"We will keep meeting...smashing into each other like two falling stars way off course. Always an explosion on contact...Always a mess left in its wake. But, even the destruction is so damn beautiful." - Alfa
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Laying down my pen, I let my gaze drift purposefully outside my office window for the first time in hours. Suddenly, I can see hints of springtime peeking out of winter's cold, withered hands. In the distance, I hear the faint, warbling song of a finch mixed magnificently with the soft beats of a woodpecker's beak on the elm beside my window. Oh, how I have waited to put winter away, but I must admit, my reasons are quite selfish.
The snow was just beginning to fall outside my office window, when she shuffled in, head down, as if her mere presence was shameful. It was a Tuesday. She was unsure of herself, I could see it, but even with her hair pulled up in a messy bun, I bristled at her beauty.
"Dr. Thomas," she murmured, still looking more at the floor than me. "I'm just stuck. I sit down to write, and nothing comes out."
"Pretty common," I responded with a smirk.
"I know, but I just have so many thoughts, so many ideas, and I can't get them to come together on paper."
Her eyes darted at mine for the first time all semester. They were blue. I was pondering exactly what shade of blue when she thrust a manila folder into my hands wordlessly.
"I've been doing character profiles. I think I know them pretty well, but as for my story line, I just don't know where I want to go, you know?"
"I know exactly," I nodded. "Every good author goes through this." Thumbing through her documents, I realized she actually had quite a bit on paper. Much more than most of my other students, in fact. "Have you tried the exercise we do in class? The one where you write continuously for five minutes without editing yourself. Just you, pen, and paper?"
A crimson blush started to fill her face, and she laughed, digging the toe of her high-top sneakers into my rug. "Well, yes," she said. "But, I'm just not sure about what I've written."
"Have a seat," I invited. "Let's take a look at what you've written." She hesitated.
"I'd rather not."
I couldn't help but chuckle as I struggled to make eye contact with her. "You know, I'm going to read it eventually, correct? This story is 50% of your final grade for my class."
"I know," she sighed. "That's part of the problem." "What do you mean?"
Hesitating again, I was unsure if I'd get an answer or if she'd make a break from my office. Her eyes darted from me to the door and back again, like she was considering it.
"Well, you're kind of in the story."
"As a bad ass bank robber, I hope," I chuckled, but despite my best efforts, she didn't even crack a grin.
"Not exactly," she responded finally.
"Well, how exactly do I make my appearance?" "As my, uh, love interest," she whispered.
This time it was my turn to be flattered. While I always encouraged my students to 'write what they know', and I'm aware all of humanity plays into the way we writers see and construct our characters, this was definitely the first time I'd had a student directly admit they wrote me into their story, much less in such a light as this.
This was the moment they'd diligently prepared me for in college. The moment when you're sitting in a cramped office, next to a barely-legal student, who admittedly looks much older than her age, and suddenly the moment gets heavy. I forcefully held the belief that a writer's characters or subject matter do not define the writer directly, but as I sat, suddenly rigid, next to her, smelling the soft notes of her perfume, I began to waver. Was this simply creative expression that I should be flattered by? Or, did she actually have feelings for me?
In those moments, my memory reminds me, I should remind her that I'm her teacher, and in this instance my job is to bring to her the world of Creative Writing and nothing more. I could tell her I'll read her work and give her my thoughts in class tomorrow. I could encourage her to reach out to my teaching assistant for help. At the very least, maybe next time I should think about leaving my door open and asking Mrs. Jones, the secretary, to sweep by when she scoots down the hall to the shared printer.
But, I don't do any of those things.
Against my better judgment, I look at her, visibly shaking in front of me as she waits for me to do one of the many things I've considered. I drink in her honey complexion. I take notice of her t-shirt, which advertises a band I'm not familiar with. I even notice she has a tattoo of an elf on her wrist, something I'd definitely never noticed in class before.
Churning over these things, with a knot in my stomach, I take her hand with my left and say, "Penny, tell me more."
The touch of her mouth on mine revived me. It was nothing like I'd ever experienced before, maybe, because it seemed as if I could taste the sweet innocence and naïveté like sugar on her tongue as it met mine.
Her body felt soft and perfect in my arms. The way she allowed me to cradle her— protect her. I kept trying to see the adult she legally was but, with my eyes open, she was a baby bird tender in my grasp.
This isn't happening, I kept thinking. This is not real life. Once the line's been crossed there is no way of going back. One cannot simply rewind to the clean-cut teacher–student dynamic. I wouldn't be able to turn back for all these obvious reasons, but what scared me the most was this: I wouldn't be able to turn back, because I didn't want to.
