A Little Something Different

October (Inga - creative writing professor)

Inga- creative writing professor

As one of the other students leave office hours, I’m delighted to find Gabe and Lea waiting for me in the hallway. In fact, when they look up as the door opens, I go so far as to hold up a “wait one second” finger, just to make them hang out alone together a little longer.

I close the door and drum my fingers on my desk, straining my ears in case they decide to talk to each other.

I count to thirty.

I’m aware of how unprofessional this is and yet I can’t stop myself.

I count to thirty again.

Still not a word from the hallway. I sigh and open the door.

“Who’s next?” I ask, all too aware of how overly bright my smile is.

“Lady’s first,” Gabe says. And it’s like all three of us are surprised for a second by his chivalry. He awkwardly leans against the wall and looks in the other direction.

“Alright, Lea,” I say. “Come on in.”

We chat for a few minutes. I tell her how impressed I was with the direction she took on the most recent short story prompt.

She sits up straighter and smiles at the compliment.

“Thank you, I wasn’t sure how the assignment would come out. I feel a little… young sometimes in there, quite frankly.”

“You’re a first year?”

“Yes.”

“I have had many first years who are far better writers than the upperclassman. I don’t think age has much to do with writing. I think it’s something that can certainly improve in time, but there’s no age limit on how old you need to be to write well.”

“I feel better hearing you say that.”

“Have you made any friends in the class?” I ask, prodding, probably getting to close to my personal interests.

She scrunches her nose and peers at the door. “Not really. There’s that guy, Gabe, he’s nice, but I don’t know that he’s looking for a friend.”

I nod and smile and keep my lips closed tight so that I don’t burst out with something seriously inappropriate like “I knew it!”

I take a deep breath. “Well, it’s good to find critique partners. We’ll be talking about that more soon.”

“Alright,” she says, standing up.

“Is that all? You didn’t need anything specific?”

“No, mostly I just wanted to make sure I was on point with everything and you cleared that up pretty quickly. So, thanks.”

“Excellent.” Then I have a bit of a lightbulb moment. “Can you send Gabe in?” Now she has no choice but to talk to him.

She opens the door and gestures for him to come in without saying a word. I suppose at least she smiles at him. These two and their non-loquacious natures are going to be the death of me.

He scrambles into the seat across from me and dives right in without so much as a greeting, like he’s been rehearsing these words over and over again. Like if he doesn’t get them out he might just explode.

“I’ve been having trouble with writing too many words,” he explains quickly, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“That’s not necessarily a problem,” I say, my words slow, hoping to calm him down a bit.

“Even for these more limited short stories?”

“I mean, try not to write 5,000 words for a 2,000 word assignment, but if you want, bring this one in and we’ll work on phrasing together,” I offer. “It’s amazing how many writers could chop down their word count by using more precise vocabulary or getting rid of too many descriptors.”

He smiles and nods.

“Any other questions?”

“It’s not so much a question. It’s more like a concern. I’m going to have to read an assignment in front of the class right?”

“Yes. More than one probably.”

“There’s no getting out of that?”

I smile sympathetically, but shake my head.

“I feel like I’m going to end up editing myself a lot, because, I don’t know, the idea of sharing some of this stuff with strangers makes me feel…”

“Vulnerable?” I suggest. I get this concern a lot.

“Yeah,” he says, with a sigh, his ears turning red.

“That’s a little tougher. I’m not going to tell you to ignore the way you’re feeling or try to forget it, but writing about something that makes you feel emotional isn’t necessary for this course. If you find that the idea of presenting something you’ve written is out of the question, come see Cole or me, and we’ll be happy to help you out without you losing any points.”

“Alright,” he says, nodding.

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Jeez, you kids are making life easier and easier these days.”

“I could make something up?”

“Nah, I’ll just get home earlier than usual.”

“Thanks for your help,” he says, standing, smiling, and slipping out the door.

I sit back in my office chair and spin around. It’s not much, but I think there was at least a tiny bit of progress made today.