tired. I felt my normal acute senses fading from the world around me. He cleared his throat again and proceeded to talk.
“I hope you are all doing well and that my assignment hasn’t given you too much of a headache. Yet.” He smirked and the class let out a loud groan. He laughed and continued his lecture.

“I understand many of you are probably mind-fucked by this in-depth assignment.” I laughed out loud, bitterly, and he looked at me, his forehead crinkling, revealing distinct straight lines. I shrugged and spoke up so the class could hear.

“Mind-fuck is the only way to describe this semester.” I said honestly. The class erupted into quiet giggles and a couple of students responded with “amen, sister” and “ain’t that the truth.”
Professor Styles smiled and held up a hand for people to quiet down. They did. Immediately. He certainly had that effect.

“I would like to say it get’s better but. It doesn’t. However, you will find it will not get worse. This assignment isn’t supposed to be easy. It’s never easy to talk about yourself as an outsider would see you. Especially when you have to dig deep into your subconscious and realize just what kind of human being you are. And some of us, will not like what we see.” Silence.

“But you will get used to this. In order for you all to be successful creative writers, you need to understand aspects of yourself that you normally would shy away from. We all have our vices, but few of us are able and willing to actually understand why we have those vices. The answers to the questions you ask yourselves as you write this paper will not only be surprising, they will be hard to digest. But it is an imperative part of being a writer. This exercise, as I would call it, will help you create complicated characters in your fiction works. It will also help you accurately portray people you may meet in the future, know closely, or barely know at all, when writing non-fiction. We are creative writers, we want to draw people into our characters, into our stories. Your writing will fall flat for potential readers for two reasons: You fail to see that we are all fucked up and you fail to embrace the fact that we are all fucked up. That’s why you have this assignment. Readers want rawness in everything they read. This assignment will help you portray that rawness.”

I understood his point. He was smart. Damn smart. And he was absolutely correct. And it pissed me the fuck off. Did he have any clue just how emotionally unstable I was? That this whole semester was going to just drag me into the dirt until I suffocated on it? I cursed at myself. He probably did.

“I will help you all as best as I can, but I can’t make you inspired, remember that.” He paused, and suddenly he turned very serious, almost solemn. He began speaking, with empathy dripping off of his lips.

“I know that this assignment will force you to see things you don’t want to see. Regardless of how talented any of us may be at writing, I am forcing you all to lay out a diary to me and that is always difficult,” he swallowed and said with absolute honesty, “I swear to you that whatever you write will be in front of my eyes and my eyes only. And I do not judge. I will make observations based on what you write, but that is all. Do not be afraid to speak with me about what you write. I have more than a trolley full of my own personal shite. I will not be fazed. Although I do have a King’s James Version of the Bible in my drawer that I will be more than willing to let any of you borrow if I deem it necessary.”

The painful silence that had filled the room as our Professor laid out his heart, broke as we all let out a breath none of us knew we were holding in and laughter began to spread throughout the room. Well, shit, Styles. No reason to get all heavy on us. He let out a laugh. A real one. Not the contained, Creative Writing Professor kind of laugh. It was a loud, high-pitched, silly laugh that made you grin and shake your head. It was like he finally took off his professor mask and showed us he was just a normal guy with a really dorky laugh. It was comforting. But it didn’t last for long.

“Clearly that was some much needed comic relief, so I hope it’s prepared you for what we are on to next.” Oh God…why does he have to laugh like the adorable, dorky British guy he is then turn on the seriousness in less than a minute?

“In the next hour and a half, I’ll be calling you up one at a time to sit with me and talk about where you stand with this assignment. In the mean time, talk amongst yourselves, gather ideas, and most importantly, be respectful. Up first, Jane Ressler.”

Ressler? So he wasn’t going in alphabetical order. I already was carving out my guts and placing them out in front of him on this paper, and that wasn’t enough? We actually had to talk about it too? I set my head down on my desk. Normally, I’d socialize when I had the opportunity to in class, but I was not feeling it at all. If I tried I might end up strangling someone out of shear insanity.

After about what felt like only 20 minutes but apparently was actually an hour, I heard my name.
“Miss Pursell? MISS Pursell? Charlotte!” I snapped my head up. I felt a small bit of drool on the right corner of my mouth and my face went red. Professor Styles was looking at me with a face that was mixed with concern and mild disgust.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry.” I said quickly, looking up at my surroundings. The classroom was empty.
“Uh…” I looked at him, I probably look frightened because he just shook his head and grinned.
“Why am I the only one here?” I asked. He shrugged.

“When I randomized the list you happened to be the very last one. Also, you fell asleep.” He stated the fact as if it was hilarious. He further began to infuriate me by pointing at the drool on my mouth. I quickly wiped it off and grunted in annoyance.

“Let’s get this over with,” I said, walking over to his desk and sitting in the extra chair he had pulled up. Squish. At least the chair was comfortable in the midst of this incredibly uncomfortable situation.

I watched as Professor Styles slowly sat down at his desk in the chair opposite me, grabbing a notebook and pen. His movements were a lot less calculated today. He was less poised, less professional. He spread his legs and hunched between them as he stared at the notebook in front of him, jotting down some notes. His hair continued to dangle wildly in his face and he pushed it back at least three or four times before finally looking at me.

“So, tell me what’s going on?” He asked, in his deep English accent, and his stupid glowing, grass green eyes looking straight through me. Why did he always look at me as if he knew everything about me? I huffed.

“Why do I feel like I am in therapy right now?” I asked, scratching at the armrests of the chair. He once again, shrugged.

“You tell me.” He replied simply. Like he’d done this all before.

“Oh, so you’ve done this all before, haven’t you?” I asked, motioning toward the empty, hollow classroom, knowing what the answer would be. I just wanted to kill time.

“Yes, I have,” he calmly replied, “and I know it’s not easy.” I could feel myself getting angry, and I wasn’t exactly sure why. So I snapped.

“Of course you know it’s not easy! Everyone knows it’s not easy. Why do I have to talk about this stupid thing?” I said, holding up my laptop and my notebook, simultaneously waving them in the air. He crinkled his eyebrows and waited for me to calm down.

“Charlotte,” he said quietly, “look at me.” I refused. “Charlotte.” I sighed and turned my head sharply, forcing myself to look into his eyes. He gave me a small, hint of a smile.
“You have to understand, that refusing to talk to me about this assignment, isn’t an option. This isn’t therapy. It feels like therapy because you are uncomfortable about the assignment and I don’t blame you for feeling uncomfortable. But I am going to be frank with you.” He paused, waiting to see if I’d explode. I remained calm.

“You have to get over it. This is an assignment. Emotional? Absolutely. Fucking annoying? Oh, I know. Believe me, I do. But I am not here to be a goddamn therapist to you,” he pointed at me with his notebook in hand, “I’m here to get your mind working so you can right a fucking proper paper. And I rather not give you a failing grade because you refuse to open up about your emotions.” He said that last part with a bitter edge to his tone and I winced.

“Okay.” I said. He was right. I needed to accept this God awful situation. He looked relieved and he pushed his hair back again, relaxing his muscles and leaning into his chair.

“Alright, so, tell me what you’ve discovered about yourself so far while writing this paper? Do you have any of it actually written out?” He asked me in a condescending tone. Like he didn’t expect me to write much. I rolled my eyes.

“I’ve discovered that I’m very insecure and have no passion in my life. I also have 7 pages completed, you ass.” The words slipped out before I could stop them and I idiotically threw my hands to my mouth, hiding my face.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were being condescending.” I said. He laughed.

“I was.” My eyes darted from my lap to his face. He was grinning like a little boy.

“Loosen up, Charlotte.” I felt my wall break down and I was blabbering before I had a chance to shut my damn brain up.

“I do that enough on the weekends,” I said completely serious. His happy, perfectly chiseled face, fell and he leaned in towards me.

“Excuse me?” He looked like he was going to throw something.

“I’m being serious, it’s in my paper. I told you I was very insecure. What I do on the weekends plays into that.” I said it all robotically. He stared.

“UGH! DO you want me to open up about what I am writing or not?” I threw my hands in the air. He was going to have a broken nose by the end of this thing. He lowered his eyes, as if he was ashamed.

“I’m sorry, continue.” I muttered a small ‘thanks’ and started blabbering again.

“While writing this paper, I’ve discovered many things about myself. The first thing I noticed was the tone I took while writing this paper. Third person perspective is nothing new to me, but when I wrote about myself, I was writing as if I pitied myself.” He nodded.

“So therefore, I concluded that one absolute about myself, or about her…?” I looked at him confused.

“You can refer to yourself as she/her. This is a third person perspective paper so it makes it easer that way.” He gestured towards me with his pen, eyes still on his notebook.

“Got it,” I stared at his red shirt, trying to figure out where I was going with this, curiosity got the best of me though and I had to know what he was putting down on his paper.

“What are you writing?” He continued to look at the notebook as he spoke.

“Just some comments on what you’ve discovered. It’s part of the bigger project that’ll be due at the end of the semester. Please, go on.” I took a deep breath and continued.

“The woman I write about has a lot of mannerisms she isn’t always aware of. She nibbles on her index finger when she’s thinking, she calculates how many steps it takes to get to her apartment, starting from this classroom. She does that to calm down on a bad day. And when she gets to her apartment she tries to pretend when she’s typing on the keyboard that she’s doing something productive but in reality she’s just writing her name over and over again trying to think of something confident to say in this stupid paper she has to write.” He kept nodding his head as I spoke.

“She’s always looking for a chance to feel alive and feel like she’s part of something bigger than herself, she wants to forget that she has no clue where she is going. So she gets drunk on the weekends a lot. She goes to clubs and drinks and finds random college guys to hook up with.” I cringed at that last part. These were supposed to be secrets. I could handle Mandy’s condescending tone with my lifestyle, but not my professor. All the sudden this felt so weird.

“I don’t think this is appropriate to talk about.” I blurted. Professor Styles raised his eyebrows at me and clicked his pen.

“Why do you feel that way, Charlotte?” He asked curiously, eyeing me like I was an amoeba under a microscope. I felt my palms get clammy. I swallowed then said,

“Because I’m talking about hooking up with guys and it’s strange.” He tilted his head at me in confusion.

“You also call me by my first name and that’s weirding me out.” I blushed and looked at the floor. I heard him chuckle.

“I call all my students by their first name. And currently, every single student in here calls me ‘Harry’ except you.” He crossed his arms, looking at me for some explanation as to why I hadn’t decided to call him Harry. I bit my lip then opened my mouth to speak but he cut me off.

“Charlotte, you have nothing to be worried about. We are not crossing any boundaries. This is an intimate assignment. But I will not ask you questions that you aren’t comfortable with. This is just about you and getting this all out there so you know that you are on the right track to writing a good paper.” I gave him a sarcastic thumbs up.

“Oh yeah, sure, totally. Ram my head into the wall of insecurity until I’m brain dead all for the sake of a good grade. How noble and romantic of me!” I bowed my head to him in fake pride and he laughed. I wasn’t expecting that.

“I’m glad you have a sense of humor, Charlotte. Or this would be fucking boring.” He said exasperatedly. I quirked an eyebrow.

“What, have some of the students been like crying or something?” I asked. His eyes widened and he nodded, like he was scared I even mentioned it. I scoffed at him.

“Really?” I asked.
“Oh yes, this assignment is a heartbreaker for a lot of students. But it’s about self-awareness.” He said in a matter of fact tone.

“What do you mean?” He licked his lips in thought and turned his head toward the back of the classroom in thought.

“Self-awareness is a hard trait to acquire. You have to practice it. Normally, it’s one step at a time, you know? You slowly become aware of your vices and you slowly take care of them. It’s a lot less in your face, a lot less, traumatic for a lack of a better term. But with this assignment, you’re forced to dig it all up sooner than you would have liked too. And boom, all the sudden you’re insanely self-aware and you don’t know how to deal with any of your dirt.” He paused, looking at me. I didn’t know what to say. But then he leaned in close to me, his hair almost touching my knees and said,

“I’m here to make you a successful writer, Charlotte. And you have to be self-aware to be a successful writer. This may seem like a bunch of bull shit being slammed in your face all at once, but remember, part of the assignment is finding your strengths and your other attractive qualities as well. Don’t beat yourself up too much.” He placed a hand on my knee, squeezing it gently. It didn’t feel like he was crossing a boundary. It was normal. It was like a simple comfort from an old friend. But I had to let myself be a little bit sarcastic during the sentimental moment.
“’Don’t beat myself up’ he says. It’s been two days since we’ve started this assignment and I think it’s impossible for me to beat myself up more than I already have.” I replied, sporting what I knew had to of been a devilish grin. He rolled his eyes.

“Well, then you have no where to go but up, eh? Now, I want to give you some suggestions.” He crossed his legs and placed his notebook on his lap, biting on the tip of his pen.
“Oh, boy. Lay it on me, Harry.” I held out my arms, ready for whatever. I see him look up at me, surprised, and is he blushing? No, no way. I wait for him to proceed, confused by his reaction to me calling him ‘Harry.’

“Well, you are already very raw with how you present your insecurities. Stick with that, don’t try to fluff up your insecurities too much. Be straight forward, but descriptive. It’s a style of writing you seem to have that works so I’d flow with that. Also, don’t let your insecurities overshadow your strengths in your personality. Those are an equally important part of becoming self-aware. Also, don’t let this just be one depressing paper about yourself. Recognize your vices and move on. Those absolute statements you formulate about yourself at the end of the paper need to be straight forward. Besides that, I have no other suggestions. Let me know if you have any questions okay?” He has said everything so fast and it’s hard to follow but I must admit it could’ve gone worse. I nod at him and stand up.

“Thank you,” I feel strangely awkward now for some reason, “thank you Harry. I appreciate it.” He stands up as well and smiles a big, toothy smile.

“You are more than welcome. See you, Friday.”

Notes

This chapter was extremely difficult to write. I'm not sure why. Some crazy things will be coming up soon and I hope you guys are excited for it! As always, please comment, rate, subscribe. And constructive criticism is always welcome! Thank you!!!