by Mia Archer
Professor Timms looked down at Carrie and she actually looked down. One thing that could get her to shut up was a glance from professor Timms. Then again I had a feeling that a rampaging bull would probably stop and apologize if the good professor fixed it with that glare. She was just that kind of professor. Fair, but severe if she thought you were stepping out of line.
“Is this true Carrie?”
“She keeps writing genre crap,” she muttered.
Professor Timms arched an eyebrow. That was never a good sign. “Genre crap? Did you really just say that?”
Carrie looked up and some of the anger she’d directed towards me was directed towards professor Timms. Only that anger seemed to crash over her like a wave slamming into a mountain for all the effect it had on her. She stared down at Carrie, tapping an irritated finger against her arm, the only sign other than an arched eyebrow that showed she was irritated and a sure sign that whatever student she was talking to needed to shut the hell up if they knew what was good for them. She had the unflappable calm demeanor of a woman who’d been teaching creative writing to artistic types for decades, and she’d seen everything at this point.
Professor Timms turned to me. “And what do you think of this Amber?”
I was so angry. I was seeing red. I was starting to not care about consequences. I got that way when I got really angry. Like so angry that I saw stars dancing in front of my vision. Like how angry I was right now when I looked at Carrie's smarmy face.
I wasn’t going to launch myself across the table and smack her a couple of times like I wanted to, but I was going to lay into her.
“I think if Carrie has a problem with something then she should probably follow the guidelines we were given for critiques at the beginning of the semester instead of resorting to personal attacks,” I said.
A hint of a smile played across professor Timms’ face. “Such as?”
I picked up Carrie's story and flipped through it. I thought about looking at the notes I’d made. The red marks I’d jotted down while I was doing a proper critique. I noticed she had none of that on the stuff she printed out for my work.
“Well she could come after me on technical grounds if she had a problem with the way I wrote. For example if I were to say something to her about craft then I might tell her that commas and dashes aren’t an appropriate replacement for proper punctuation. Or I might tell her that tossing an adverb after every dialogue tag is something that she probably should’ve gotten out of her system back when she was in middle school. I’m surprised that grumpy old Mrs. Ericson, the teacher with gray hair who was divorced and not exactly happy about teaching English at her age, didn’t beat that out of poor Carrie back in the day.”
Carrie's mouth opened and moved, but she didn’t say anything. I glanced up to professor Timms and her smile was growing wider. The tapping on her arm stopped. I figured that was all the permission I was going to get, so I kept going. I held up Carrie's story and waved it in the air.
“Or if she was going to attack a story she could go after the substance. For example if I was to say something about her story then I might go on about how a story dripping with thinly concealed angst isn’t exactly deep nor is the prose particularly literary. Unless playing fast and loose with punctuation like we mentioned earlier is your idea of being literary.”
“Very good,” professor Timms said. “All valid critiques. All getting at the substance of the story without actually attacking the person who wrote the story or the genre the story’s written in.”
I was really on a roll now. And the support from professor Timms was egging me on. “Exactly! If I was going to be so low as to attack something just because of the genre it was in then I might say something about how a story about a girl being upset because she got dumped a few years back isn’t exactly original, nor would anybody care to read it even if it was well-written.”
That tapping started again and I knew I’d gone too far. Only it was so worth it. It was worth it to see the utterly pissed off look on Carrie's face. It was worth it to give as good as I’d gotten. Let the bitch stew for awhile. She'd been my nemesis since day one with that peculiar ax she had to grind against fantasy. The way she went on about it you'd think Kaitlyn Morgan herself had personally wronged her somehow just by existing.
Like I said. Crazy.
“An astute observation,” professor Timms said. “That last remark probably isn’t quite in keeping with our critique guidelines in this class, though it might be deserved considering what prompted this conversation. Carry on, and I trust we won’t have any more problems at this table.”
That last bit was said with a pointed glance at Carrie, but she also looked over to me and I blushed. Okay, so when I got angry maybe I got a little too angry. Maybe I got carried away. But she’d really pissed me off. She deserved it! Always flitting around the room like she was the bad girl of the creative writing program. Always flipping her shiny blonde hair and giggling to get guys' attention in class even though the sad breakup story she kept repackaging for each assignment made it pretty damn clear no guy was getting close to her. No, with that blonde hair and the girly-girl looks she definitely couldn't pull off the dark and mysterious vibe she tried to convey in her writing because she was still upset two years after the fact that she got dumped. If I had to read one more boring story…
“Bitch,” she muttered.
“Hack,” I whispered right back.
“Fine,” she said, low enough that she couldn’t be heard by anybody else. Not even by anyone else sitting at our table. “You want a critique? I’ll give you a critique. This stuff reads like trash. It reads like something somebody who’s trying to write a trashy pulp novel from the ‘50s might come up with. It reads like you’re doing some sort of cheap fan fiction or something. It reads like you're trying to pull off a Kaitlyn Morgan novel and not doing a very good job of it. It’s no good, your writing is no good, and you’ll never amount to anything!”
I knew I shouldn’t let her get to me. I knew she was trying to get a rise out of me. And yet what she was saying hit so close to home that I couldn’t help it. The way she seemed able to pinpoint exactly where I got most of my ideas while also tapping into my fear that everything I wrote was derivative instead of new and creative stung. Was I really any better than her if I was repackaging fan fiction instead of repackaging a story about a particularly nasty breakup?
Every time she finished a sentence it felt as though she was stabbing straight into my heart. I felt moisture gather in my eyes, and I hated that I was letting her get to me like this.
“Oh yeah bitch?” I said as I stood.
I picked up my bag and threw it over my shoulder. I was reacting badly to this, I was really angry and about to do something very stupid, but I couldn’t help myself. It was as though I was in the middle of a wreck that I could stop before it really started, but I was going to see it through to its messy end. “Sorry I can’t be more “literary” like you. Maybe I’ll go down to the local gay bar so I can ask some girl to wine and dine me and dump my ass so I can be as great a writer as you are!”
I was yelling at the last part. I looked up and every eye in the room was on me. Professor Timms was looking at me and her finger was tapping furiously enough that it could've powered the city for a week if the Engineering School could find a way to hook her up to a power plant. I blushed and turned to run from the room. My only consolation was the look of shell shocked surprise on Carrie's face. Good. At least I’d finally got through to that bitch!
The waterworks finally came when I got out into the hall. I wiped the tears from my eyes, but I couldn’t help it. I was proud of my writing. I thought I did good stuff. I also wasn’t very good at dealing with harsh critiques like that. I knew she was just trying to get a rise out of me, I knew she was just pissed off about getting called out by our teacher in the middle of class like that, but there was a gnawing dark doubtful part of my soul that was whispering to me that she was right. That
I was no good. That I would never amount to anything seeing as how I had trouble actually coming up with an original idea of my own and I was wasting my time in a creative writing program.
It was a dark part of me that I tried to ignore. It was a dark part of me that I chased away by playing Tales of Elassa and enjoying my time in there where I could get positive feedback. And yet that dark part of me always whispered that I was just running away from reality. That I was just seeking approval from people who were going to be nice to me no matter what because they were my friends.
Luckily I managed to get out of the English building before the waterworks really started. Then there was no stopping it. I’m sure I got a few weird glances from people watching the crazy girl walking down the sidewalk crying. I couldn't tell since it was hard to see through the tears. Not that it was entirely odd to see that sort of thing on campus, but I hated that I was the source of the spectacle.
I needed to get home. I needed some comfort.
5: Comfort
Comfort meant one thing. I felt that familiar rush of endorphins as I sat down at my computer and double clicked on the icon to log into Tales of Elassa. The familiar violin music washed over me and it felt as though I was immersing myself in a cold pool of water. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Typed in my username and password and then I was in.
I became Maia, high elf priestess of the Elven Order. A high elf priestess who was respected. A high elf priestess who was considered one of the best role-playing scenario writers on the server. Here was a place where my talent for genre fiction was definitely appreciated!
Fuck that bitch Carrie and her irrational hatred of genre fiction! And yet at the same time that voice was whispering that I was just trying to escape reality.
Whatever. I’d escape reality. Reality sucked right now.
A beep. A ding. I looked up in curiosity. My message icon was blinking on my UI. Now that was interesting. Most people who I knew in game didn’t play during the day. Sure the server was online twenty-four hours a day unless it was down for maintenance, but at the same time I tended to only have friends who played at night because that was when I was on. My understanding was the place was pretty sparsely populated during the day when most of the US population was at work or at school or doing other things that people with normal lives did.
The only people on right now were mostly the unemployed, kids who didn’t have to be at school for whatever reason, or crazy girls who’d decided to cut out of their creative writing seminar a half hour early because they were upset about a bad comment they got on one of their stories.
I clicked the icon and a message popped up. Immediately I felt my pulse race. Immediately I felt blood pump through my body, course behind my ears. I felt my nipples harden and strain out towards the computer which was definitely a surprising reaction considering I was just looking at some text on a screen. The hell?
Her. Kaira. She was on, and she just sent me a message.
“How’s it going?”
Three simple words, and yet I found myself racking my brain trying to think of a way to respond to them. I desperately tried to think of something that would make me seem witty, clever, a sophisticated woman of the online gaming world, and yet my words failed me. I found myself simply responding honestly.
“Pretty fucking terrible actually. How about you?”
“Sorry to hear that,” she said. “Want to talk about it?”
The words started flowing from my fingers before I had time to think about it. This was a complete stranger, and yet something about her concern touched me. Maybe it was because I was vulnerable in the moment, but I found myself explaining everything. My class. How they’d reacted to me. My insecurities about my writing.
All that poured out into the chat window. It was the first time I’d ever talked to anybody about any of this. It was the first time I’d gotten any of this off of my chest. Megan was usually the only person I had in-depth conversations with about these sorts of things, and that was typically talking about whatever guy we were dating that week. Well, whatever guy she was dating that week. I didn’t do a lot of dating what with my busy schedule of playing video games and going to class. At least I always told myself that was the reason I never seemed to find just the right guy or lost interest after a week or two when I did seem to find just the right guy.
I always told myself that, but recent developments suddenly had me seriously questioning whether or not disinterest and a busy schedule were the real reasons why I dropped guys so fast. Not that I was going to unpack that particular bundle of anxiety. Not with the girl who was the source of it in the first place!
The cursor blinked at me from the end of the chat window. There was a long pause. So long that I started to worry that maybe I’d said too much. Maybe I downloaded too much right at the get-go. I’d just met this girl after all. I didn’t really know her all that well, or at all, even if I did have the strange feeling that I could talk to her about anything.
Great. I meet a somewhat nice girl, a girl who could turn a phrase with the best of them, and already I’d chased her away venting about all my problems and insecurities. Good job Amber. Great fucking job!
“I know how you feel,” she said.
I blinked. “You do?”
“I don’t know if you can tell, but I do a little bit of writing myself,” she said.
I smiled. She didn’t know if I could tell? As though it wasn’t obvious she was good at this sort of thing from the way she spun that scenario last night. From the way she put words to the screen so effortlessly.
“Oh no, I had no idea!”
I made sure to put in an eye roll emoticon so she'd know I wasn’t being completely serious. Meaning and tone could be difficult to convey in text.
“I do a lot of writing actually,” she said. “A lot of it for my job, and I always worry that it’s never going to be good enough. Everyone tells me it’s great, but as I’m writing I always have this little voice in the back of my head telling me everything is crap. That everyone’s going to hate it this time. That this is going to be the one where everybody realizes I just got lucky with the other stuff.”
I blinked. “You write professionally? Like novels or something?”
“Probably nothing you’ve ever heard of,” she said. “Technical writing and that sort of stuff, but still. I have that gnawing doubt. Heck, for awhile now it’s been hard for me to write anything. I’ve been coasting for awhile. Trust me. I know exactly what you feel like, and I get paid to do this stuff!”
I smiled and felt warmth spreading through my body. Here was someone who understood me. Here was a girl who knew exactly what I was going through! And the admission that she was a writer, even if it was just technical writing which was something of a four letter word in creative writing circles even though most people I knew who graduated went on to do it because they quickly discovered they couldn’t pay the rent with their literary fiction.
“So you’re saying that feeling never goes away?” I asked.
“Nope. Never does in my experience. All you have to do is learn to take that voice and squash it. Listen to it from time to time to make sure you’re not actually turning out crap, but I figure if most people around you tell you that you’re doing a good job then that’s good enough,” she said.
“What about bad reviews?”
And then I realized I was probably being ridiculous. Like she would get a bad critique when she was doing technical writing!
“Everyone’s a critic,” she said. “You just have to learn how to let that roll off of you. I can get nine people out of ten telling me what a wonderful job I’m doing at my work, and still that number ten who had a problem is going to get more attention than the nine people who told me how great I was!”
I smiled and actually laughed. I was amazed at how easily she could put me at ease. I was amazed at how quickly all of my worries from class washed away. I was actually starting to feel kind of foolish for walking out o
f class like that, for getting so emotional. And yet at the same time I was glad I’d gotten so emotional because it meant I came home to Kaira and getting this pep talk to cheer me up.
“So you write fantasy stuff?” she asked.
I blushed again. “Mostly. Lately I’ve just been writing stuff in Elassa because that’s where I spend most of my time, but it’s always been my favorite genre. The Elassa books have been my favorite ever since the first one came out!”
“Oh? You’ve been reading them since the beginning?”
“Of course. I’m always on the lookout for a new good book, and as far as I’m concerned Kaitlyn Morgan has been a literary genius since the first word she put to paper. I'm so jealous that she hit it so big so early! Now if only she’d get out the next one...”
“It’s always nice to find someone who’s liked the books almost as long as I have! Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person who knew about them back at the beginning,” she said. “Besides, I’m sure she has a good reason for making us wait!”
“I thought it was a revelation when I read the first book, so I really don’t care if she takes her time. I’m not like those rabid fanboys that seem to think she owes us something. My love for the books is probably why I spend so much of my time playing Tales of Elassa. Sometimes I wish I could be in that world! Other times I just wish I could craft something as amazing and original!”
“You never know,” she said. “Just look at that chick with those kinky sex books, and that started out as a fanfiction didn’t it?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, like something like that would happen to me!”
"You never know. Like you said, Kaitlyn Morgan hit it big early and look how far she's gone. It could happen to you too."
"I'm not going to hold my breath."
“So you’re a huge fan, does that mean you’re going to Elassa Con?”
I sighed. “I’d love to go to Elassa Con! I’ve been to a few regional cons, even have a stupid costume I wear to them, but I’m afraid Elassa Con is more than a poor grad student like me can afford.”