#but this semester were reading actual literature and its helping so much with understanding real used language

[sunuism]

why do i feel like i learned more japanese in the two months ive been back than i did the entire time i was in japan

[southsidestory]

Things Not Seen

RATING: Mature

SHIP: Rey / Ben Solo | Kylo Ren

SUMMARY: It can’t be love, what he’s feeling. Not the real thing anyway. It’s irrational and possessive, too unhealthy and unwanted. But whether or not this is the kind of love he’s been taught to revere, Ben thinks about Rey through the rest of Christmas break. He daydreams about his professor's smart mouth, the way her expressions always start at the curve of her lips. How she tasted when they kissed.

WARNINGS: emotional and physical abuse (not within the reylo relationship), religious fanaticism, grief / mourning, depression, past suicide attempt

NOTES: This story is for the @reylofanfictionanthology’s 2017 Anthology, Celebrate the Waking! My celebration / theme was Reunion. Thank you to @xxlovendreamsxx and @reylotrashcompactor for their help as betas for this piece. <3

PROVERBS 4:23

Above all else, guard your heart,

for everything you do flows from it.

—

Ben takes Intro to the Hebrew Bible in the spring of his freshman year because he wants to get a headstart on his 200-level courses. Most of his classmates have no idea what their majors will be, and they change their minds every few weeks, but not Ben. It’s Religious Studies for him, which he knew before he even sent out his college applications.

Old Testament is an eight o’clock class, and because Ben likes to be early for everything, he shows up at 7:45. He unpacks a clean notebook, his freshly printed syllabus, a new black pen, his NOAB (New Oxford Annotated Bible, 4th Edition, which he despises), and his personal Bible (King James Version, which he loves).

There’s only one other student, but she looks so out of his place that he almost wonders if he’s in the wrong classroom. She’s tall and leggy, with brown hair pulled up into a high bun. Her blue jeans are nearly worn through at the knees, her sneakers battered and cheap. Scholarship student then, which is rare enough at a college like Litton. But she’s also too old for a 200-level RS class, typically populated by sophomores and particularly motivated freshmen, like him. Probably some senior who’s hoping to wile away her last semester in low-level courses while she works on her thesis.

“This is Introduction to the Hebrew Bible,” Ben says, not quite making it a question.

“It is indeed.” The girl doesn’t look up from her phone, which she’s tapping at aggressively. From the beeping sound that she hasn’t bothered to silence, he thinks she must be playing some kind of game.

She’s pretty, despite her ordinary clothes and messy hair. She also looks utterly unprepared. The only thing she has with her, apart from that noisy phone, is a thermos.

When she shrugs out of her fleece, he sees that she’s wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt underneath. Dark green, with an image of a Bible across the chest, the proud words “Jewish Zombie Saves the Universe” emblazoned across its cover.

“If you don’t like Christians, what are you doing in an Old Testament class?” he asks, before he can stop himself.

The girl finally sets down her phone, looking startled and amused. “Excuse me?” she asks. The start of a patronizing smile is tugging at the corner of her mouth, like Ben is simply the most adorable thing she’s ever seen.

He gestures at the offensive shirt and says, “You’re obviously not Christian. Probably not even an RS major.”

She snorts. “Well you’re not wrong.”

Ben doesn’t like being laughed at. Never has tolerated it well. Thirteen years of relentless bullying throughout public school will do that to a person.

“What are you then?” he asks, even though he doesn’t have to. He’d bet his tuition that she’s an atheist.

“Human,” she says, and now her smile has a sharper edge to it. Good, he’s glad to be getting to her a little. “But I suspect that that isn’t the information you were fishing for.”

Ben rolls his eyes, then busies himself with rereading the syllabus, anything to keep from talking to this obnoxious girl. He shouldn’t have engaged her anyway. Pastor Snoke always says it’s a waste of time to bother with people like that.

She goes back to playing on her phone, and they ignore each other until 7:55, when the other students start filtering in.

“Hey, Professor Jones!”

Ben looks over, and for a moment he wonders how he could have missed the professor arriving—until he realizes that the student who spoke is talking to the rude girl in the awful green shirt.

“Hi, Rachel.” She smiles and asks, “Did you have a good holiday?”

Rachel says she went on a ski trip to some resort in Colorado, but he barely registers any of that, because the girl—no, his professor—smirks at him, and Ben stares at the table, cheeks scalding hot. He hasn’t been this humiliated since Todd Baxter pantsed him in the seventh grade, exposing his privates to the entire middle school during a pep rally.

I want to die, Ben thinks. I want to actually die.

He grips his left wrist, squeezes until the pressure calms him. Then he shoots his professor the nastiest look he can muster, because she just let him talk to her like she was a student. Allowed him to make an ass of himself, and now she’s wearing a self-satisfied grin, as if it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Professor Jones starts class at precisely eight o’clock, which Ben would appreciate if he didn’t dislike her so much.

“Welcome to Introduction to the Hebrew Bible,” she says. “I’m Rey Jones. You can call me by my first name, if you’d prefer. Just don’t make the mistake of thinking that it will diminish my authority over you, because it doesn’t.”

She says this lightly enough that the class laughs, but Ben can tell she means every word. This woman might be young for a professor, but she’s tough as nails. How in the hell did he take her for a student?

Some suck-up who claimed the seat to the left of Professor Jones compliments her shirt. “I guess Jesus is pretty zombie-ish, huh?” he asks.

Professor Jones shrugs. “Actually, if we’re applying fantastic terms to Jesus, he’d be more properly categorized as a lich than a zombie.”

Everyone besides Ben laughs again, and Professor Jones smiles. “All right, please introduce yourselves. I had most of you last year for 101, but I’d like to put names to the new faces.”

Professor Jones asks each of them to give their name, year, major, and one interesting personal fact. Ben listens to his classmates just attentively enough to discover that he’s the only freshman in this course. Evidence of his over-achievement usually makes him feel proud, but right now he’s too annoyed for that.

“Ben Solo,” he says, once it’s his turn. “Freshman. I’ll be majoring in Religious Studies as soon as I’m allowed to declare. This isn’t very interesting, but it’s a fact about myself: I’m awful at judging someone’s age.”

A subtle smile flickers across Professor Jones’s mouth before she looks to the next student.

It’s a standard first day, just discussing the objectives of the course and the texts they’ll be studying throughout the semester. At least it’s only a fifty minute class, and Professor Jones kicks them out a quarter-hour early. “Use this extra time to get started on Friday’s reading. You’ll probably need it.”

Ben stuffs his things into his bag and hurries out of the classroom. He doesn’t look back to see if his professor is laughing at him, because he’s certain that she is.

—

RS 270 quickly proves to be Ben’s most difficult class. Logic, Intro Greek, and Southern Literature are almost too easy to keep his attention, but Hebrew Bible is something else entirely.

Professor Jones assigns twice as much reading as his lit professor, and she expects her students to keep up with it. Her classes are discussion-oriented, fast-paced, and demanding. As much as he’d prefer to hate her style, Ben actually thinks Professor Jones is one of the best teachers he’s ever had. She has a way of explaining difficult ideas with great clarity while still conveying the complexity of the concepts. To her credit, she doesn’t seem to hold their conversation before the first class against him.

She’s intelligent and engaging, if blunt, and she’d probably be Ben’s favorite professor if he didn’t hate her approach to the Bible. It isn’t that Professor Jones is mean or dismissive of his beliefs, but he questions whether she has any respect at all for the texts she’s teaching. She shows him how to see the Old Testament in new ways, to better understand its books through the cultural contexts they emerged from. It’s fascinating and eye-opening—if a little galling to be utterly schooled on Biblical knowledge by a woman who probably has a stronger faith in the Flying Spaghetti Monster than in God.

By the middle of the semester, he can’t help but think of her as Rey. Half the class calls her by her given name, just as she invited them to do, but there’s more to it than that, an urge Ben can’t quite explain, that makes him want to know her better

—

Rey always returns his papers within a week of their due date, the margins littered with annotations in green ink. Suggestions to improve his arguments, questions, sometimes rambling comments that seem to have little direction or purpose.

She writes A- at the bottom of each one, along with some note about his paper as a whole. No matter how stingy or effusive her praise is, the grade remains the same. The essay she hands back after spring break says, Perfect. A-

That’s what finally drives him to her office. He finds Rey hunched over her desk, scribbling in a notebook, the sleeves of her plaid shirt rolled up to her elbows. He expected her office to be disorganized, considering her perpetually sloppy hairstyles and wrinkled clothes, but it’s spotless and neat.

“Ben,” she says, without looking up from her work. “It’s five o’clock on a Friday. My office hours ended at three-thirty. I know you know this.”

He closes the door, takes the seat across from her, and lays his latest paper on her desk. “If my work was perfect, then why did you give me an A minus?”

Rey sighs, sets down her pen, and looks at him. “Because you can do better.”

“Better than perfect?” Ben asks.

“Your papers are excellent. More cohesive than mine when I was your age, and that’s saying something.” She points to the wall, at a dozen framed awards and diplomas. BA from Stanford, MA from Indiana University, PhD from Duke.

Ben shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Rey says. She leans forward, frowning. “Your arguments are well constructed, and your ideas are clearly expressed, but it’s all very safe. I think you know how to write to appeal to your professors’ interests—which is a great strategy if your only goal is to graduate summa cum laude in three years. But if you want to develop your own voice? Not so much.”

“Are you kidding?” It takes all of Ben’s self control not to shout when he says, “I bend over backwards to write the kind of papers you’d want to see, and that’s not enough?”

Rey flips to the third page of his paper and taps the second paragraph. “Your analysis of the Pentateuch reads like a response to my last book. What’d you do, check it out from the library?”

Ben snatches his paper out of her hands, and he doesn’t care how rude that is.

“I don’t want to read a paper that’s engineered to flatter my ego,” Rey says sharply. “Next time, write about something that matters to you, instead of something that matters to me.”

Yes, he checked out her book, and yes, he read it from cover to cover, but she’s wrong about why he did that. It had nothing to do with flattering his professor, because Ben never imagined that she’d notice the influence of her writing on his own work. He’s been reading through Rey’s bibliography all semester, consuming every book and journal article that she’s authored.

Ben isn’t about to admit that, so he stands and says, “See you on Monday, Professor Jones.”

—

Ben lives in the library throughout finals week, researching and writing for six days straight, only stopping to take short naps and coffee breaks.

His asshole roommate, Armitage, orders him to stop crashing into their dorm at all hours of the night and day just to rest for thirty minutes and head back to the library. Apparently this is disrupting his beauty sleep.

If Ben wasn’t a Christian, he’d tell Armitage to fuck off. Instead, he finds a nice, out-of-the-way nook in the library and takes his naps there, curled up in a fluffy armchair.

Ben spends countless hours on his final paper for RS 270, a close examination of the Book of Job, exploring the role of suffering in faith. He’s never put so much of himself into an academic project, his passion and his convictions. If Rey slaps another A minus onto this one, he’s going to give her a piece of his mind.

—

Ben snatches the manila envelope out of his student mailbox, rips it open, and flips past all the green ink that litters the margins of his final paper, looking to the grade and the comment at the end.

Insightful and original. Better than perfect. A+

ECCLESIASTES 1:18

For with much wisdom comes much sorrow;

the more knowledge, the more grief.

—

Going home is different when you don’t have a real home to go to.

Ben would never say as much to Pastor Snoke, but sometimes he misses his mother. Maybe it’s just nostalgia borne from separation, because when Ben lived with his mom, he spent most of his time wishing to get out from under her roof. They fought whenever she was around, which wasn’t often. Neither of his parents spent much time with him, but there’s no point in resenting his father over that, not anymore.

Ben ran away a month after he turned eighteen, and Pastor Snoke welcomed him into his family’s home, just as he promised he would.

Mom had given him far more freedom. She never kept up with where he was going or how late he’d be out, but strangely, Ben feels less confined in a house where there are rules. Pastor Snoke’s expectations may be high, and the punishments for disappointing him harsh, but at least he knows that someone is paying attention.

Ben tries not to think about his mother on the way back to Cottontown. He spends the bus ride listening to music and rereading Rey’s comments on his final paper. He traces her handwriting, fingers lingering on the uneven curves and sharp points. You should be proud, she’d written on the back.

He finds Mrs. Snoke waiting for him at the bus station. She hugs him and says, “We’ve missed you so much, Ben.”

“Missed you too,” he says, before pulling away.

Mrs. Snoke makes pot roast for dinner, one of Ben’s favorite meals, and Pastor Snoke allows him to say grace. He feels less like an intruder, a lost boy interloping on a real family, when he holds hands with his mentors and asks for God’s blessing. Afterward, Mrs. Snoke washes the dishes. She always cooks and cleans, an arrangement that Ben has never felt comfortable with, because he knows what his mother would think of it.

—

Starbrook Church of Christ has the largest congregation in all of Cottontown, and sometimes Ben worries that he isn’t worthy of inheriting it.

He’s known that he’s going into ministry since he was sixteen, when Pastor Snoke saved him and offered him a place at his church. But it wasn’t until January of last year, after he ran away, that Pastor Snoke told him he’d like for Ben to lead the Starbrook congregation someday.

“You’re as good as a son to me, and you have what it takes. The drive, the talent, the uncompromising faith.” He’d looked at Ben with such confidence, and it was elating, intoxicating, for someone to believe in him like that. How could he say no?

Ben leads Bible study on Sunday mornings, teaching little kids about the Passion, the Three Wise Men, Jesus turning water into wine. This was easy last summer, because he’d wished someone had taught him these things as a child. So much would have been easier if he’d been raised in the faith instead of having to find it for himself.

It isn’t so easy this summer. He hesitates. He doubts. There’s only goodness in teaching a five-year-old to love her neighbors, but when Sarah asks why only boys can lead activities, he doesn’t know what to say.

The correct answer is, Because this is how God made us. Men lead and women follow. This is the way it’s meant to be. But Ben’s mother is a leader through and through, and he just spent a semester following the most brilliant woman he’s ever met. He wants to believe, but by the end of summer break, the right answer doesn’t feel so right anymore.

—

Some of Ben’s classmates resent his rigidity, but he has nothing on Armitage. His roommate obsessively organizes his notes, keeps his desk spotless, and maintains a system of color-coded calendars so that he’s perpetually early to all of his classes and extracurricular engagements.

On their first day back at Litton, Armitage kicks Ben’s unzipped suitcase and says, “Keep your clothes in your dresser this year. If I find dirty socks laying around they’re going straight in the trash.”

“Don’t touch my things,” Ben says.

He’d love to punch Armitage in his sneering, pink face, and maybe that’s showing, because his roommate makes some excuse about going to the library and disappears for the rest of the night.

It doesn’t matter. He’d rather be alone anyway.

—

The Litton College Catalogue is clear about the nature of RS 233: Pain, Suffering, and Death.

A seminar that examines critical issues and problems of crisis experience involving pain, suffering, and death using various disciplinary perspectives and pedagogical methods, including interviews with healthcare professionals. Designed primarily for students considering health or human service vocations (e.g., medical professions, counseling, social work, ministry), but also of interest to others.

Ben signed up for this class last semester, when he was too enthralled by Rey’s instruction to care what she was teaching in the fall, because he knew he would take it. Now RS 233 is almost here, and he spends all night dreaming about his father. In the shower, he scratches at his left wrist until the verse tattooed there is obscured with abrasions, blood-spotted and sore. The ache of it reminds him that he’s here and alive, grounds him until he’s calm enough to pray.

When Ben walks into class fifteen minutes early, Rey says, “Back for more?”

He claims a seat two chairs down from hers and fidgets with his sleeve, tugging it lower over the bandage on his wrist. “I like a challenge.”

“Well, that’s good, because this class isn’t for the faint-hearted.”

Rey runs a hand through her hair, which is as messy as ever. That should probably be off-putting, but Ben finds it charming. It’s an effective distraction, if not a very smart one, to focus on his pretty professor instead of the father he buried five years ago.

He tries to smile. “I don’t think anyone faint-hearted would sign up for Pain, Suffering, and Death.”

Rey rests her elbows on the table and leans forward, just the slightest bit closer to him. “Are you all right?”

Ben hasn’t talked about his father with anyone besides Pastor Snoke, but for some reason it’s almost easy to tell Rey, “I’m not sure I should have signed up for this class. I think it’s going to hit too close to home, and I can’t afford to let—for personal issues get in the way of my education.”

Rey nods slowly. “If that’s how you feel, there’s still time to drop it.”

Ben’s stomach lurches, sickened into knots, but it uncoils when Rey says, “I wish you’d stay, though. Studying this sort of thing can be good in the long run. Difficult, but cathartic.”

Ben doesn’t drop the class. He tells himself it’s for the good it might do him, but the truth is, he’s slightly less afraid of facing his grief than losing the chance to see Rey three times a week for the next four months.

—

He spends the first half of sophomore year interviewing trauma surgeons and hospice nurses, reading everything from medical philosophy to The Stranger. It’s fascinating work, but every bit of it reminds him of his father.

Ben is usually outspoken, but he doesn’t contribute one word to the group discussion on euthanasia. Rey keeps shooting him worried looks while other students are speaking, and he thinks she might mean to corner him after class, but he doesn’t give her the chance. Ben rushes out as soon as nine-fifty hits, goes straight to the nearest bathroom, locks the door, and bends over the sink, gasping for breath. He turns on the cold water so that no one standing outside the restroom will hear him crying.

—

Here’s what Ben knows of pain, suffering, and death: there’s no reason to it, no divine plan that can possibly explain why his father had to die slowly and painfully before his forty-ninth birthday.

He remembers the blisters on Dad’s chest, where radiation treatments had burned his skin raw; the wet, rattling sound of his father’s breathing; the blood he left on napkins when he coughed; statistics about his lung function and the size of his tumors, numbers and scans that never offered any hope. Ben remembers asking Mom what DNR meant, how the smile she gave him trembled when she said it was short for do not resuscitate.

Pastor Snoke has explained the mysteriousness of God’s mercy a thousand times. Before his baptism, Ben searched inward for answers, and since then he’s read enough Christian philosophy on the problem of evil that he could write a dissertation on it. He’s grasped at every straw, and for awhile, Pastor Snoke’s promises gave him the comfort he needed to breathe. But no explanation is comforting anymore, and Ben doesn’t know what to do.

—

When he doesn’t turn in a final paper, he receives an email from Rey, warning him that his grade will decrease by ten percent every day that it’s late. He ignores her, and she sends another email telling him to come to her office. If he doesn’t turn in this paper, he’s going to lose his scholarships, Pastor Snoke’s patronage, and his home.

Good. At least if he drops out, there’ll be no one left to miss him, and it’s not as though he deserves any better.

Ben shuts down his laptop and takes a nap.

He doesn’t drag himself out of bed until lunchtime the next day. Baked chicken has never been less appealing, but he’s starving and food is food. Three bites in, Ben remembers feeding his father his last meal, not that he’d known it for what it was at the time. Now he can hear winter wind rattling the window frames, the clank of silverware hitting ceramic plates. Chatter, laughter, and arguments buzz around him, all of it rising toward the vaulted ceiling and echoing around the refectory.

He leaves his plate where it is and goes outside, into flurrying snow. Ben walks slowly, tries to stay calm, but he can’t breathe and all he can think is that he has to get out of this school, out of this town, out of this place, out of here—

He barely stops short of knocking over Rey. She has to grab his arm to keep from slipping on the icy sidewalk, and he wishes that he could feel the warmth of her touch, but there are too many layers between them. She’s always beautiful, but with her nose ruddy and the tips of her ears hidden under a grey hat she looks girlish too, more like the student he mistook her for the day they met.

Ben wants to touch her, hold her, kiss her, and it isn’t the sudden desire that surprises him; what surprises him is that this desire isn’t sudden at all, and he’s been lying to himself for almost a year.

Rey looks up at him, frowning. “Ben? Are you all right?”

He wants to answer, but his voice feels stuck, caught at the base of his throat. When she pulls away, panic digs its way into his chest, squeezing his lungs until he grabs her shoulders and says, “Don’t.”

Rey’s eyes are wide, her expressive mouth slack, wind-chafed cheeks flushing from pink to red. But she stops, stays still under his hands.

Ben lets go of her and steps away. He’s hot all over, must be blushing from his hairline to his toes. It’s from embarrassment, mostly, but yearning too, and that only makes the embarrassment worse. He runs away, cutting across the lawn to the wooded copse behind the refectory, then further, until he reaches the labyrinth. It’s nothing special, just a circular pathway made up of frost-glazed stones that twist and twine around each other, but he’s come here to pray in the past.

Now he’s breathing hard, more from cold and anxiety than exertion, and he can’t find the focus to reach out to God right now. He sits at the wooden bench, rests his elbows on his knees, and bends forward, lacing his fingers together over the back of his head. He breathes deeply and picks out five things he can hear, the way his high school therapist taught him to do: snow-bearing wind, the crunch of icy grass beneath his feet, chirping birds, some skittering creature in the woods, his own restless breathing. Then four things, then three, then two, then—Rey’s voice, calling his name.

Ben sits up, rubbing his gloved knuckles over his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Rey freezes, looking more confused than concerned now, like she hadn’t stopped until this moment to consider the wisdom of running after him. She stands straighter, steadier, and says, “You looked like you might be… unsafe. I only want to make sure you’re all right.”

“Unsafe?” Ben grasps his left wrist, at the tattoo of Hebrews 11:1 that hides under his sweater sleeve. The verse stretches halfway to his elbow, inking over the scar underneath. “I’m not planning to off myself, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He’d hoped to deter her with crudeness, but Rey crosses her arms over her chest and says, “That’s exactly what I’m worried about. You’ve seemed depressed for months, you never turned in your final paper, and now—”

Ben shrugs. “And now I’m running off behind school buildings to cry like a little boy. Got it. Your concern is duly noted, Professor Jones.”

“If you need help, there are counselors you can talk to—”

“What good is talking going to do?” He shakes his head, pulls at his sleeve, and whispers, “Talking won’t bring him back.”

Rey takes a careful, half-step toward him. “Who won’t it bring back?”

“My dad.” Ben makes himself smile, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to break down again. “He signed a DNR after his last bout in the hospital, let a bunch of nurses shoot him up full of morphine, and died two weeks later. I was there when it happened. I let it happen. I just—just stood there and watched him die—”

“No,” Rey says. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

There’s an impossible softness in her eyes, sympathy bleeding into pity. Looking at him this way is the cruelest thing she could have done, and it drives Ben to his feet.

“I was fine before I met you! I had it figured out, all the answers I needed. Losing him only meant saying goodbye for now, not forever, and now I don’t know what to believe.”

His insides have been turned outward, every nerve in his body raw and exposed. He wants to get away, wants to free himself of this pain. Ben goes to Rey, stands so close to her that he doesn’t feel like a student anymore. Only a man, strong and tall enough to tower over a woman he wants to touch. It can’t even the playing field, but it creates enough of an illusion for him to pretend that the imbalance between them doesn’t matter.

Rey’s gaze darts up and down the length of his body, like she’s assessing him. Ben can’t tell whether or not she’s trying to evaluate a threat, so when he leans down he does it cautiously, gently, giving her plenty of time to stop this if that’s what she wants.

She makes a soft noise when he kisses her, then gasps as he runs his hands down her back, her waist, her hips. She tastes like nothing Ben can place, and he wonders if all kisses feel this way, like he’s drunk (or maybe awake) for the first time—

Rey tears herself away and wipes at her swollen lips with the heel of her hand. She’s shivering, shaking her head, saying frantic, regretful things that all mean this was a mistake.

Ben bites his lip, but there’s nothing of her taste left there. Any trace of their kiss has already faded from his mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t thinking straight.”

He walks away before Rey can challenge any of his lies, and he isn’t surprised when she doesn’t follow.

—

One week into Christmas break, Ben checks his final grades. He expects to see his first academic failure, but instead he finds that he received an A- in Pain, Suffering, and Death. Ben knows that it’s only a misplaced apology, or possibly a bribe for his silence, but he hopes that Rey simply thought he deserved to pass.

I CORINTHIANS 13:4

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

—

It can’t be love, what he’s feeling. Not the real thing anyway. It’s irrational and possessive, too unhealthy and unwanted.

But whether or not this is the kind of love he’s been taught to revere, Ben thinks about Rey through the rest of his break. He daydreams about her smart mouth, the way her expressions always start at the curve of her lips. How she tasted when they kissed. He only risks jerking off in the shower, where the noise of running water will cover his gasps, and when he touches himself he pictures Rey. Her long legs wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back to expose the pale curves of her throat, the sounds she would make if he pleased her.

He thinks Rey might have kissed him back. Ben remembers her leaning in, deliberately opening her mouth to his in the fraction of a second before she pulled away. It’s probably a figment of his imagination, a consolation his memory has constructed to soothe the sting of her rejection, but he wants it to be true. He wants it to be true so badly that he can’t be sure it is.

Not that it matters. Even if some part of her does want him, Rey made her feelings clear enough at the labyrinth.

At first Ben prays for freedom from this infatuation that’s buried itself under his skin. When that fails, he prays for the wisdom and patience to move past it in time, but if anything, he only feels less wise and more impatient as the days between Christmas and the New Year crawl by.

When Ben forgets to say amen after Pastor Snoke’s eloquent grace, he gets slapped. Shame shivers along the ridges of his spine, but Ben swallows down the impulse to hit back, to argue, to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Pastor Snoke cups Ben’s cheek, the same cheek he struck, his touch gentle now.

“I know you are,” he says, smiling. “Now eat your dinner.”

—

Ben wakes with the smell of cigarette smoke in his nose, the sour ash scent that never quite faded from the living room curtains, even years after Dad quit smoking. He dreamed of blistered skin and bloody napkins. Of his father’s tumors, showing silver and nebulous against black X-ray film, like clouds drifting across a night sky. Innocuous, almost pretty, for such ugly, dangerous things.

He misses Rey.

Ben speaks to his blank, empty ceiling for ten minutes, begging for forgiveness and help, when something unwelcome tugs low in his belly. Uncertainty, mistrust.

“Are you even there?” He has to whisper the question. It’s too dangerous to give much voice to.

Ben hears nothing, feels nothing. So he does what he always does when doubt creeps in. He slides his fingers along the tattoo that marks his left arm, mouthing the words without looking at them. This ritual eases his fears, even if it doesn’t bring much reassurance that someone is listening.

—

On the last Sunday before going back to school, Pastor Snoke takes Ben behind the church and says, “You’re distracted, falling down on your responsibilities here and at school. I know you almost lost your fellowship because your volunteer hours barely met the minimum requirements. That isn’t acceptable.”

Ben knows that Pastor Snoke has connections at Litton. It’s half the reason he was accepted into such a high-profile school when his high school GPA was less than stellar, thanks to his disastrous freshman year. He wonders whether it was a snitch from financial aid or the Casterfo Fellowship committee who told Pastor Snoke about his rocky semester.

“You’re right. I’ll do better, it’s just—” Ben resists the urge to shrug, because Pastor Snoke hates it when he doesn’t stand up straight. “I had a difficult few months.”

“I don’t want excuses. I want improvement,” Pastor Snoke says. He grasps the back of his neck in a gesture that might be fatherly if it wasn’t hard enough to hurt. “If you hadn’t lost focus, you could have found the guidance you needed to do well. The Lord never gives us more than we can bear, Ben.”

Then I wish I wasn’t capable of bearing so much.

“Of course. I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

Pastor Snoke’s frown deepens. He looks upward meaningfully and says, “It isn’t my disappointment you should be worried about.”

Ben nods as respectfully as he can manage, since it seems he can’t say anything right today.

—

He’d been disappointed last semester when he couldn’t fit any of Rey’s classes into his spring schedule. Now Ben is thankful that his only RS class is Living Religions with Professor Îmwe. Advanced Greek and Astronomy are a welcome respite after the academic hell he went through last fall, although Krennic’s class makes him want to rip his hair out. It’s more his professor’s attitude that bothers him than the subject matter, but Ben still hates sitting through ninety minutes of poli sci every Tuesday and Thursday.

At the end of January, Ben goes to Rey’s office. She’s there, naturally. She works so much that it makes him wonder what kind of life she has outside of this college.

It’s the first time he’s seen her in more than passing since the day they kissed. Her hair is in a loose braid instead of its usual bun, and she never bothered to take off her coat, despite the space heater running in the corner.

Ben walks inside without knocking, points to the heater, and says, “Those aren’t allowed on campus. It’s pretty irresponsible for you to have one.”

Rey shoves a stack of papers into a folder, staring steadily at her desk. “Did you need something?”

Ben pulls the door shut behind him. He takes three deep breaths, sends a quick prayer heavenward, and says, “We should talk about what happened at the labyrinth.”

She finally looks up. “No, we shouldn’t. It’s better left alone, and—well, I assume you won’t be taking more of my classes anyway.”

“Why would you think that?” Ben asks.

Rey stands up and lays her hands flat on her tidy desk. “Because it’s not appropriate.”

Ben grips the edge of her desk and bows low enough that, if he worked up the courage, he could kiss her again.

“What I feel for you isn’t appropriate, whether I’m in your classes or not,” Ben whispers.

Rey straightens, backs away from her desk, and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She moves with the swift clumsiness of restless fear, so far from the confidence and composure she usually exudes. Rey is a brilliant teacher and an accomplished scholar, but under that, she’s just a person. A regular person like any other, and he’s been an idiot for keeping her on a pedestal.

“We’re not going down this path,” Rey says. “It would only hurt both of us.”

His desires are unwise, but maybe not unreturned, and if Rey wants him back there’s a chance—

“So you don’t want what happened between us to compromise my education, but you’re excluding me from your classes, which are the best in the whole department.” He walks around the desk and closes in on her space until she’s backed against a bookshelf. “In case you hadn’t noticed, that’s going to compromise my education.”

The top of Rey’s head barely brushes his chin, and her soft breath warms his throat. Still, her voice comes out firm, almost harsh, when she says, “I’m sorry, Ben, I am, but I don’t see you like that. You’re a great student and a—a bright kid—”

He cups Rey’s face between his hands, strokes his thumb over her cheek, and watches her gaze flicker toward his mouth. She bites her own lip, then turns away, breaths coming in short, sharp pants.

“You’re not as good at lying to yourself as you’d like to be,” Ben says.

Rey pushes him, and the shock of being struck makes him stumble.

“Get out,” she says. “Get out, and don’t come back.”

She sounds more broken than fierce, but he does as he’s told.

Later, alone in his bed, Ben realizes that he always follows wherever Rey leads him, and no matter how much he’d like to, he can’t get around the distance between her authority and his. She’s ten years older than him, smarter, better educated, with the power to ruin his future if she wants to. No matter how fiercely they disagree, in the end, he dances to whatever song Rey plays. Maybe that’s the problem.

—

Ben has managed to get through nearly two years at Litton without making a single friend. It wasn’t difficult; he’s always had to work to earn anyone’s affection or interest, and until college, his peers seemed to enjoy making his life hell. At least here he’s mostly ignored.

He can’t stand Armitage, and Armitage returns the (lack of) sentiment. But by virtue of sharing a room, they spend more time with each other than anyone else, and they agree to live together at East Village apartments next year. Better the devil you know, Ben supposes.

They’re both awake at three o’clock in the morning on a Thursday in April when Armitage closes his business textbook, pulls a fifth of whiskey from the bottom drawer of his desk, and asks, “Do you ever drink, Father Solo?”

“I’m going to be a minister, not a priest,” Ben says, but for once Armitage’s ribbing only makes him laugh. “And no, I don’t drink.”

Armitage takes a glass from the pretentious shelf of dishes next to his mini-fridge and fills it with whiskey. “Shocker.”

“I used to,” Ben says. “I used to drink all the time. Too much.”

The look Armitage gives him isn’t quite one of respect, but it’s close. “Really? I never would’ve guessed you for a budding alcoholic. Were you a man-whore too?”

Ben closes his laptop, turns to his roommate, and says, “No. I didn’t want to be close to anyone. I just wanted to…”

Disappear. He wanted to disappear, but even if Armitage is being decent for once, Ben can’t share that truth.

Armitage turns up his glass and drinks half the whiskey in one go without even flinching. “Well, here’s a piece of advice, for whenever you manage to foist your virginity off on someone: fucking doesn’t require intimacy.”

Ben ends up drinking whiskey too, then passing out. He wakes up with a dull headache after a night of dreamless sleep, feeling empty, wrung-out, and blessedly calm.

—

Ben goes to his first Greek party the weekend before finals, where he avoids getting wasted by winning game after game of beer pong. Even when he spent half his time drunk or hungover, Natty Lite was never his drink of choice, and his aim has always been excellent.

His beer pong partner is Jyn, a junior who’s famous for calling Professor Krennic a cunt in the middle of the refectory last year.

Her boyfriend Cassian has been stalking the edges of the party for the last hour, clearly pissed off except for when he looks at Jyn. Ben gestures at him and asks, “How long have you two been together?”

“Ages. For better or worse.” She makes a perfect shot. The ping pong ball sinks into a red cup at the opposite side of the table with a satisfying plop. Bodhi—another RS major who Ben knows in passing—drinks his beer, pulls a face, and tells Jyn in the most polite way possible that she’s the worst friend he’s ever had.

Ben considers flirting with Jyn. He’s heard from two-hundred-pound football players that Cassian isn’t one to fuck with, and he hasn’t been in a fight since Pastor Snoke saved him. It might feel good to be hurt, even better to hurt someone else.

After their third win, Jyn claps him on the shoulder and says, “If I keep playing with you I’ll never get drunk.”

He smiles at her, cool enough to be on the safe side of friendly. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

Ben drinks soda for the next hour, doesn’t start any fights, and ignores Jessika Pava when she flirts with him. He leaves while the party is still going strong to walk around campus. Loneliness makes him feel even more disappointingly sober, so Ben goes to the labyrinth. The woods are green and lively, full of the impending promise of summer, but he can see this place covered in frost, can almost taste the sting of winter wind.

It isn’t his fragile faith that held him back at the party, because there was little temptation to resist. Ben isn’t particularly interested in getting drunk, or fighting, or testing out Armitage’s love-life advice with a girl he barely knows. All he truly wants is Rey.

—

Ben should have declared his major months ago, but he’s been putting it off. When he finally files the appropriate paperwork, he also picks up a blue form for requesting an advisor change. Now that he’s officially a Religious Studies major, he needs a professor from the RS department to mentor him.

Rey blushes when he shows up at her office with the request form. They small talk for a minute, the most they’ve spoken to each other in three months, but then she says, “You know I can’t be your advisor.”

He smiles, as brightly as he’s capable of. “Of course you can. You’re the best.”

“My credentials have nothing to do with this. Try Professor Îmwe, or maybe Malbus—”

“Malbus hates me. Îmwe is great at his job, but he teaches world religions, and I’m going into ministry. You’re an expert on the history of Biblical interpretation, American religions, and modern theology. Which makes you the perfect advisor for me.”

“Ben…” Rey looks at him with such softness that it sends an ache through his chest and heat to his belly.

He shrugs. “I don’t see the problem.”

Her softness turns sharp in an instant, and she says, “Yes you do. Don’t be obtuse.”

“I’m not being obtuse,” Ben says. “But I am hoping you could clear something up for me. I should’ve failed 233 and lost half my scholarships, but instead, here I am with my semester paid for and my GPA intact. Harassing you about being my advisor, because you won’t talk to me for any other reason.”

The silence between them grows thick, heavy with the gravity of what they’re saying—and not saying. Ben chews the inside of his cheek, waiting. Hoping.

“I’m sorry,” Rey says, so low and small that her voice would be lost if not for the stillness of this room.

“For which part?”

“I gave you that grade because you’re one of the brightest students I’ve ever had, and you didn’t deserve to lose your education over grief.” She glances down at her desk. “And I’ve been avoiding you because it’s the best thing I can think to do in a situation where nothing seems right.”

Ben counts five things he can see in this office. Bookshelves crammed into a space far too small for them. Rey’s degrees, decorating the only free wall. Fountain pens and folders scattered across her desk. A flowerpot in the window, housing a plant that’s either dead or very neglected. And Rey, so beautiful with her cheeks flushed, eyes greener and glassier than usual.

“You knew I was going to kiss you. You knew, and you let me do it.”

Rey is looking at him, and at least she has enough courage, enough respect for him, to meet his eyes when she says, “Yes.”

Running away hasn’t served him very well so far, so maybe it’s time to stand his ground.

Now or never.

“Let’s see each other,” Ben says. “No more dancing around this thing, trying to fight off something I want, and that I’m pretty sure you want too.”

“Do you realize what you’re suggesting? The consequences we could face if we got found out?” Rey picks up a pen and fidgets with it, turning it over and over. “I’d lose my job. The administration would watch you like a hawk for the rest of your time here, and most of your classmates would crucify you.”

Ben can’t keep a grin off of his face, because she isn’t saying no. It almost hurts to smile so widely. “Then we’ll be careful.”

Rey opens her mouth, but says nothing, and he can see it, the nervousness that’s keeping her quiet, and he can’t—he just can’t let her back out when she’s so close to giving in. Ben stands up, walks around the desk, and gets on his knees before Rey. He feels ridiculously like a man about to propose.

“Please.” Ben grasps her hips, then wraps his arms around her waist. Pulls her closer, to the edge of her seat. She’s a tall woman, but light. Easy to manhandle.

Rey grabs him by the front of his shirt, and Ben scrambles to his feet. He doesn’t let go of Rey, doesn’t stop touching her even once, as she stands, hops up onto her desk, and pulls him down for a kiss.

It’s wet and messy, all hunger, tongues, and sharp teeth. She’s biting at his lips as much as kissing him, like she means to take him apart one piece at a time.

—

They made it to Rey’s apartment, even into bed, but not out of all their clothes. Ben’s pants and boxers are tangled around his knees, his shirt unbuttoned. Pressed flat against the mattress with Rey on top of him, he feels frantic and overcome, drunk on the taste of her, the sight of her undressed from the waist down, riding him.

He slides his hands under Rey’s shirt and bra to grasp her breasts. They’re small, soft, her nipples peaked under his hands. He moans, rocks up harder, faster, meeting her movements. Each thrust draws a high, keening noise from Rey, quiet but desperate. And he loves all of it: pleasing her, feeling the warmth and wetness of her sex around his cock, watching her thighs work as she takes what she wants from him.

Rey looks down at him like she’s needed this every bit as much as he has, and it’s good, so much, too much—

“Wait,” Ben hisses, but he can’t stop lifting his hips, bucking up into her. “You’ve gotta slow down, or I’ll—I’m—”

“It’s okay, I want it, I want to watch you come.” Rey pulls her shirt over her head, then her bra, so he can see her, all of her, while she—

Ben bites his knuckles to keep from shouting, but he still moans loud enough that her neighbors can probably hear it through these thin walls. He can’t care, because he’s close, so close, and then he’s there. Lost under Rey, buried inside her, while bliss hits him in waves. He can hear her whimpers beneath his own, goading him on, coaxing him to the end until he’s wrung out, boneless and spent.

The room hasn’t quite settled around him again when Rey falls to the bed by his side.

“How was that?” she asks, breathless.

By the confidence in her voice, he thinks she already knows. Which is good, because all Ben can muster the intelligence to say is, “I don’t have the words for it.”

Rey laughs. “Well that’s a first.”

Then she nods in the direction of his groin, and says, “You might want to get rid of that condom.”

“Right.”

Ben would rather not think about the condom. He hadn’t known how the hell to put it on, which clearly wasn’t lost on Rey, although she had the tact not to comment on it. He goes to the bathroom, throws the condom away, and cleans himself up.

He undresses before climbing back into bed, and has to smile at the soft, stupid expression that steals over Rey’s face when she sees him naked.

“You’re really something else, you know that?” Her voice breaks on the question, and it might be as satisfying as the sex to witness the effect he’s having on her.

She lets him hold her close and play with her hair. It’s soft and fine, almost wispy, and prone to snagging when he runs his fingers through it.

“Did you come?” Ben asks.

Rey shakes her head, then nudges his calf with her foot. “I’m not too worried about it. I expect you’ll make sure I get mine before the night’s through. You are an overachiever after all.”

“Well that’s certainly true.” Ben tries to smile, but it feels weak.

“What is it?” Rey asks. “You look sad now.”

He untangles his fingers from her hair. “I don’t want to be a disappointment.”

Rey sits up, cradles his face between her hands, and looks at him with such steady, blazing attention that as much as he wants to look away, he can’t.

“Ben. Listen to me: there’s nothing disappointing about you. Not one thing.”

He should pull away. Making love once, holding each other, basking in the smallest sliver of her affection—that’s all it takes for Rey to claim every part of him that matters.

This is foolish and selfish, no good for either of them, but Ben thinks maybe, despite that, what he’s feeling could be something like love anyway.

ECCLESIASTES 6:7

Everyone’s toil is for the mouth, yet the appetite is never satisfied.

—

Ben barely studies for his last exam because he goes to Rey’s apartment every night he can spare. They spend most of that time making love, then lying together in the aftermath, getting to know one another while they share tender touches and quiet words.

The night before he leaves for Cottontown, they’re entwined in a pile of inside-out clothes on the living room floor, breathless and grinning at each other.

Ben props himself up on an elbow, leans over Rey, and says, “Tell me something about yourself. I want to know you better.”

She laughs. “You already know me as well as anyone does.”

“I do?” He almost laughs with her, but then Ben notices that the smile around her mouth is empty in her eyes.

Rey touches the crook of his elbow, slides her fingers along the skin of his left forearm, following the lines of his tattoo and the scar underneath it.

“If I share something personal with you, will you tell me about this?” she asks.

Ben kisses her forehead. “Sure.”

It isn’t as if the worst of it (of him) isn’t in plain sight anyway.

“My parents dumped me at a hospital in Arizona when I was six. They left me there.” Rey looks up at the ceiling, the smallness of her voice fading into the shadows. “They left me, and they never came back.”

“That’s terrible,” Ben tells her, because it is, and because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Rey shrugs, still looking upward. “I guess so.”

He imagines Rey as a little girl, lost and alone until someone found her. Lost and alone even now, maybe, if he’s the closest thing to a friend that she has.

“Your turn,” Rey says.

Ben lies on his back beside her. He thinks there might be a water stain on the ceiling, but with only the waning blue of twilight to see by, he can’t be sure.

“I missed my dad. Missed him all the time, so I found ways not to think about him. I bullied kids who were smaller than me, just to have someone to hurt. Then I started fights with seniors, to get someone to hurt me. I drank all the time, so much that even my mom noticed. And she wasn’t—” Ben scrubs a hand over his face, counts five things he can hear, and says, “She was a good mom, but she was busy. Always so busy, dealing with a million things that were more important than me, and after Dad died, she found enough distractions to keep her even busier.”

“Like you did,” Rey whispers.

“No, not like me,” Ben says. “Anyway, I’m sure you’ve guessed where this story’s going. Nothing helped, not in the long-run. So I tried to do something that would end the pain for good.”

He doesn’t tell her about bleeding all over his bathroom floor, the flood gushing from his wrist, so bright and warm that it terrified him. He was too scared to hurt himself further, but frozen, determined not to call for help. He sat there, curled up on the tile, turning his white bathroom red red red, until his mother found him.

“Why’d you tattoo over your scar?” Rey asks. “To hide it?”

Ben shakes his head. “I tried to kill myself because I was hopeless. So when I found my faith, I wanted to cover up my scar with the thing that gave me hope again.”

Rey scoots closer to him, wraps an arm around his waist, and says, “That’s beautiful.”

No, it’s stupid, Ben thinks, but he keeps that to himself. His ability to believe has become a meager thing, too shameful to share, even with Rey.

In the silence between them, Ben offers his hand. Rey takes it, and they stay this way for a long while. Lovers who only love with their bodies, holding hands in the darkness.

—

A year ago, having sex before marriage sounded impossible, if tempting, and now he’s done it. It isn’t until he’s back at Pastor Snoke’s that Ben feels the gravity of his choices. He learned how to fear God in this house, and how to fear Pastor Snoke even more. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, because respect begins with awe, awe requires intimidation, and intimidation is born through fear. But Ben’s fear of God has waned with the awe he used to feel, and without enough respect for the path he set himself on, he simply doesn’t care enough to keep away from Rey.

At church, he’s an imposter among the faithful, the sort of wolf in sheep’s clothing that Matthew 7:15 warns about. It’s easier to see the hateful lies he swallowed, now that he better understands why he was so hungry for them.

Pastor Snoke reads Psalms 139:13—for you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb—and when he condemns the women who end their pregnancies, Ben thinks of Rey at age seventeen. Six weeks along and living out of her car. She told him, in the middle of the night a few weeks ago, that she had an abortion, went to college, and tried not to look back.

Not so long ago, Ben believed everything Pastor Snoke is saying now.

He stands, runs out of the church as fast as his legs will carry him, and finds a quiet place behind the church to hide. It keeps him from vomiting in the front pew, but then he thinks of what will await him at Pastor Snoke’s house. Hours in his locked room, or maybe a simple slap to the face. It’s too late to go home, and he can’t risk losing his place at Litton, his place beside Rey—

Help me please help me I can’t do this alone somebody help me—

Ben doesn’t know if he’s praying to his father or God, but maybe if he calls out loud enough and long enough, someone will answer.

—

He doesn’t have to go to church the next week, because the bruise on his cheek still hasn’t healed.

Ben spends all of Sunday morning writing a letter to his mother. It starts with I’m sorry and ends with please forgive me, but he can’t bring himself to deliver it. His home is only five miles away, but with the blame and betrayal he’d have to cross to get there, it might as well be a thousand.

He never has been brave. It’s a hard truth that Ben accepted years ago, after he had to look away from his dying father, and in the blink of an eye, missed the most important moment of his life.

—

Ben talks to Rey on the burner phone that he bought right after finals. He hides in his closet and keeps his voice pitched low, feeling more like a child than a twenty-year-old man.

“I miss you,” he whispers.

“I…” He hears Rey take an unsteady breath, her voice two hundred miles away, yet right in his ear. “I miss you too.”

Ben chews his lip, worrying the bruised flesh between his teeth so that the sting ties him to the present. “So, what are you teaching next semester? I’m taking Malbus again for—”

“I don’t want to talk about work,” Rey says, snappish enough that its sharpness rings in Ben’s ears.

“Well then what do you want to talk about?” he asks. “Because it doesn’t seem like you want to talk about us either, and those are the only two things we have in common.”

“Don’t be dramatic. It just seems—it’s not right for us to mix this up with—” She sighs, then her voice lowers, softens, when she says, “I don’t want to confuse you. There’s what we’re doing… and then there’s what we are to each other. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Their affair and their relationship lead to the same thing for him. He isn’t a student fucking his professor; he’s just a man making love to the woman he’s devoted to. But he only says, “Yeah, of course. I get it.”

—

“I expect better from you this year,” Pastor Snoke says. “Don’t let anything steer you away from the right path, no matter how tempting it is. If you’re not vigilant, it’s easy to be seduced by the world, to forget what needs to be done. Remember my lessons.”

Ben nods, fidgeting with his keys—keys to a gently used Toyota that Pastor Snoke gave him a week ago.

“I’ll do my best. And you won’t have any reason to hear about me this year, I promise.”

The drive back to Litton stretches on and on, the same highway view repeating a thousand times. The sidelines broken by meadows, cornfields, and roadside woods, dotted with billboards for churches, jewelry companies, fast-food restaurants. Plain black promises on white canvas claim that THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH, half a mile down from a Hustler Hollywood.

By the time he reaches his school, Ben needs a shower and a nap, but the first thing he does, even before unloading his belongings into his new student apartment, is search out Rey. Her office is locked and silent, but it’s easy enough to find her in the library, wandering through the stacks with three books already under her arm.

She’s beautiful. Hair pulled up into three buns today, something new and a little silly that makes her look younger than thirty.

He pretends to examine a book near her and whispers, “Go to the restroom down the hall and wait for me.”

There’s a smile that Rey is trying to hold back, but it shows at the corners of her eyes. “Well hello to you too, darling.”

Ben pulls out a heavy book on the phenomenology of religion and flips to a page on Eliade. It’s boring, but reading it gives him something to think about besides the ache settling between his legs, tightening his throat, beating in his chest. Lust, homesickness, love. He glances around, checking for students that he already knows won’t be there.

“I need to kiss you,” Ben whispers. “Need to get my mouth on all of you.”

Five minutes later, they’re locked in the third-floor bathroom, kissing and biting at each other, pulling at clothes. Ben holds Rey against the wall, one arm braced over her head, the other unbuttoning her loose jeans. She’s a tall woman, but when they’re pressed close this way, both on their feet instead of in bed, she seems small, slight. Easy to have however he wants, so long as she wants it too.

Rey shivers when he tugs at her zipper, a shiver that turns to steady trembling as he yanks her pants and plain cotton underwear down her hips and thighs, lets them drop to her ankles.

He gets on his knees, and he loves it, loves everything about this. The sharp jerk of Rey’s fingers in his hair as she guides him closer, the whimpers she muffles around her own knuckles. The mindless calm that settles over him as he lets her take charge, giving orders and pulling his hair and bucking against his mouth. He loves the taste and smell of her, the heat and salt musk on his tongue. Wet, so wet, even more so as he unravels her with each lick, all slick warmth across his mouth and around his fingers, crooked inside her. He feels it when she comes, the quivering of her sex that he’s touching from within.

Then he pulls away, climbs to his feet, wipes the mess from his mouth with his shirtsleeve, and turns Rey around so that she’s facing the wall.

“Do you have—?”

“Yeah. I made a pitstop on the way here.”

Ben unfastens his jeans, gets them down to his knees, tangled with his boxers, and pulls a condom from his pocket. God bless Hustler, he thinks, and he doesn’t even have time to feel guilty about it before he’s inside her, and then that’s all he cares about. Rey, pressed flat against the wall, letting out the quietest of whimpers every time he thrusts. Rey, moaning his name again and again, telling him to fuck her, to have her harder, faster, to make her feel it tomorrow.

I love you, he thinks, when he’s close, when he comes, when he’s falling down from the high of pleasure. And later still, after they’ve straightened their clothes and parted ways, and he’s lying in his bed alone that night, he thinks it again: I love you. I love you so much that it’s tearing me apart.

He wishes Rey was here, to sleep beside him. That he could wake up next to her each morning, until he’s earned the intimacy of her heart as much as the intimacy of her body. That he could fall asleep in her arms at night, taking turns being each other’s protectors.

It’s becoming misery, to need someone so fully, and be needed back only in the basest, barest possible way.

—

Ben wonders how long they can keep this up. By December, he can hardly stand it. He turns twenty-one just before finals, and Rey promises to take him for a drink when the new semester starts. Plans for something like a date sustain him through his exams, distracting but elating, and he’s motivated like never before to do well.

He aces every exam, doesn’t even need to see his grades to know it, and when he tells Rey, she laughs. Throws her arms around his neck and says, “You really are brilliant. It’s a shame how well you know it, though.”

During Christmas break, he’s lost. Divergent schedules and the need for discretion keep them apart more often than not, but at least at school he has the privilege of seeing Rey. Even if it’s only a glimpse of her, walking around campus or grabbing a meal in the refectory (where she always goes back for second helpings of the dishes she likes).

When they’re together, he needs her so fiercely that it feels like something inside of him, something deep-seated and important, is being pulled from its place. Ripped out and exposed, made raw before this woman who owns him. And when they’re apart, he aches. That same part, that necessary piece of self, hurts to be away from Rey.

But she doesn’t feel the same. It’s obvious from the reservation he often feels behind her touch outside of bed, the gentle way she always cues him to leave her home before sunrise, that Rey’s desires run shallower than his own. She’s glad to use him and be used, but nothing more.

And Ben knows, as much as he doesn’t want to, that this isn’t sustainable, could never stand the test of time. An uneven love will eventually overbalance.

—

It ends as abruptly as it started, on a cold night in April.

A storm rages outside, and a clap of thunder startles Ben awake. Muzzy-headed and still boneless from lovemaking, it takes him a moment to register that Rey isn’t beside him. He climbs out of bed, pulls on his jeans, and wanders through her apartment, calling her name.

He finds her outside, on the patio, grasping the railing with a white-knuckled grip. As if that hold is the only thing that might keep her from hauling herself right over the balustrade and falling three stories to the pavement below. Ben grabs Rey by the arm and yanks her around, because he can’t tolerate it, seeing her lean so close to the edge like that.

Lightning flashes, a fork of purple-white fire branching across the sky, illuminating the whole darkness, and the whole of them, standing half-naked in the watchful night.

She’s crying. He’s never seen Rey cry before, and he knows, even before he asks, “What’s wrong?” that this is it. This is the end.

“I can’t—” She sniffs, runs a hand through her soaked hair, and says, “I can’t keep doing this, Ben. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

The wind is cold on his skin, ferrying a thousand icy raindrops that beat against his body, that could eat him alive, and for a moment, that’s all he can feel. The wind, the rain, the cold.

Then the rest of it hits, and he runs inside, to get away from Rey more than to get away from the storm. He pulls on his shirt and shoes, grabs his backpack from the coat closet, and rushes into the hallway, down the staircase, running as fast and as far as he can when he can’t think, when he can’t breathe.

“Ben, wait!”

Rey followed him outside, still dressed only in a drenched sweater, long enough to cover any sight of her panties. She’s shivering, hair soaked flat against her face, barefoot and sobbing in the rain.

“Let me explain! Please—”

He rounds on her, doesn’t even think before he pushes her against the brick wall. “Why? You’re kicking me out, aren’t you? So I might as well go.”

She bites her lip, looks up at him with swollen eyes, her lashes wet with tears and rain. “I’m trying to do the right thing by you. This is hurting you. I can see that it’s hurting you, and I—” Rey looks down, and he knows that whatever is coming next will be awful. “I don’t feel the same way you do, Ben, and you deserve better than to be strung along.”

“Strung along?” He leans closer, bows low enough that he could kiss her mouth if he wanted to. If she wanted him to. “You’ve tied me up into knots, wrapped me around your little finger. Do you really think there’s anything right left that we can do here?”

She tilts her head back, angling her lips a shade nearer to his own, showing her throat to him, like prey.

“I love you,” Ben says, and finally, the words are out. He’s free of carrying them around like a weight on his shoulders, growing heavier each day they go unspoken.

Rey only nods, then whispers, “I know.”

It’s not her rejection that hurts the most. That, at least, he saw coming. It’s the softness in Rey’s eyes, the cloak of her pity that settles over him, that hits hardest.

He kisses her, presses her against the wall more roughly, taking her mouth and caging her body with his own so that, at least in this way, he can be the one in control. Bigger and stronger, with the power to make her whimper and kiss back and moan. To quiver under his roaming hands—

Rey pushes him. She isn’t strong enough to throw him off of her, but Ben still backs away.

They watch each other. Rey cries so hard that her chest heaves, and the rain keeps falling, the heavens keep roiling with a spring storm. Indiscriminate, unmoved by the display below them.

When Ben walks away, he doesn’t look back.

SONG OF SOLOMON 5:6

I opened for my beloved, but my beloved had left; he was gone. My heart sank at his departure. I looked for him but did not find him. I called him but he did not answer.

—

His faded faith must be written all over him, because Pastor Snoke asks him flat-out in the middle of June, “Do you even believe anymore, Ben?”

This is the time to lie, to claim a faith he’s been leaving by the wayside for years, inch by inch, verse by verse. Lying would protect him, secure his final year of school, keep a roof over his head.

He thinks of blood on the bathroom floor, and his father’s last breath—the one that he looked away from, the one he missed, because he’s a coward. He thinks of Rey, crying in the rain, throwing him aside like trash. If he’s learned anything, it’s that there are many ways to give up, and some hurt more than others. But this one isn’t going to hurt at all.

“No,” Ben says. “I don’t believe in any of it, and I don’t think I ever really did. I just wanted to be free of my grief, and you dangled the Word over me like a worm over a hungry fish. So I took it.”

Suddenly Pastor Snoke’s wholesome face turns into something ugly, low, and foul. The scar across his cheek stands out, white and twisted with the sneer around his mouth. For the first time, Ben thinks he must have earned that mark.

“I thought you were the son I never had,” Snoke says. “But you’re just as much a disappointment to me as you were to your father.”

Ben punches him, and it feels good, it feels so satisfying, to finally hit this man back.

Snoke barely flinches, but it isn’t his pain that Ben wants anyway. Just the simple act of reclaiming himself, of taking back a small measure of the power that he handed over—no, that Snoke took from him.

The pastor touches his mouth, and it comes away bloody. “Get out, and don’t ever show your face here again.”

“Don’t worry,” Ben says. “I won’t.”

—

There aren’t a lot of resources for homeless twenty-somethings in Cottontown. After Snoke sent him away, he walked around for two days with nothing but the clothes on his back. All of his money came from Snoke, and he hates to spend even the thirty-two dollars in his pocket on food.

His mother’s house is so close. He could walk there in no time, he could say that he left the church and beg to come home. But he doesn’t have any right to that home, doesn’t have any right to her forgiveness, even if she’d grant it.

He borrows a stranger’s phone while he’s shopping for bread and bologna at Walmart, dials his mom’s number, then hangs up before it can ring. He calls Rey after that, and even though he doesn’t expect her to pick up, it still hurts when she doesn’t answer.

Ben smiles at the little blue-haired lady who let him borrow her ten-year-old flip phone, thanks her, and leaves the shop without buying anything.

—

The summer heat is a new hell, the kind that almost makes Ben believe in the devil again. Every day is a fresh exercise in heat exhaustion, so he finds the coolest places to lurk. Shaded park benches, the community center, under the red-striped flower shop awning.

Mrs. Miller, the shop’s owner, gives him ice water and invites him inside whenever he likes. Ben uses her bathroom to wash up with hand soap, but he knows he still looks ragged and dirty. He won’t repay Mrs. Miller’s kindness by lingering in her shop, driving away customers.

He goes to the Hope Center at the beginning of July, and when he explains the situation with Pastor Snoke, they agree that it’s terrible, just terrible, that a man of God would do such a thing.

Ben shrugs. “I would’ve run away if he hadn’t kicked me out first.”

I’m good at running away.

The women at the center help him find an apartment by the middle of July, and the first night he sleeps inside, cradled on an air-mattress in a cool bedroom, he almost cries.

The next day, when he brings Mrs. Miller a box of chocolates as a thank you gift, she offers him a job.

Working at the shop is easy enough for Ben. He’s always been meticulous, attuned to the fine details of things, whether it’s the nuances of a religious text or the careful pitch of Rey’s cries as he drew her closer to coming. That pays off once his days are consumed by caring for and arranging flowers. Mrs. Miller teaches him that too much baby’s breath only makes arrangements look tacky, the meaning of flowers is useless information unless you’re trying to sell Valentine’s arrangements or guilt-roses, and no, carnations never stop smelling like funerals.

August comes, and August goes, taking the start of a new semester at Litton with it.

—

His mother walks into the empty flower shop on September 29th at exactly one o’clock in the afternoon, and Ben knows he’ll remember this day for the rest of his life. It’s going to be tucked away in his memory for safekeeping, like flowers between the pages of a Bible.

She doesn’t see him at first, too busy examining a display of white roses, so Ben takes a moment to watch her. Her long dark braid is streaked with silver now, the fine lines by her eyes more prominent. She looks as beautiful as ever, but older. Of course she does; it’s been three years, eight months, and six days since they last saw each other. Not that he allowed himself to count, until recently.

“Mom…”

It chokes out of him before he even means to say anything, but she turns immediately, her brown eyes going wide, wider, then glassy with tears. She doesn’t let them fall, though. His mother has never been an easy crier, not like him.

“Ben?”

It stings to hear so much reservation in her voice, hope colored by disbelief, by mourning.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says.

Ben steps around the counter, gripping its edge to keep himself steady. His mom walks over, holds out her hands, trembling, tentative, and asks, “Can I hug you?”

It isn’t until he has her wrapped in his arms that Ben realizes how much he’s missed this, missed her.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Mom, please—”

He doesn’t even know what he means to say. Don’t hate me? Still love me? Let me come home? It doesn’t matter, because she burrows closer, and buries her head against his chest. Was she always this tiny, this delicate?

They finally fall away from the embrace, but then his mother stands up on the tips of her toes to cup his face between her hands. “You’re so tall,” she says, crying now, finally crying like he is. “When did you get so tall?”

Once they’ve (mostly) managed to let go of each other, Ben locks up the shop, calls Mrs. Miller to tell her what happened, and follows his mom to her car. His voice is stuck in his throat all the way back to Peachtree Street, and as soon as they reach the house, he almost starts crying again. His mom repainted the siding from white to a soft, sunny yellow, and there’s a garden around the porch now. It’s his house, but not as he remembers it.

There are a few cars parked in the driveway and on the lawn around it, one that he recognizes as his grandmother’s, another that he thinks might belong to his godparents, Bail and Breha.

“What’s everyone doing here?” he asks.

“Oh, shit, I didn’t even think to tell you. The family gets together on the last Friday of every month now, sweetheart. After you left—well I thought it might be a good idea for all of us to stay close.”

Before Ben can figure out what to say, his mom smiles at him, as warmly as if no time has passed at all. “Come on. It’s the perfect day for you to come home.”

—

His grandmother sobs for ten minutes straight and won’t let go of him until Mom says, “All right, give him a chance to breathe. Don’t want to run him off again.”

Ben laughs, more out of shock than good humor, but he’s thankful that there’s so little his mother finds too sacred to make fun of.

“This is a day for family, Ben,” Uncle Luke says, smiling. “Once you’ve had some time to let that sink in, it might be good for you to think about it.”

Ben hugs Uncle Luke once more, then his cousin Finn and Breha, then his mother. He can’t get enough of pulling her close, smelling the comforting floral scent of her perfume, one thing that’s still the same after all this time.

The house is loud and boisterous, overwhelming but beautiful. Once, the noise would have bothered him, but now he doesn’t care. Through the laughter and the music and hollering from one room to another, all Ben hears is joy. A home full of joy, when he needed it most, and he can only be thankful for his family’s warmth and grace.

Maybe Luke isn’t wrong. Being here, today of all days, makes him believe for the first time in a long while that something greater than himself could be at work.

—

That night, after everyone else has gone home, Ben stays up until the early hours of the morning, talking with his mother. He tells her about living with Pastor Snoke. About college and Rey, and feeling lost without her. Most of all, though, they remember Dad together.

When dawn starts creeping through the windows, warming the kitchen with golden light, his mom says, “He’d be proud of you, Ben. So proud.”

They laugh and cry and laugh again, and this is it, he thinks. This is what he needed all along. Time for the sharp edges of his grief to wear down, and someone to share this with, the burden of love cut short. There’s no magic cure for loss, but he can do this. He can keep going.

—

Ben is lying in his childhood bed, listening to morning birdsong outside his window, when he finally calls Rey.

She answers on the second ring. He doesn’t even get through a greeting before she says, “Ben! Where the hell are you? I’ve been worried out of my mind. First you don’t answer my calls, then you never show up at school? I’ve—I didn’t know what—I was afraid you’d hurt yourself.”

Rey takes three shuddering breaths, and he thinks she might be trying not to hyperventilate.

He sits up, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his head, and holds out his hands. Then he feels stupid. It’s not like he can touch her from here.

“It’s all right, I’m all right. Now, anyway. I’m home—with my mom, I mean, and—”

“I lied,” Rey says. The words come out in a rush, like she’s been holding them in since the last time they spoke, letting honesty fester in some hidden corner of her heart.

“Lied about what?” Ben asks.

He can hear her mouth opening, the start of her voice, trembling over the line. It gives him the illusion that she’s close enough to kiss, despite the distance between them.

“I told you that I don’t feel the same way you do,” she says. “I lied.”

They spend all morning on the phone, talking through hard truths and simple ones. Being together, truly together, won’t be easy. But this time, they agree that it’s a risk worth taking.

HEBREWS 11:1

Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.

—

That afternoon, Ben goes to the creek behind his house. His mother would probably find this silly, but he’s always found more meaning in ritual than she does. He takes off his socks and shoes, rolls his pants up to his knees, and walks into the hungry water.

Ben wants to cast off this person he’s been for the last eight years: arrogant and selfish, whether devout or doubtful. He’s done this once before, stepped into living water in the hopes that it might wash him clean, but this is different. Today, Ben isn’t running away. Today, he’s walking toward something.

He looks up, unsure of who he’s speaking to, or if anyone is even listening, but certain for once that it doesn’t matter. “Hi,” he says. “It’s been awhile.”

[academla]

Summer 2017 Update

Hey guys! Finally, another big update post. If you haven’t read these before, I split it into sections: Academic, Financial/Professional, Social, Mental Health, and anything else I feel like. Feel free to skim! (Give this a like if you’re actually reading it because I feel like most people ignore these update posts, which is fine, I’m just curious haha.)

Academic

I go back to school on September 5. I’m super excited, but I think my underlying anxiety has been affecting me a bit.

Classes I’m taking on campus: Classics of Children’s Literature, Abnormal Psychology, and Ethics & Society (an Honors seminar).

Classes I’m taking online: History of World Civilizations Before 1500 & Child Psychology.

Here are some comments on each class so far (I’m nothing if not thorough, guys):

Children’s Lit: Well, Harry Potter is on the reading list, so I’m already there. I’ve emailed the professor already and she seems super nice, so I’m pretty excited. The syllabus is a bit intimidating; I’m sure it will be fine, though, and having a nice professor makes a huge difference.

Abnormal Psych: I’m going to have the same prof as I did for Intro, and I’m really pumped about that (so is she). I’m nervous because the tests are harder and longer, but she was very reassuring that I’ll be fine. There was a whole issue because I thought that Abnormal had service learning linked to it (service learning is basically where you get experience doing things related to the course, so essentially volunteer/internship work) and was planning to use an internship that has been in the works since the winter for that. However, turns out that it isn’t linked. My prof was super nice and said she would be flexible. I emailed my adviser in a bit of a panic, and she informed me that actually service learning is no longer a requirement of my major. So, I’m going to go ahead and do the internship for my resume, but not have to worry about the assignments and grade aspect.

Ethics & Society: I don’t know anything about this really, but I do know that the professor is well-liked and I’ve seen him a few times.

History: Okay, so I hate history. I’m quite well-rounded as a student and I know that I’m lucky that most classes, I do very well in and enjoy. But history just... I don’t even know. My history teachers in the past have all thought I was really good, and I was grade-wise; I simply didn’t enjoy it. So to make this bearable, I know I need to have a professor I like. I was going to take it on campus, and emailed briefly with the professor I was going to have, but he had bad RateMyProfessors ratings and struck me as not very personable or understanding or nice. I checked about online courses and saw that there is one being taught by the director of the Honors College that I’m in, whom I really like and has a great reputation and ratings. Unfortunately there is a $125 fee associated with online courses that I wasn’t aware of, but cost-benefit wise, I really think I’ll be happiest like this.

Child Psych: Oh GOD. Why am I so extra? I emailed the prof once and she was super nice. Then I replied, and since online courses are different from real-life ones in that you don’t really get that ‘getting-to-know-you’ vibe with professors because it’s so remote, I mentioned that I can be an anxious student. I just said basically that means sometimes I’ll ask a lot of questions or check and double-check things for reassurance. I also asked if she was a professor willing to look at drafts or not. She completely got the wrong impression and sent back an email (that was quite final too; signed it “All the best”) as though I had been a hysterical student coming to her with anxiety that I had no idea how to handle. She told me that there are personal counseling services offered by the college as well as the writing center with writing tutors. I’ve had outside counseling for 7 years, and I’m a writing tutor... so that was ironic and also a little embarrassing. Whoops. Honestly, when I get embarrassed about things like that (which I often do) I kind of remind myself that I’m just there to learn and hopefully earn that A, so what they think of me doesn’t matter that much.

All and all, I’m excited for school to start. I want to learn things and take notes and have stuff to do. I also have waves of anxiety, which I’m working very hard to combat with reality checks and focusing on the positives. Oh, and I got an A somehow on my chem accelerated summer course :)

Financial

I have worked two jobs this summer after a lot of miscommunication and lack of clarity:

A preschool, the same one I worked at during my gap year. It was unfortunate because I thought I was going to work full-time there after my chem course, but they didn’t need me because they had so much help. I ended up working Thursdays and Fridays there and Monday through Wednesday at my dad’s job. Now that all the summer help is leaving, though, they’re back to being in desperate need. Everyone there is pretty stressed (and families have been leaving).

At the place my dad works. They produce food and formula for people with metabolic disorders (primarily PKU). I was extremely appreciated there, which was nice, and I got a $4 raise on my second week! They’re desperately understaffed and having problems with their products, as well as not being able to keep up with general demand. I electronically filed faxes dating back to 2016, stuffed envelopes (my favorite), put in tons of orders (one day I put in 34 out of a total 62 orders that day), and by the end was allowed to check emails and reply to some of them. I LOVED the job. However, there’s the possibility I might be able to work there on Fridays during the school year, which I would love. It’s stressful there because there’s so much shit going on and people are basically running around putting out fires all day, but I enjoy my work so much.

During the year, I’m hoping to work at my dad’s job on Fridays, do my psychology internship (if you don’t recall, I’m going to be working at a VA hospital helping with a study on suicide prevention), and tutor! I’m a math and writing tutor. They’re two completely different trainings and types of tutoring, so it should be interesting. Luckily we get to shadow a writing tutor for awhile before being on our own.

I’m not doing well with money, guys. The entire year of 2017, I’ve only made $300 or so. I’ve spent $1,800 on school, even with scholarships, and $940 on medical things such as medication and copays. I did win a $1,000 scholarship which has been very delayed in arriving and I’m praying it will get here by the end of this week or next week so it can be applied to my account. I didn’t work over winter break, which was really my downfall; I needed the time for a mental health break, though... so I’m trying not to beat myself up over it.

Unfortunately it took awhile too for me to lock down my jobs, meaning I only got to work for like 4 or 5 weeks. That really isn’t very much money even with the raise I got. Right now I’m owing $615 per month for my payment plan, and even with tutoring and potential Fridays at my dad’s job, I’m definitely going to lose money. I’m considering taking one winter class online, so I can still work all winter break. That $125 extra fee from my web class sure didn’t help me.

But I must soldier on! I’m going to make sure that none of my money ever goes to frivolous things and never goes to waste. Money is meant to be spent and not hoarded, as my mom reminds me, and it’s okay to spend some on things like going out every so often as well, so I shouldn’t be beating myself up for that (though I still am). School was always going to suck up money. I’m trying very very hard to stay in the moment now and not stress about next semester or worse, what will happen when I get hit with that $30k bill when I transfer and don’t have even close to that much saved.

Social

I’ve changed several times throughout my life socially. In 9th grade, I was extremely social because I needed to be and I had trouble being by myself. It was a lot like that through high school. When I made online friends in 11th grade, they were my social life while drama and bullying and shit went on in real life. Recently, I had a major burst in socialness online, and eventually reached breaking point when I became embroiled in drama.

Look, I’m 20 years old. I’m turning 21 in November. I had to ask myself, why the fuck am I on vacation with family, working on scholarship essays last-minute, and spending my time in the bathroom on my phone dealing with drama with someone years and years younger who’s slandering me to people whose opinions I shouldn’t give two shits about?

That was a big reality check. Because I wanted vengeance, I did. I wanted so badly to expose someone who was gleaning attention and convincing others and spreading half-truths and ruining people’s lives. But then I realized, you know what? That isn’t my goal in life. My goal in life isn’t to tear people down because they’ve torn others down. It’s so, so difficult. I was angry. I was upset. This person violated all of my principles. And we had the evidence against them, we could have potentially won most people over, and I wanted it not for my sake but for the sake of those they had hurt so much more than they hurt me.

But I couldn’t do it. In the end, I called it off. I backed out. I told people to lay off and let karma do its work. I realized how toxic the situation was, how absurd it was for me to be living on the internet when I’m in one of the most exciting periods of my life. How utterly imbecilic I was acting, getting caught up in so much senseless, meaningless, fruitless drama.

After that, I disengaged further from large social groups. I was already overwhelmed by the amount of people always trying to talk to me, so I had to cut myself off from that. And it feels so. Much. Better.

I’ve become more introverted, really. I work all day, then I write fanfiction and watch Netflix and color in my room by myself and I love it. I have any number of people I could hit up anytime and ask to hang out or video chat. But I don’t feel that push, that obsessive need, to be social all the time. Social media became addicting. I still work on that.

I’ve stayed in touch with real-life friends and done things with them when I had the energy, money, and time. Unfortunately my ex and then long-time guy friend both asked me out, and that was incredibly awkward, and the end of that. The trouble with my school is that there are a lot of dual enrollment students who are like, 16 or 17. Much as I love them, I’ve been thirsting for someone my own age with similar interests who I can hang out with. At the tutoring training I attended, I met someone (a guy, oooh). He’s 21 and we had a really good time together. I’m hoping we can hang out once the semester starts! I also met a girl who’s only 17, but she seems very mature and sweet and I also hope to hang out with her.

Things are good socially. I’m always working on that area of my life (with regards to mental health, mostly) but I’m still going strong. I have moments of loneliness for sure. However, I’m happy with myself and happy with my life. That’s what counts.

Mental health

If 10 is completely flawless and 0 is utter breakdown and 5 is rough, I would say my summer has been a solid 7 or 8. Which is pretty damn good!

Areas I’m working on still:

Body image. My ED voice has been loud this summer. That’s probably the area of most concern to me.

Anxiety. It hasn’t been too bad, but with transitions it usually increases, and I’ve noticed myself being more anxious (free-floating anxiety mostly) and irritable in the past few days.

Worrying way too much about others’ opinions. This pretty much traces to the internet. I mean, before I went on hiatus, I had tens of thousands of people criticizing my every word and move. That takes a toll. Moreover, as a fanfic writer, it’s pretty difficult to post things to the internet without craving comments and kudos and hits. I’ve turned off viewing hits for my own sanity, and taken breathers when I felt like I was getting too hung up on the ‘popularity’ of my fics. I write for myself, because I enjoy it. Not for the attention. I just have to remind myself of that from time to time, and I try not to be competitive. It’s really the numbers that get me - the hits and the kudos. I mean, I compare myself to people in different fandoms, fandoms I don’t even write for. It’s so dumb.

All in all, I’m proud of how I’ve been doing. I do have moments of stress mainly about money, but that’s par for the course. I would say I’ve made a 100% improvement from last summer/year and intend to continue doing so, even in light of the impending stressors.

Other

My new favorite movie is Gifted. Oh my god, I love it so much. I’ve seen it like, 5 times (2 of those were illegally whoops). I’ve been fairly active on Snapchat still - add me there edye327. I don’t really have much else to say, except thank you to people who have bought me things from my wishlist that I couldn’t otherwise afford. I haven’t gotten anything recently, but I just wanted to reiterate my appreciation.

If you’ve read this all the way through, reply with the color of your favorite shirt.

Much love,

Edye

[secret-captain-swan-blog]

Castle on the Hill

English Literature PhD student Emma Swan just needs money to pay for her last semester of grad school tuition. Killian Jones has always dreamed of opening a bookshop but has never been able to afford it. So when the small principality of Misthaven is looking for their lost princess, the pair decide that this might just be the perfect money making scheme.

A Multi-chapter Modern Day + Lost Princess (think Rapunzel/Anastasia-esque) + Book Lovers in a Coffee Shop AU

Rating: T

Word Count: 20606/ ?

Prologue (Part 1 + 2) // Ch 1 // Ch 2

Read on: Ao3

A million thanks to @katie-dub for beta-ing. Her wonderful advice helped push this chapter to be so much better than it was before. Much love chica :)

The worst part about this whole situation is that Emma now has to leave Mamie’s. She had just gotten comfy, started her morning - well, now afternoon - routine. But with Mr. Super-Hot-And-Wants-To-Offer-You-A-Lot-Of-Money lingering in the coffee shop, she needs her own space to process the offer.

So, she packs up her things and heads out of the café. Mamie’s is in a part of Misthaven called Old Town. Emma likes Old Town with its winding streets and ancient buildings. It’s got a smattering of high end stores that have opened up there after Misthaven’s economic revival. The weather is fair today, so there are a fair amount of people at outdoor cafes, drinking on terraces. She knows she could stay close to Mamie’s and grab a sunny seat at a different café. And yet, she’s restless and decides that she needs more space between her and Killian.

Emma crosses the bridge to the more modern part of the city. The university is here. Universities are soothing to her. Libraries, classrooms, students studying on the quad - all of these are familiar to Emma. There is the buzz of a new semester alive on campus that she loves. The campus sits on a hill overlooking the town.

She hasn’t spent that much time exploring the campus yet. She received her student ID and turned in her paperwork a few days before, but for the most part she’s spent her last few days working on her applying for visa, setting up her apartment, fighting jetlag, and guzzling Mamie’s cappuccinos.

She thinks about taking this time to explore the library and finding a book to take her mind off the situation for a couple hours, but she knows she doesn’t have that luxury. So instead, she collapses onto a bench that overlooks Old Town.

From here, she can trace the outline of the town. There are the towers of the main Cathedral, and smaller spires of a few others. The opera house rests along the river, with a distinctive domed roof. The most predominant feature of Old Town is the large castle perched on the opposite hill. It’s a mess of turrets and tall grey walls, with sprawling grounds extending backwards into the forest and hills beyond. There is something about the castle that makes Emma shiver. It’s austere. It’s dazzling.

Emma gazes up at it for a moment. She knows enough from her research to know that the Queen doesn’t live there anymore. The prime minister’s offices are there, as is parliament. It’s a government building, no longer a home. Emma thinks of the events that happened there - the first revolution, the slaughter of the Royal Family - or, well - at least part of it. Then another revolution and suicide of a dictator. Emma understands why no one would want to live there.

If she were the princess, she would have been born there. She thinks of the dreams that haunted her childhood - castle hallways, dresses that rustled when she walked, running across palace grounds at night. She knows that they were just her childish imaginings, but well, she’s never had a home. She’s never had a starting point to her story. Who is to say she isn’t the lost princess?

There is a lot of her that thinks that this plan is stupid. She’s not a princess. She’s the opposite. She’s the kind of kid who was constantly unwanted. She’s had to scrape her life together with her own bare hands.

But, she’s curious. What is there to lose? She could have a chance at money - enough to do more than just finish her degree and pay off her student loans. That’s the only reason she’s giving this offer the time of day.

There is more though. She could have a chance at a family. She had Ingrid at one point. She has Belle now. But she’s never a real family - no mothers or fathers or aunts or uncles. If this somehow works, if she somehow charms the queen into thinking she is her daughter, then she’d have a home. She’d have someone who care about her.

What is she thinking ?

Emma pinches herself, shaking the thought of family from her mind with vehemence. She’s only made it this far because she’s relied on herself. She’s only made it this far by not letting anyone in. She has her walls and fierce independence because it’s been the only way for her to survive. She doesn’t need a family. She doesn’t need this plan.

But, isn’t this plan the best solution to her problem?

She was literally just waiting for something to fall in her lap and it did. Duke fell in her lap. Blanche Neige fell into her lap. She’s taken advantage of each of those opportunities and used them to get ahead. So shouldn’t she, in her very plucky nature, take advantage of this opportunity to get ahead?

Yes, she should. She squares her shoulders. She is going to give it a shot. Not because of sentimental things, like family, like home. Not because the guy who offered her this opportunity is sex-on-a-stick. She’s doing this because she needs money. She needs to finish her PhD. That’s it.

He’s waiting outside the restaurant a half hour early. It’s nearly dusk and the streets are milling with activity. Young and old couples, families of tourists, small packs of teenagers making their ways to restaurants and bars to begin their evening. Their fluttering of moment sends a feeling of anticipation into the air. He wonders if she’ll show.

Emma.

He can’t believe she’s called Emma. What are the chances that this girl he randomly found would not only be blond and American, but also named Emma?

And her chin, she has the same dimpled chin that the princess did.

It’s just enough that he thinks they might be able to pull this off. He lived in the castle. He technically knew the lost princess. His brother was the last one to see her alive.  If anyone could have found the real princess - it’s him.

And, well, if anyone is going to convince the queen that she is the princess - it might be this girl.

That is, if she shows up.

He waits a half hour till it’s the time she’s supposed to be here. Then his eyes are on his watch as he waits for five minutes to pass, then ten, then fifteen. Maybe she isn’t coming. She was really skeptical. It was a lot to throw on someone who was just minding their business.

It’s probably unrealistic anyway. She must have a family of her own. She must have friends she cares about. She’s probably just here on holiday - she said something about research right? She can’t just give it all up to pretend to be a princess. So what? So he can open a bookshop? His life is pretty good. He doesn’t need anything more and he doesn’t need to draw a random girl into this messy plan. It’s good that she hasn’t shown up. She’ll be better off without this plan.

“Hey,” a voice interrupt his thoughts, “Killian, right?”

It’s her. She’s changed from earlier. She wearing a sundress and a jean jacket. Her hair is up in a ponytail. Her glasses are gone too, revealing mossy green eyes.

She is still gorgeous.

“Emma.” He says, not trying to sound so surprised.

“Sorry, I’m a little late,” she says, “I just-“

“No need to apologize,” he replies, “let’s just get dinner, shall we, love?”

He ushers her into the restaurant. It’s a nice place. He used to go to school with the owner’s daughter, but she died in the revolution. He wishes he was he here for that. He should have died for the country instead of her. Those in the revolution were braver than him.

They are seated in the back, in a table he requested in advance because it’d be more private. He doesn’t want to risk someone overhearing his plan. He asks the waiter to bring over a nice bottle of red.

“So,” he says, beginning to ramble, his hesitations coming back. “Have you given it any thought? Because I was thinking about it and it was unfair for me to even put you up to this. It was selfish-“

“No.” She interrupts him this time. “It’s actually perfect. Granted, I’m not really the kind of girl who does this kind of thing. I’m not anything close to a princess. But I really, really need money.”

“Fair enough.” He says, “I understand that the fiscal reward makes it all worth it. So if you aren’t a princess- just who are you, Swan?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she says, raising her eyebrows.

Just then, the wine arrives. He nods at the waiter to let the lady taste it first. When she gives a small smile and nods, he beckons at the waiter to pour two glasses.

When the waiter is out of earshot, he raises his glass, “To our potential business arrangement.”

She lifts her glass back and then takes a few huge gulps. “We should talk about specifics.”

“Yes, precisely,” he replies. “But look, I see the waiter heading back over. So let’s order, shall we?”

“Shoot,” Emma says, flipping through the menu, “I haven’t had time to look yet. What’s good here?”

“Well, Misthaven cuisine is mostly a mix of French, Belgian and Dutch foods,” He explains quickly, “It’s the best of both worlds really. You’ve got the superb pastry and crepes of France. The excellent chocolate and chips from Belgium. Then there is amazing cheese from Holland. Honestly, you can’t go wrong with anything.”

Emma’s face is still baffled as the waiter approaches for the order.

“Ladies first,” he says, turning to Emma.

“Um, I’ll have the crepe,” she said, her forehead adorably wrinkled.

The waiter nods and turns to Killian.

“Pour moi, le steak-frite, s’il vous plait,” He replies.

The waiter jots their order down and is off again.

"See, love, you survived,” Killian says.

“I think I’ve had a crepe before at like iHop,” Emma tells him.

“What’s iHop?” he asks. It’s his turn to be perplexed.

“It’s like a really cheap pancake place,” Emma starts, “Nevermind. I didn’t eat a lot of global cuisine growing up.”

“Well it’s lucky you are getting to Misthaven now then,” Killian says, “You’ll have plenty of time to eat amazing food.”

Emma smiles and for moment he thinks they both forget the situation at hand. For a moment, they are just two friends out for dinner. For a moment, they aren’t about to undertake a preposterous plot to fool the Queen of Misthaven.

But well, that can only last for so long.

“Right, so, specifics,” He says, “Honestly, I can’t tell you too much because I don’t know that much.”

“What do you mean? You’re the one who approached me with this deal.”

“Right, but, well, like I said a man approached me to find the princess and I thought you’d be close enough,” He explains, shrugging apologetically with a nervous smile.

“You really know how to make a girl feel special,” she snorts.

“Well, I thought you were fake-princess material, so there’s probably a compliment in there if you search for it,” he smiles.

“So what would happen if I say yes?”

“Well, we’d call the chap who put me up for it and he’ll tell us the next step. It will probably involve telling the queen, convincing her it’s you, etcetera.”

“Wait. Can’t she just do a DNA test and figure it out?” Emma asks. It’s a good question.

“Well, from the research I’ve done, it seems that in the past she’s insisted that she would ‘know her daughter’ and refused DNA testing. The only time it’s been used was after each girl was revealed as an imposter.”

Emma nods, as if checking off a mental list of questions. “So, right, that’s question number two - what happens if they think I’m an imposter?”

“Well, in the past, two of the girls have ended up jail,” he begins -

“What? No way. I’m not going to jail. I have a career,” she erupts.

Panic is bright in her eyes. It seems to draw from him an unexpected reaction.

“I’ll take the fall,” he offers.

He blurts it out too quickly. It doesn’t make sense.Why would he risk jail for some lass he just met? He doesn’t need his dream to workout for him to live a decent life. He wants to open his bookshop, desperately. He wouldn’t have taken on this task if he didn’t want his dream to have a chance. All the same, he knows he could see a future where he is happy without this dream coming true.

But she won’t. She needs this money for whatever reason, a reason desperate enough to give this plan a chance. He doesn’t know much about her. He knows she’s pretty. He thinks she mentioned being in grad school, so he knows she’s probably smart. She has a fierce look in her eyes that he can’t ignore. He has this urge to protect her, to help her. Hell, he doesn’t even know what she needs the money for. It doesn’t matter. He feels something for her, something kindred that lingers in her eyes. It’s enough for him to suddenly want to risk everything.

And practically speaking, he has a record. It wouldn’t be a surprise for someone like him to end up in jail again. He can take that worry from her. He can protect her.

The waiter appears with their food, suddenly, shaking him from his thoughts. The man puts their warm plates down before walking off.

Emma takes a bite of her crepe, which from the looks of it is stuffed with mushroom, egg, tomato, and cheese.

“Wow. You were right, Killian. This is really good,” she remarks.

“Told you that you were lucky to be in Misthaven,” he tells her. He wonders if those words resonate on many levels.

“So, what’s next?” Emma asks.

“First, we need to talk about your specifics,” he says.

She takes another bite of crepe as he continues.

“How long are you here for?” he asks.

“A semester,” she says, “til December.”

That’s good , he decides, sufficient time to secure the money.

“And you’ll have to keep your family quiet,” he says.

“That’s easy,” she smiles, “I don’t have a family.”

Shit. This girl is really perfect for this job.

“No family at all?” he asks.

“Nope. Long sad story, but the important thing is that there isn’t anyone who will be offended that I’m claiming someone else is my mom.”

“Brilliant.” He nods. “What about friends?”

“Just one best friend and she’s too busy in grad school to care. But I’ll tell her to stay mum anyway.”

He pops a frite in his mouth.

“What about a boyfriend?” He asks. He knows this question is self-indulgent. What can he say? He’s curious.

“No boyfriend,” she says, “no exes. I’m not really a dating type.”

A curious fact he files in his brain for further thought.

“Well, then it looks like you truly are the perfect woman for the job,” he says.

“So what happens now?” She asks, eating more crepe.

“Well, we call the gentleman, and by gentleman, I mean the scariest man you’ve ever met,” he says, “And tell him we are interested in the deal. Then I assume he’ll arrange a chance to meet the queen and present our case.”

She looks nervous.

“So, I’m up to meet with the guy, it’s just that this whole plan, it makes me hesitant. But, well, like I said, I really need money.”

He wonders what she needs the money for, maybe a hasty bet or some sort of horrible debt. He wants to ask, but thinks better of it. Emma deserves some privacy.

“Listen, Emma, love, I’ll be with you the whole way. If anything seems off, if you feel unsafe - I’ll be right beside you.”

He can tell there is still hesitation in her face. There is still something holding her back. He can’t solve all her problems, but he maybe a little smolder will help.

He tries for his most charming face, a crooked smiled and some uneven eyebrows, and then tosses her a, “Try something new, darling, it’s called trust.”

She rolls her eyes, but her face finally erupts into a true smile and he thinks that everything might be alright.

After their meal, she watches as he calls the man.

All she can think is that she would much rather be in her apartment with her fuzzy socks and a good book. But she’s here. The evening air has gone cold and windy, her sundress floats around her and she feels her legs prickle with goosebumps. She doesn’t want to be here.

“Right,” he says, “he wants us to meet him in twenty minutes.”

“Meet him where?”

She imagines a dark alley somewhere and then her imagination turns it into something uncouth. Who is to say this isn’t going to lead to a trap? Maybe this was all a scheme to get her in a position to rob her, or worse.

“A shop nearby,” He says, “Look, I don’t know who this guy is, but I haven’t told you any lies. I’ll stick with you through this.”

Emma flashes him a doubtful look, because honestly, she’s not really sure she trusts him let alone this shady fellow they are about to meet. She’s starting to think this was a bad idea. She likes to think she could handle herself if she ended up in a bad situation, but she isn’t too sure - especially if she has to face two men. She took a women’s self-defense class in undergrad, but, in the end, she’s not sure if she remembers any of it.

But she plasters on a determined look and vows to give it a shot anyway.

“Right, let’s go,” she says.

They wind through curvy streets. It’s later now and the streets are milling with people having evenings out. There are groups of girls and boys, dressed up and floating out of bars. She wishes she were them, going out to meet new friends and not off to meet a potentially questionable fate.

Yet, she shuffles behind this guy anyway because she’s just a little bit curious.

And she really needs money.

They come to a stop outside a pawn shop on the edge of Old Town, just before it gives way to more residential roads.

It looks dingy on the outside, as if it’s only half used. Or you know, like it’s a front for more shady affairs. There is peeling paint, a boarded-up window. Most of Misthaven has been rebuilt and tidied since the revolution, but it seems like this little nook got passed over.

Emma starts trying to dredge up anything she can remember from that women’s self-defense class. She’s pretty sure if someone grabs her wrist, she can twist it to escape - but twist it which way? She can’t remember. Crap, she’s hopeless.

Killian cracks open the door and they enter the shop. Inside, the air is thick and musty. There are dusty cases containing trinkets and mementos. She looks over at one, full of memorabilia from during the time under the reign of the dictator. There is paraphernalia - pamphlets with Gold’s face on them, buttons with his leering smile. She feels sick and looks over at another cabinet. This one is full of jewels. In the center is a tiny, glittering tiara.

There is something startling about the crown. It’s familiar . She wonders if maybe she played dress up with one that looked like that an early foster home. But it looks too nice to be anything she’d find in a foster home. Everything she was given in her childhood was shit.

“Like what you see, Your Highness?” asks a voice with a chuckle.

She looks up to see a man, just as creepy as Killian described - dark hoodie that covers his face, vague smell of death.

She jumps at his words, not used to the title. She supposes she should get used to it if she is going to impersonate the princess for the next few months.

“Lovely jewels,” she murmurs.

“Lovely indeed,” the death-man hisses.

His voice is a mix of something snake-like and something impish. It makes her blood curdle.

“That crown belonged to the princess,” the man explains.

She looks up at him and he zeroes in on her face. He walks to other side of the case to take her in. He circles her, looking her up and down. Then he stops so they are face to face. He runs a dirty finger along her chin and she tries not to flinch. She can see Killian in her peripheral standing defensively, as if ready to jump in and help her.

“She’s not the princess, is she?” he asks Killian.

“What are you talking about?” Killian replies, “Of course, she is.”

“Yeah right, dearie, I gave you this challenge this morning.” He snarls, “There is no way you’ve found the princess in such short time.”

Killian grimaces.

So maybe the jig is up, but maybe that’s for the best. This guy is giving Emma major heeby jeebies.

“She’s the real thing,” Killian insists.

“Oh please,” Mr. Creepy says, “Don’t lie to me boy. Don’t try to pass off a fake on me. I’m a connoisseur of rare goods. I notice when the quality of my goods are - lacking or inauthentic.”

She exchanges a glance with Killian, as the man retracts his hand from her face and circles her again.

“I will say that she’s a good fake.” He squeaks, “While she’s not what I was looking for, she might be able to convince the queen. That woman is willing to believe anything just to think her daughter is alive again.”

He brushes a lock of her hair, before adding, “I think that you might be lucrative.”

Emma stomach curls again. She doesn’t like the implication that she’s a money making device. It seems just one step away from prostitution.

She tries to make eye contact again with Killian. She wonders if he is just as uncomfortable as she is.

“Hmm, yes,” the man says. “Well, if we are going to pull this off, it will be more difficult than I expect. Take a look at this.”

He shoves an article, fished out of his pocket, to Emma. Killian peeks over her shoulder at the article as Emma begins to read it.

In a press conference today, Queen Mary Margaret announced that she has closed the search for her missing daughter.

“The loss of my daughter and husband in 1995 was devastating. It was only by a stroke of pure luck that I was able to survive and escape the revolution. I spent twenty years in exile, comforted only in knowing that my daughter escaped safely. When I returned to find her untraceable, her guard murdered, I could only think of finding her. But the past few years have led to nothing but cruel disappointment. I love my daughter and I remain hopeful that she might still be alive somewhere. But I’ve come to the realization that a public search is no longer the most productive way to locate her. I am officially calling off the search. I will no longer accept submissions of tips or applications for consideration. If my daughter is out there, I know that she will find me. We always do.”

The announcement comes on the heels of the reveal of Zelena Marshall impersonating Princess Emma. Ms. Marshall’s was the third attempt so far, leaving behind a trail of disappointment after each woman’s attempt….

Princess Emma. She must have forgotten that, that the lost princess shared the same name as her. She’s studied the Misthaven Royal Family a bit for her dissertation, but her research primarily focused on the period that followed the revolution, rather than the revolution itself (Though now that she thinks of it, it might make a terrific argument to pull in - saying that use of fairy tale as a motif displays a nostalgia for the royal family and monarchical regime).

“What?” Killian shouts, “All this has been for nothing.”

“Oh, dearie, I don’t agree.” The hooded man says, “This situation may still allow us to make money. We’ll have to convince the queen differently. We can’t waltz right in there. We’ll have to build her trust. Well, you two will.”

“There isn’t anything I can do by means of convincing,” Killian protests.

“We both know that’s not true,” the man leers. “I didn’t pick just anyone to help me with this task.”

Killian grimaces. Emma wonders what his secret might be, why he might be so helpful.

She doesn’t like this, the secrets, the manipulation. This isn’t something she is ready for. It’s one thing to try to follow an opportunity that falls into her lap, but it’s another to get this deep in a scheme she doesn’t really believe in. And this feels wrong. Killian was okay - but this other guy is making her stomach churn. She doesn’t want anything to do with him. She doesn’t want to be an accomplice to anything he is dreaming up.

He turns to her, a devious glint in his eyes.

“Well, dearie,” he says to her, “first things first, take off that jean jacket.”

“What? Why?” She asks, her voice sounding distant to her.

He chuckles darkly as he pulls a large knife from his sweatshirt. Her stomach flips. She had worried that this place could be a front for drugs or maybe even trafficking, but now she is worried that this might be the place of her murder.

The man steps closer, putting the blade of the knife up to her chin, as he reaches to push her jacket off of her shoulders. She feels violated by this movement, an unwilling undressing.

“Because the princess has a scar on her shoulder and you need to match. A princess without a scar? Well,” He says, as her jacket hits the floor and she feels blood well at the dip in her chin, “the jig is up.”

Emma glances wildly at Killian. He looks pale and sick. She knows that he must feel uncomfortable about this too. How can he not?

“I’ve changed my mind,” she announces.

The hooded man doesn’t seem to hear her and he raises the knife. She swallows in fear. She hopes it is going to hit her shoulder and not like a vital organ.

Then Killian knocks a cabinet over. The glass shatters in a loud crash. Dust flies up into the air, clouding her eyes and nose.

“What have you done?” The man hisses.

“You heard the lass, she said she changed her mind,” Killian roars.

Emma runs. Through the commotion, she finds the door and pushes. She turns briefly to flash a grateful smile at Killian. Then she is outside, safe, running over the cobblestones to put as much space as she can between herself and the nightmare she just witnessed.

It’s cold out now, especially without her jacket, but she is full of adrenaline and fear. She can’t slow down. She doesn’t want the man to follow her. She just wants to put it behind her, to forget his snake-like voice, his dark hood, the feeling of his knife against her chin.

She hopes that Killian is okay. She knows that he had good intentions, even if he did lead her into the scariest situation she’s ever been in. She still has his number in her pocket, so she can call him later if she gets really worried. But part of her already knows that she won’t. She just wants this all behind her. She doesn’t want to think about it again. She’ll find another way to pay for her final year.

She gets to the river where the tram stop is. For the first lucky moment in her day, the tram is waiting when she gets there. She hurries on and grabs a seat by the window. The train begins to move, following along the river, then across it. It winds past the university, past the business district, until it reaches her neighborhood.

It’s a young area full of student residences and young professional apartments. There are plenty of trendy cafes, gyms, and bars. While Mamie’s still remains her favorite Misthaven café and study place, she appreciates the hip vibe of this neighborhood. Tonight, it’s soothing to her. There is the sound of parties - laughter and loud music - wafting out of some of the apartments. Gangs of students, chattering mostly in French or Dutch, linger outside the bars, smoking and drinking with friends. It feels safer here. If the city is so alive, she can’t feel alone.

She walks the two blocks to where her apartment is. She was fortunate that there was a biology PhD that was spending the semester at Duke and they could do an easy swap between the two of them. When she’d talked to him briefly, he had sound like a mess. He’d even been a little drunk during their skype chat. But the apartment itself had been neat as could be. It was a bright place, a one bedroom with white walls, a few potted plants, and a desk with a view of a cute park. She knows that she’s lucky to have scored a place like this for her semester in Misthaven.

As she soon as she gets in, she puts the kettle on, hoping that a cup of tea and a book will settle her mind. Books are always her go to comfort in times like this. She scans the shelf of her sparse book collection that she’d brought with her. She settles on Emma by Jane Austen. She isn’t much for stories of regency dresses and marriage plots, that is always Belle’s domain. Emma herself prefers something a little darker, with an interplay between past and present, a fusion of a culture or history into it. Yet, she can’t resist Emma ’s spirit and tenacity. It is a secret favorite. And maybe she likes that it was named after herself.

But as she settles on the sofa, with her tea and book and a worn grey blanket - she still won’t settle. As her eyes glance over the title, she can’t help but think of the lost princess. Emma .

“Your Highness,” the lecherous man had called her.

It was like an echo. It was like a dream.

She gets up from the couch, too restless to sit still. Instead, she heads for the shower. Maybe hot, steamy water will sooth her where books could not.

She takes off her dress, still mourning the loss of her favorite jean jacket, and tosses it into the laundry basket. She climbs into the shower, cranking the water way up until it burns. She remembers a foster home where she was limited to five minute showers with cold water only. Ever since then, she’s cherished hot showers.

She feels the tension leave her shoulders, as she reaches up rub them. There is a small part, which she pushes away immediately, that wonders what it would be like if Killian would be the one rubbing her shoulders in the shower. She knows that’s not possible.

As begins her rub on her aromatherapy lavender body wash, her eyes drift to her shoulders. She swallows as her eyes follow the thin silver line that begins at the edge of her collarbone and travels down the arc of her shoulder. It’s a scar that’s been there for as long as she can remember, since before she was found alone in the airport. She’s always been ashamed of it, thinking it was proof that her life was hard before she could remember it. But now, she wonders if it’s something else.

If it’s a key, an imprint, an echo of the life she never knew.

tagging some fans (people who i looked through their tags and found out they really liked it) // let me know if anyone wants to be added or subtracted:

@sambethe @kmomof4 @pocket-anon @hooked-mom @the-corsair-and-her-quill @kiwistreetswan @lenfazreads @princesseslikepirates @timeless-love-story

[sethmnicholsengl1120-44]

SLO Reflections

SLO Reflections

1.     Rhetorical Situation and Genre

a.     We have analyzed many different genres already this semester. We began with story type genres like horror, comedy and thrillers with the first short stories. Then we continued to cover more business/document genres such as websites and license cards. Most of the genres were not chosen because had assigned them, however of the ones I chose they all had something to do with my future career field’s daily activities. I learned that on every single card that is used for medical marijuana use has certain elements that area always on it, even in different states.

b.     My favorite genre that I researched was the Horro-comedy mix. This is a relatively knew genre of movies that most reviewers, like rotten tomatoes, aren’t huge fans of. I watched and did a paper of the movie Zombieland which is one of the very popular ones. The reason I like this genre so much is because of the absolute absurdity of the movies due to the comedic aspects. Like one second the main character could be almost eaten by a zombie, then turns around, cracks a one-liner and the feeling of the scene is changed so drastically.

c.     Well my first writing assignment was a paper about Zombieland, showing the horro-comedy combo that is so special for the movie and how the convention breaking helps with that and then we created a field guide of different genres in our career field.

d.     One of the documents I wanted to explore but didn’t because each company keeps theirs private was that for ever type of marijuana grown by a dispensary has tons of paperwork that shows the terpene levels and based on those can help different people with different issues.

e.     Everything is extremely regulated due to the fact of legality when it comes to marijuana so conventions being broken are mostly illegal.

2.     Writing as a Social Act

a.     To me, writing as a social act is an extremely obvious idea. Whenever a writer creates any kind of writing piece, electronic or not, someone is going to read it, and for that fact it is a mode of transmitting information between said people. In English 1110 we focused more on what a Rhetorical Situation was than how it applies and connects to other people socially.

b.     Thinking about a marijuana dispensary as a discourse community, its genres are all about sales. Any kind of writing piece that is connected to a business focused on selling a product is either used to attract new customers, appreciate loyal customers or it is more for the business side and all of that documentation will only be seen by the government and/or law enforcement if necessary.

c.     Depending on your meaning of interacting with a published piece of literature, by reading it alone you are being communicated to by the said writer. Sharing the ideas of the actual piece with your friends is another way of interaction by bringing the ideas and thoughts from the written piece into real life. By writing about another piece of literature, you can either bring a fresh new perspective to a piece or make more people read/ think about it as well.

3.     Writing as a Process

a.     The SWA’s perfectly built up to the MWA by making me personally think about genres and about their conventions, including the breaking of said conventions. In SWA 1, we simply relearned about genres and their conventions and had to point them out. In SWA 2, we were given the task to give a short 250-word description of multiple written pieces in our future job field or desired field. The MWA combined those two ideas by having us choose one of the said genres from SWA 2 and create a paper about its uses, its conventions and how it breaks conventions compared to other pieces of the genre.

b.     The easiest part of the writing process for me is the writing of the paper itself. I love getting to use my voice to try and prove something because it is my perspective.  Researching for a project is stupidly stressful because of citations and respectable sources, brainstorming is super-fast and simple because we usually already have a purpose to the writing, revising and editing is a horrible process part that is super difficult because I wrote it and I understand everything and lastly, proofreading is just an extension of revising and it is just as boring/horrible. For MWA 2 which is a research paper, I’m if the researching aspect of the paper is going to be the longest part, especially because I will have to use UNM libraries for said topic. To streamline the process a little, I will try to start working on it as quickly as possible and spend multiple days on it.

c.     Peer reviewing and Instructor feedback are probably some of the most helpful feedback in the world because it can help you realize some things that made sense to the writer but nobody else, it can help you with any spelling/grammar mistakes that word and or the writer didn’t catch and it can help with simply making the paper have a better flow or framework.  Outside perspective is a serious help to a final draft, either by pointing out flaws or simply assisting with understanding. Nothing surprised me personally about the edits created to my paper, it was all about grammar and common-sense stuff that I simply didn’t understand or do.

4.     Grammar and Usage

a.     In SWA 1, there are many different grammatical errors and the organization is not extremely good. Many sentences are extremely choppy and have a lot of information in them that should have been made into longer, more clear sentences.  Also, the structure is extremely obvious and bland, I had to show two things and so I created 2 long paragraphs that proved my point and the arguments are all over the place. In SWA 2 I completely forgot to put intext citations for a few of my references. For example, I had the exact size of the average license card which is 3.375” by 2.125” and did not put the website or anything for the place I found that information at. In MWA 1, my only real issues brought up by my peers was the occasional wrong word or confusing sentence, but I also had an extreme number of the “/”. I meant to put the word procure in reference to getting a card, but I typed the word occur, which me and Word didn’t pick up. I used many slashes because when I first wrote it, I didn’t know if I should call them ID’s or Licenses, so I had both. My peers said that was dumb and I should call the Medical Marijuana license a license. In SWA 1, there was a very rushed and almost immature feel to it because I had not written in a long time, I feel that MWA 1 was much more professional and phrased much better.  

b.     The assignment that I am the proudest of in terms of organization would have to be my SWA 1. Even though I criticized it earlier, it is the simplest and still super effective compared to the SWA 2 and MWA 1. SWA 2 we were told how to format it as well because we were supposed to create the field guide and MWA 1 I just kind of followed the list of requirements order of needs in the paper, therefore the only one I really formatted was SWA 1. For all the journals I always organize them simply based on questions so I in no way am proud of that. One skill or technique that could strengthen my organization for next time are creating an outline before I write, which can show me a good order to write in. Then I can also look at other people’s papers that have been made for the same topic/ reason and then base my organization on theirs, not copy but simply be inspired by. I would have to cite any paper I used though for safety.

E. analyze and describe the value of incorporating various languages, dialects and registers in your own and others’ texts.

•       “Languages” does not necessarily have to mean French, Spanish, English, Bulgarian. This can also include other forms of English, whether it is academic styles of English or colloquial or slang forms.

•       I feel that in most pieces there can be a different kind of language depending on the pieces’ content itself. For example, In Zombieland which I looked at this in SWA 1 of MWA 1. The main character always talked about rules to keep you alive. The average person probably does not have to think about that and talk about “zombies” and an apocalypse.

•       There is an almost uncountable amount of words about marijuana and its legal purchasing that I have learned. The sizes when you purchase, legally or not, are basically the same. Done by using different amounts of a once, 28 grams, as increment sales like “an eighth” is 1/8th of one once which is 3.5g. There are also “3” strain types you can choose from. You can either have Sativa, a whole body high, Indica, with an intense head high that spreads to your body, or a hybrid which is a mix of the two. The part of the weed that gives it part of its taste is the terpenes and the THCA/THC % determines how expensive it will be.

•        I read 3 different academic journal/research studies and they gave me a small difficulty to read. Academic writing is always difficult to read, especially for me who is not the strongest reader. However, once you learn the words and ideas they are talking about and re-read it a couple of times than you can understand it and apply it to the real world.

•       Register is about the level of formality of your writing.  

•       I wrote in a high register for the research paper and for the formal academic paper about the medical cards and such. This was because high register speech is for more formal and professional writing. Obviously for my research paper I am trying to sound as smart and dignified as possible to hopefully create more credible speech. Then in the other pieces I needed to be formal as well but that was also because it was a very serious topic.

•       Any time we did a free write for the most part I would say, we did not do much of creative writing in the class so I would say for most assignments I wrote in more formal speech.

•       Writing in less formal or low register speech is easier because you can basically say whatever you want. You can be more creative, break rules of normal writing ideas to be even more creative and you can also be very funny which is hard when you must be professional.

F. evaluate your development as a writer over the course of the semester and describe how composing in multiple genres and mediums using various technologies can be applied in other contexts to advance your goals

·       Has writing in different genres helped you to become a stronger writer?  

·       I feel that whenever I write, and it is for project it always makes me improve. I always must prove a new point or use new sources to create an argument which makes me look for good, quality sources as well. I also receive feedback about my overall writing and the different aspects of it from my piers and from my teacher and that also helps me to expand my skill. I think my word choice has improved because I used to use a very small amount of word repeatedly and it made my writing seem very repetitive while making me seem a little unintelligent.

·       I feel that my best assignment was my argumentative research paper about the legalization of marijuana. I had multiple different strong arguments that showed that the legalization of weed would be helpful to more than just peoples direct health but also to that of people in jail and addicted to other more harmful opioids. I also showed the counter argument extremely fairly and then showed how it was also complete garbage. Those combined with a perfectly formula MLA format made that paper extremely strong and showing of how far my writing has come.

·       I will be using a multitude of genres in my future career, 100’s of pages is going to be processed by my business daily. The knowledge that I have learned about these genres is going to help me create extremely correct and well-made creations that will help attract business, help my employees to work effectively and keep me legally safe.

·       I have mastered the UNM libraries catalog search that helps me to find very reliable and correct sources that can help to assist me in many things, it will help me in my future English classes next semester and on, it will assist me in my future classes dealing with documents and genres in business and it will even be able to help me when I am simply looking at a pamphlet, seeing if it is worth of my gaze.

·       Absolutely, whenever I have a writing assignment due of any kind, I know that I will be able to complete it well. It will have perfect grammar, correct word count and an amazing piece with no plagiarism involved.

Research SLOs

 G. use writing and research as a means of discovery, to examine your personal beliefs in the context of multiple perspectives and to explore focused research questions through various mediums and technologies

  1.     What was your process for researching for your argumentative research paper? What role did technology play?

a.     It began with thinking of a topic in my field of interest. I personally wish to sell medical marijuana from a dispensary in the future, therefore I thought about the most popular topics about it. That in mind, I decided that the best topic I could choose would be the legal aspect because technically it is legal to smoke it in some states, but not in others or with special rules. I then went onto the UNM library website and I used the catalog search to find sources that backed my topic. This obviously was affected by my use of technology because I had to use a computer to find these sources. I used keywords and the advanced search and found 4 book/academic journals that backed up my claims. While doing the sources I also began on one of our journals in class which was a pre-draft intro/conclusion paragraph. Then the next class, I also had a small draft of two of the body paragraphs I would be using. These two pre-writes helped to create a well thought out and proofread paper. Once I had the 4 sources and multiple pre-draft paragraphs, I created the annotated bibliography with the MLA citation style for each source. They also had a small paragraph that described what it was and how it related to the topic I was trying to argue about. These all combined, I had enough evidence about my topic and about the counter/counter to the counter argument to create the paper. I began to create the first draft for my paper by combining the edited intro/conclusion I had turned in previously then added the edited body paragraphs. After that I began to create the counter argument and place all the paragraphs in order. I didn’t receive much student reviews back that had an issue with my paper, most were just grammatical issues which I fixed before creating the final paper.

2.     Did researching and addressing counterarguments make you think differently about your topic?

a.     Fortunately for me I have personal experience with the topic as I personally have experience in the field. I know that the medical benefits are extremely substantial and the fact that it is not legal astounds me. In my research, I read exactly what I was expecting to see. There are multiple health benefits and there are slight health deficits as well. However, they can be avoided by living a healthy lifestyle and by not abusing the product but unfortunately many possible deficits that could be caused by smoking are yet to be determined exactly. Fortunately, these studies also show how many false hoods, aka the counter argument, are proven as such by new studies. Many anti-drug posters and such over blow the damage on the lungs and a person’s overall health. My research on their origin of these came back from the “War on Drugs” with extremely overprotective laws created based on bogus studies.

3.     What questions do you still have about your argumentative research paper topic that require more research? In what ways did your paper serve as a springboard for further lines of inquiry?

a.     I want to investigate where new states are going to be legalizing the product soon because that would be the perfect opportunity to create a dispensary of my own. It’s kind of helps me to truly justify why I believe in the product that I want to sell in the future.

4.     Did you discover anything new about your personal beliefs through your writing this semester?

a.     I justified what I believed in and strengthened my idea of my future.

H. integrate others’ positions and perspectives into your writing ethically, appropriately, and effectively in various mediums and technologies

1.     Describe how you used outside ideas in your research paper or genre analyses?

a.     I used MLA format in order to show the sources that I referenced. This formatting is traditional of research paper and is in the 8th edition. I used studies that were done by professional labs with good merit and cited each one of the 5 labs involved. One super difficult part about the research process is that it is super hard to find the stuff that supports your topic sometimes. Especially when they are a weird type of text such as academic journal collection, but the online machines make it much easier. It is important to reference those who you got your information from because if you did not it would be counted as plagiarism and you could then be expelled from school as well as it would make all of the facts used seem untrue and not backed by actual sources.

2.     How did you incorporate other’s perspectives into your writing?  

a.     I used the perspective of multiple health agencies that all agreed on my exact topic. This gave me an extreme amount of ethos due to them being health professionals. I also used the real-life example of Portugal using its extreme “pro” drug policies which also gave me logos proving a side health benefit. Then I used the real-life example of the War on Drugs which gave me ethos from a large, important figure being the leader of untrue stance that won him office.  

3.     Besides citing your evidence to avoid plagiarism, what other purpose(s) does incorporating (and citing) outside sources serve? Think about the MWA #2 prompt here: “... you’re expected to build off the arguments of other experts and practice joining the conversation.”  

a.     Using other arguments as well as studies inside of your argument gives it a lot of strength. If professionals agree with you than you gain a lot of ethos, as well as “bandwagon”-ing if you have multiple supporting sources. Also, by citing them in your piece they also get the credit they deserve for their piece because using their material and not citing them isn’t just plagiarism, it’s rude.

I. Compose a research-based academic argument in one of various mediums and technologies by identifying, analyzing, evaluating, and synthesizing sources, which must include secondary sources

1.     How did you go about finding relevant sources for your paper?

a.     I used two places to look for sources, UNM libraries catalog search and Google. I simply used Google to go to YouTube so I could reference Ronald Reagan’s quote about Marijuana. I used library catalog search in order to find credible and reliable sources. These sources were the one by the National Academies of Science, and 4 more medical companies. Then I had the record and a journal of the Portugal’s policies decriminalizing all drugs and how it assisted majorly in addiction, death and arrest rates.  

2.     How did you evaluate your source?

a.     I knew that my sources would be of high quality and credible if they were from a catalog of academic and official documents like the UNM libraries. Looking at the people involved with the studies and the companies you can see their professionalism and correctness. Therefore, you can trust that source.  There was a source I used in the annotated bibliography that I didn’t use. It was a book that had a bunch of “pro” and “anti” marijuana points and how the “anti” were wrong. Unfortunately, it was only available as a real copy book and because I waited until the last possible second to rent it out, I couldn’t use it in my final version of the paper.  Dang coronavirus!

3.     How did you narrow down what information to include from your secondary sources?  

a.     I specifically looked for the important overall topics that helped to prove my point the best. I used rational to find inside the papers, books and journals on my topics and then took down the information that helped to support the topic I wanted.

4.     What sources did you end up using in your paper?

a.     I used multiple different kinds of sources. I used two academic journals, live footage, a record of a direct study taken in America and a record of Portugal laws. This helped to strengthen my argument because it shows that in multiple ways and multiple perspectives, my point is still true.

J. Analyze and describe the writing and research conventions of an academic field in order to understand the different ways of creating and communicating knowledge  

1.     Think back to Sequence 1. What did you learn about genres in your area of interest?

a.     In the medical marijuana field, the medical card is the most important document because that is how you are legally allowed to be there and purchase at all. Also, legal documents for the business itself including information about the multiple kinds of marijuana, concerning new client sign-ups and the menu for the items themselves. Well, if I was ever asked about the medical marijuana business, I could write about it for hours. I also could write about the wrongful War on Drugs and how it was not backed by true evidence and was even influenced by racist ideals. I could also write about academic journals and there very official structure. SO overall I would say it would heavily assist me in writing in multiple fields. Looking at a genre that breaks genre conventions shows that you can be not constrained when you are writing and create something that is completely individual. Due to the fact that writing in different genres is not only possible but considered creative makes me feel extremely confident when I am writing because it means that I can combine multiple ideas and different perspectives to try and make the best story or written piece possible.

2.     Now think about Sequence 2. What did you learn about research conventions in your area of interest?

a.     I was very invested in academic journals, official documents and real-life experiments supporting my argument. These would be typical when assessing the legality of a substance that is currently illegal. If there was a proposal to make it legal, which there is, studies being done currently can help to assist in that. However, I am assuming I will deal more with the Sequence 1 materials like the med card and menu then that of the journals I used for research. I learned that using official search catalogs like Gale in Context and UNM libraries personal one makes it extremely easy to locate extremely professional useful sources for a paper. I also learned the best way to cite sources is using machine and then the list at Purdue Owl’s example.

[katrou1894-blog]

Why Writing? (Seriously You Want to Be a Writer?) Part 4

Welcome back to Katie’s Messy Little Blog!

So if you have completely missed the last three of my blog posts, I am currently in a series of blog posts sharing the story of how I got into writing and this is the last post of this series! (Yay! I’m sure you are all sighing in relief.)

This is the 4th and final part of the series. So it might be helpful (if you haven’t read them already) to go back and read my previous three posts entitled Why Writing (Seriously You Want to Be a Writer?) Part 1, 2, & 3. [However if you don’t want to read about my childhood through high school experiences I completely understand.]

So, if you haven’t picked it up already, my education history isn’t exactly “traditional.”

This is a theme that very much continues into college! It actually probably gets even more complicated post-high school…

When I graduated high school, my family could not afford for me to go straight to a four-year university. So, even though I really didn’t want to, (this is another case of a story that can easily take up a whole blog post on its own) I started my higher education at community college in Los Angeles.

This is another pretty funky section of my education history. So I am briefly going to summarize a few years in a single paragraph in order to save some time. (Which I am quite proud of because it was a pretty wild few years.)

After high school I went to a local community college in LA, (which was an experience ) after a semester of community college, my family made the decision to move to Austin, Texas. So I then took the spring semester off from school (even though it ended up taking 7 months to sell our house! ) and we moved to Texas that summer. Upon arriving in Texas, I immediately signed up for the local community college in Austin. Which I then proceeded to complete another semester of college, during which I applied to the Disney College Program and I GOT IN! Then that spring I took part in my Disney College Program (I will share more on this, just not right now). Then I came back to Texas, completed another year of community college and then transferred!

[Wow… that looks really complicated when I type it all out like that. Again, life is messy!]

During this time, I wasn’t fully sure what I wanted my major to be in. It wasn’t until my last semester of community college that I finally figured it out. (Which looking back, I can’t believe it took me so long!)

In my last semester of community college, I took my first upper-level English course and LOVED it. I enjoyed the material, I loved the discussions and the projects. At this point, it all became very clear to me (finally) that I needed to major in English.

This was only confirmed for me when I started at Southwestern and started taking English there. My first English class at SU was Post Colonial African Literature (a mouthful, I know ). And although I wouldn’t say I enjoyed all of the material (mainly because a lot of it was really dark and depressing), I valued every single thing I learned in that class.

I became a sponge of knowledge in my English classes and I honestly loved every minute of them throughout the two and a half years I was at Southwestern.

[Also a special shout out to my amazing professors! I REALLY wouldn’t be the person I am today without you. Thank you for teaching me, pushing me, learning with me and being amazing mentors! I couldn’t have asked for better!]

Southwestern also brought on the true beginning of my dabbling in creative writing (something I had never really taken seriously before).

As I reflect now, there is actually one particular person that I have to give credit for believing in me and encouraging me to pursue creative writing. My friend who I will reference as B (out of respect for my friend’s and family’s privacy I am going to refrain from using their real names on this blog).

B and I were fast friends. My first semester at Southwestern we actually had a class together every single day of the week, thus it making it really easy for us to become friends quickly. B also soon became not just a friend, but also a sorority sister and my big! B was my first real friend at Southwestern and is still a very dear friend today (to the extent that I am maid of honor in her wedding in a few months! )

Early on in our friendship B shared with me that she is a creative writer and even shared some of her ideas, concepts and working projects with me. Her enthusiasm and encouragement really inspired me to give creative writing a try.

I will be honest, my first few attempts at creative writing are not great… Most people will NEVER see them because I am so embarrassed by them now! But I do acknowledge that they are important because they helped me to get started.

B was also helped me in the early brainstorming process of one of the biggest projects that I have been working on for the last few years, my first feature-length screenplay. B helped me develop some of my biggest concepts connected to this screenplay and she was among the first few to read it once the first draft was complete. But I am getting ahead of myself, let’s backtrack for a second on how I actually wrote my first screenplay draft.

[FYI the screenplay I am describing here is an adaptation of Cinderella. However, that is all you are getting on this blog because I have worked too hard on this project for my idea to possibly be stolen. You’ll just have to wait to eventually see it in theaters ]

Once I had a solid idea, I knew I had to write it. But, I wasn’t sure where to start and how I could find the time to write it since I was a full-time student. But, then I came up with a clever solution. I decided to ask the English department if I could create a screenwriting independent study, thus solving my two problems listed above plus I actually got college credit for writing my screenplay! (How cool is that! )

I then proceeded to ask one of my favorite English professors if he would be open to instructing me in my independent study idea. He agreed, we submitted the syllabus and the goals for the class to review with the rest of the department and it was approved!!

The next semester my professor and I read Screenplay by Syd Field (highly recommend to anyone out there interested in screenwriting!) and a couple of scripts I wanted to try and emulate through my own script. Then I proceeded to write an entire 120-page screenplay in about 15 weeks… Which in hindsight sounds a little insane…

Mind you, I also already pretty much knew what I wanted to write and had an outline, and this was only the first pass at writing so maybe it wasn’t completely insane. Nonetheless, I am really proud of this time and that I actually accomplished what I set out to do!

For a first draft, it didn’t turn out too bad. I was very aware that it was far from a sellable state, (still is actually, I am still slowly working on it) but I did it! I wrote my first draft of my first feature-length screenplay and that was a really big deal. Also, it is kinda fun to be able to say that I have written a screenplay.

After the independent study, I needed a break from the project I had poured so much into for so long. So I turned to some other ideas. I started adapting my favorite novel of all time, Frankenstein, for film (I’m also still working on this one) and I have a variety of other projects I am working on including this blog!

It is weird to think that my independent study was only a little over a year ago (during the spring of 2018), so much has changed since then. I have since then, survived my final semester at SU, graduated, started my first full-time job, got laid off from my first full-time job, and have been hunting for a few months for a new full-time position (which has certainly been a journey of its own).  

I have experienced A LOT of change and growth in the last year, and I would not trade a second of it. I know I am becoming the person I need to be and experiencing what I need to go through in order to be a better person and writer.

Writing has kept me sane through an overall pretty difficult part of my life recently. It has helped me work through my feelings and emotions and it helps me to express myself in a positive way. Plus it has certainly helped me to better understand myself.

I can’t even imagine my life without my writing now (however maybe I would sleep better without constant ideas in my head ). Writing has become not just something I do, but a big part of my identity and even if no one ever reads my writing I will still be proud of what I am doing.

I am excited to see what the future has in store for my life!

I hope to try and sell some of my work soon (optimistically maybe by the end of the year, realistically hopefully sometime in 2020). I hope one day to be able to live off of my writing and to write full time (since I would be able to get projects done sssssoooo much faster if I could do this).

But I also really don’t know what is coming and that is okay! If I have learned anything in 2019 so far it is that life is sometimes going to throw you some curveballs and you have to learn to adapt. I also know that God has something great in store for me someday. I hope to someday succeed in my chosen field of writing and I hope that I will be able to both entertain and inspire others. I have other dreams too, like how I also hope to meet a wonderful man and start a family with him. I am praying for a joyful and fulfilling life. I know I will be where I want to be soon.

So when I say that I am excited about the future, I genuinely am. I don’t know what is coming, but I do know that good things are coming and I look forward to embracing everything (the good and bad) that life has to offer me. I really do believe God makes all things work for his good, even the things that sting. And I know God has something in store for my life and I look forward to seeing where He takes me.

Thank you for letting me share my story with you. It means so much to me when people tell me that they are reading my blog (still kinda baffles me actually, lol).

I hope my story can help to inspire others to chase their dreams as well!

As always, thanks for reading!

[Also my next blog will be on a new topic, so yay!]

Check out more of my blog at https://katiesmessylittleblog.com/

[ncmagroup]

When team members think about the rewards they receive from their jobs, after the pay and benefits, the next most tangible reward is the learning and development that come from training, job assignments, and experiences at work.

Leaders who create positive developmental experiences for their team members are much more apt to create an inspired and motivated team and then know how to be a good leader. Conversely, when team members see a job as just work, with no learning or development, then it is far more difficult for them to find their work inspirational.

One of the authors, while in graduate school, was a research assistant for a professor who every they decade summarized the research from every journal in his specialty. The assigned task was to read every article and classify the research methods used. Hundreds of journal issues needed to be read and analyzed.

  On a rare occasion, an article would be of some interest to a young, naïve graduate student. But the majority of the time it was simply a boring and meaningless job. It took a great deal of discipline and fortitude just to walk to the library and begin reading every day. At the end of the semester, the student made a frantic effort to get an assignment with another professor. Grading statistics tests would have felt like a huge promotion. In this case, there was no real learning, no development, and hence no inspiration just drudgery.

But think of how exciting this assignment could have been had it been positioned and managed in a different way. In hindsight, the professor could have made it into a great developmental opportunity for a student. What a rare opportunity to be paid to read a decade’s worth of literature in your field! Periodic discussions with the professor about interesting articles that had been reviewed would have made the project come to life. Merely understanding what the professor was actually seeking for his teaching and research purposes would have made a huge difference.

If the student had known how the professor would use this information, it could have been a far more fruitful endeavor. Permission to dismiss articles that were peripheral to the professor’s interests or treat them lightly would have made the student feel trusted and more of a colleague rather than a hired hand or servant and would have saved considerable time and wasted effort.

BENEFITS OF LEADERSHIP TEAM DEVELOPMENT

When people have opportunities for development, there are several personal benefits.

They are more likely to stay employed by the organization.

Their satisfaction with their job increases.

They are more productive.

They produce higher-quality work.

However, in addition to the individuals’ personal satisfaction, there is a secondary payoff from the individual with leadership characteristics have created a learning environment. Simply put,  the organization keeps getting better, and people like to be associated with a winning organization.

When leadership communication creates a climate of learning, the outcome is a continual improvement on the part of the organization. Mistakes do not get repeated. Information that is held by one group is freely passed to others who can benefit from it. The dependency that the organization might have had on a few people is now shared more broadly. Why is development so inspiring?

A FOCUS ON LEADERSHIP TEAM DEVELOPMENT EXPLAINS WHY PEOPLE SUCCEED

Carol Dweck, who teaches at Stanford University, has spent the last 30 years studying why some people succeed and others fail. Her answers are surprising to many. It isn’t about IQ points or other abilities that are bestowed on someone by an unseen hand. It has much more to do with their personal effort and application. And at the heart of it, she found that beginning at an early age, people begin to be divided into two camps.

The first camp consists of those whose fundamental goal in life is to prove their worth to the people about them. They believe that their abilities are fixed as if set in stone at an early age. And if you believe that your abilities are fixed at a high level, that means that you don’t need to work hard. If your abilities happen to be fixed at a low level, then you are destined to failure, and working hard would not change anything. In either case, you have to repeatedly prove yourself. Your goal in life is to avoid serious challenges and escape experiencing failure that will show up the deficiencies that you’ve tried to keep hidden. This is the path of stagnation.

The second group is made up of those whose fundamental goal in life is to improve. For them, life is made up of a series of opportunities to be exploited and challenges to be overcome. This growth mindset is one in which you see yourself as fluid, a work in progress. You seek growth and opportunity.

These people believe that talent is built over time and comes as a consequence of hard work and effort. Clearly, the most successful people are those who fall into the “improving” category. Dweck reveals how high achievers in all fields—music, science, education, literature, sports, and business—apply the growth mindset to achieve results.

LEADERSHIP TEAM DEVELOPMENT CREATE MINDSETS

The encouraging news, however, is that mindsets can be changed. People can move from believing that their capabilities were fixed at an early age and can come to believe that “smart is something you get” and that people can actually progress throughout most of the course of their life.

Dweck’s research shows that parents are a powerful force in shaping the mindset of a child. While her research focused on how parents and teachers influenced young children in their developmental stages, we are quite certain that how people with leadership traits in business treat their subordinates can have a similar, profound impact on how people view themselves on these two dimensions.

The right kind of leadership communication skills helps people move from a “fixed” or “proving” mindset to one of “growth” and “improving.”

Research on the brain’s ability to develop new neural networks is currently taking place at several research institutions and serves to confirm Dweck’s fundamental thesis.

For example, in 1999, Princeton University released a stunning announcement regarding a reversal of a long-held theory that the capacity of the brain was fixed at birth. The headlines read: “Scientists Discover Addition of New Brain Cells in Highest Brain Area”

The article went on to explain that this discovery confirmed and then explained that this reverses a strongly held belief that had existed for the last 100 years to the effect that the number of brain cells in primates was established at birth and that a certain number died each year through the adult years. This had strong implications for humans because humans and monkeys have essentially the same brain structures.

This view that humans were born with a certain number of brain cells and that as we aged, a certain number of these cells died each year was in virtually every textbook on psychology published before 2000.

This meant that mentally we were coasting on a long glide path through life, but always descending. Now the consensus among human brain researchers is that not only is the brain adding new cells, but at the same time new connections between brain cells are being made.

Questions to Ask Yourself

There clearly are some things that the leadership development programs must think and feel in order to be effective at developing subordinates, and thus be more inspirational and motivational.

Do you possess a true concern for the development of others? This genuine desire to see others get better is the first quality that is an absolute necessity. As most people begin their career, their focus is basically on their own success and making their mark in the organization. Once people have demonstrated their own capabilities, a number of them develop the desire to help other people make their mark.

Are you deeply committed to helping others succeed? This question is obviously related to the previous one. Rejoicing at the success of others requires a maturity and selflessness that is not always found in leadership characteristics list who are clawing their way up the corporate ladder and who view other capable people as threats. Effective leaders are ones who make the transition from being concerned primarily about themselves and personal advancement to putting the team before self.

 Are continual improvement and learning personally important to you? This obviously argues that the best leaders are part of the “growth” and “improving” category in Dweck’s terminology. It is virtually impossible to be a great leader if you are in the camp of “proving” and “fixed abilities.”

Some people with leadership qualities believe that one of their prime opportunities and responsibilities is to help people learn. They will carve out time for people to attend relevant seminars and engage in activities that help to develop them. They budget generously for external development activities. They take time in staff meetings to discuss what was learned from each major project. These discussions often take the form of “after action reviews” that cover what had been intended to happen, what actually transpired, what caused the difference, and what should happen in the future for such events.

These three questions do not identify action steps that a leader can just arbitrarily take. They are visceral and bone-deep convictions and attitudes about people and their worth to the organization. The action steps being proposed next, however, work best when the three conditions above are solidly in place.

WHAT THE INSPIRATIONAL LEADER DOES TO DEVELOP HIS LEADERSHIP TEAM

Our research revealed some specific actions that leaders engaged in leadership team development.

Gives Coaching

An enormous amount has been written on coaching, its value to the individual, and its payoff for the organization. Dweck’s research provides some insightful tips about the best approach to coaching. By translating Dweck’s research on younger people to adult employees in a firm, you get some valuable suggestions.

Provides Actionable Feedback

Lots of people give advice. Managers frequently give advice to their subordinates. They, in turn, receive advice from various gurus who write books and give seminars based on only their opinions. But advice can be treacherous when it is either incorrect or not actionable. Often it is incorrect, especially if the person giving it didn’t really understand the situation. The other problem, however, is that advice can simply be impossible to implement.

Part of that difficulty often comes from the general nature of the advice. We are reminded of the observation of Professor Karl Weick of the University of Michigan, in which he noted that any piece of advice could be two or three things, but could never be all three.

The three things were as follows:

General

Simple

Accurate

Pick up any popular book on the subject of visionary leadership or leadership development goals. Randomly open it to some chapter that gives advice on a particular topic. Chances are that whatever the principle being professed, there are exceptions to it. In fact, you can often find two opposing points of view that have generally gained wide acceptance.

  This is why, while we respect the opinions of so many authors and leaders, we choose to focus on areas where we can provide evidence that is quantifiable, objective, and empirical as it relates to leadership goals.

As children, our parents often passed on proverbs that had been taught to them by their parents. The amusing fact is that virtually every proverb has a counterpart that contradicts it. Yet, when asked about each proverb separately, most people will indicate that they believe both to be true. Examples of this strange phenomenon include the following:

Time waits for no man.

Rome wasn’t built in a day.

A stitch in time saves nine.

If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

He who hesitates is lost.

Look before you leap.

The only constant changes.

The order follows regulation.

If at first, you don’t succeed, try, try again.

Don’t beat your head against a stone wall.

Hitch your wagon to a star.

The grass is always greener on the other side.

The wish is the father of the deed.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

Life is what you make it.

What will be, will be.

Winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing.

Quit while you’re ahead.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

You can’t fit a round peg into a square hole.

Paddle your own canoe.

Two heads are better than one.

Too many cooks spoil the broth.

Many hands make light work.

Ultimately there is but one truth.

There are two sides to every story.

Establish the rule and allow no variation.

There is an exception to every rule.

Argyris’s advice on how to rectify this problem is to do the following:

Specify the sequence of behavior required to produce an outcome. The more specific this is, the more likely it is that the advice will be successfully implemented.

Define causality and make it exceedingly transparent (what causes us to get certain effects). Help the receiver to understand why what you are proposing is going to work. These are the steps of classic “behavior modeling” in which the facilitator provides either alive or videotaped example for the learner to watch, with a clear explanation of the key points being demonstrated and why they were important.

Causality embedded in advice is testable in normal situations. Therefore, allow the person to test the advice being received. Suggest ways in which that testing process can be conducted. What tests could easily be constructed to determine whether this advice was working?

Specify the values or variables that govern the outcomes of the advice. What constitutes a good strategy, for example, may depend on whether the organization wants growth at all costs or prefers risk avoidance. The recipient of advice needs to know the values that underlie the advice and also the outcomes that are being sought.

Argyris’s suggestions take advice giving to a new level of sophistication.

Delegate in a Manner That Develops People

When tasks or projects are delegated to a subordinate, there is a seemingly infinite number of messages that can be conveyed. Here are a few of the messages that the recipient will listen for:

What the task consists of

Why the leader has delegated this task

Why the leader has chosen the person or group to whom the task or project is being given

What the leader conceives as the outcome

How the leader would like to be kept informed

The seriousness or consequences of the project or task

Clearly, the leader can approach this delegation process with a strong task perspective and ignore the developmental implications. That is, the leader is concerned about the need to get something done on time, on a budget, and with a minimal amount of turmoil being caused to the organization. Period. End of delegation discussion. The outcome, however, is that not much inspiration and motivation is likely to come from that conversation.

Let’s assume that the leader sees the potential in this delegation conversation to provide a great deal of inspiration and motivation to the people receiving this project. Now the discussion on why the leader has delegated the task will take on a completely different character. The conversation could well include some dialogue like, “I see this project as a real opportunity to help you develop your skills in coordinating with the design group, operations, and marketing” or, “One of my reasons for delegating this to you is to prepare you to be able to handle much bigger projects on your own.”

From there, the leader could say something like, “Sondra, I’ve chosen you for several reasons. I think you have the technical background to pull it off. You’ve demonstrated an extremely conscientious attitude about getting things done on time. I thought this would be a great developmental assignment.

There are some others in the group who could probably pull it off successfully, but they wouldn’t grow from the experience as much as I think you will.” (Think about how Sondra is going to feel when she reflects on this conversation. Ponder the powerful and motivating messages that the leader has just conveyed. Some are overtly stated, but there are many messages that are “between the lines” and not spoken.)

But it doesn’t need to end there. Now the leader continues the delegation dialogue by saying, “Here’s what I envision to be the final deliverable that you and your team will produce. But I acknowledge that my conception is still a bit fuzzy. You’ll have the opportunity to sharpen it. And the important point is that you’ll have a strong voice in deciding how you get this all done. If you want to discuss with me how you plan to go about it, I’m available. That’s your choice.” (Again, since the strong messages this leader has just sent and their motivational potential.)

Next, the leader discusses the ideal way to be kept informed. “Sondra, because this project is so important and high profile, I feel some need to be kept abreast of your progress. Please understand that this is driven to a large extent by the people above me, but it’s also because I’m very interested in knowing about your progress. How about us meeting once a week for the first month, and then maybe we should cut back to twice a month.

All I want is your overall appraisal of progress against the milestones that you’ll set in the project plan. If I can be of any help, please know that I’m available. The purpose of these meetings is not for me to insert myself or meddle; it’s for me to be informed. I think one of my jobs is to provide ‘air cover’ for you and your team, and I can do that best if I’m knowledgeable about what’s going on.” (Again, the leader has conveyed some strong messages to Sondra that in most cases will have a profound motivational impact.)

In summary, the delegation process that is so familiar to leaders and carried out so frequently can occur in a perfunctory fashion. In that case, the motivational dimension of it will be minimal at best. Or, delegation can be elevated to an important discussion and can be wrapped with important messages that inspire and that generate positive motivation. It is all about how the leader elects to conduct the discussion.

Structure the Job with Development as the Objective

When a leader structures the job of each person in the group, there are many factors to consider. Clearly, certain activities belong together. Many processes function best when they have one person overseeing the entire chain of activities. Good leadership skills require the person in charge to take many things into account when designing any job.

But when structuring a job, one dimension is often forgotten. One of the strongest drivers of motivation for any employee is the fundamental nature of the job itself. Precisely what does this person do during the working day? Expanding the employee’s responsibilities usually increases the level of motivation.

Providing greater variety (within some boundaries, obviously) usually also has that effect. Having the job expand in its breadth and depth will, in most cases, greatly expand the motivation of the person doing the job.

Frederick Herzberg, an early student of motivation in the workplace, came to the conclusion that the largest determinant of motivation for most people in organizations was directly proportional to the nature of the job itself. The huge mistake made by some of the leaders of the Industrial Revolution was to simplify jobs so that a person with a minimal amount of skill and experience could perform the work adequately. While there was a compelling logic that seemed to be driven by the economics of hiring less-skilled, lower-cost workers, there were huge unintended consequences.

Dumbed-down jobs created apathetic workers who over time moved from not caring to ultimately becoming hostile toward management. Luckily, we have moved a long distance from many of those practices. However, insufficient attention is paid to the simple principle of making jobs challenging, responsible, with reasonable variety, and capable of helping people grow in the ways they desire.

Not every worker wants to grow and develop, but those who want that make remarkably greater contributions to their employers.

Make Developmental Experiences Available (Classes, Courses, Trips, Site Visits, and Benchmarking Opportunities)

One of the best organizations for excellent learning and development is the U.S. Marine Corps. A review of its recruits would reveal that the young men and women who entered the corps were of high quality, but they were not recruited from the elite universities and colleges of America. Most could not have gained admission to schools with extremely high admission standards.

But after a few years, the same review would conclude that these individuals are now quite exceptional leaders. Their rigorous training has worked real magic. One aspect of their training experience that creates great value is that after every exercise, there is a debriefing activity in which decisions are discussed, alternative decisions are talked about, and feedback is provided. These are called “after action reviews.”

Every business organization and the public-sector agency has an enormous number of debriefing opportunities, but most of the time these organizations fail to sit down after a mission has ended, a decision has been made, or a project is concluded and debriefs the experience. Such concrete reviews of actual events can be a much more meaningful learning experience than a class on how to conduct effective meetings, decision making, or project management.

The principle is simply that some of the best training opportunities are those that are directly linked to work issues. Leaders should take advantage of major on-the-job events and follow up with each of their employees regarding what was learned and how that learning can be applied in the future.

Go to our website:   www.ncmalliance.com

Leadership team development When team members think about the rewards they receive from their jobs, after the pay and benefits, the next most tangible reward is the learning and development that come from training, job assignments, and experiences at work.

[yujiawrites]

Creative Writing and Newswriting

This semester, I took two vastly different writing modules - Introduction to Creative Writing, and Newswriting.

 I've always loved to write. It is the one real interest I have known from a young age, amidst other fleeting interests that would stay for a while and then bid adieu. This craft - of forming words from alphabets and sentences from words and stories from sentences - has always struck me.

 When I was young, I limited myself to creative writing only, thinking that creative writing was far more superior in quality and content than all the commercial and journalistic writing out there. All those sell-outs, betraying the art of meaningful words for commercial purposes!!! I thought.

 It soon became apparent that creative writing was too limiting. I don't just like writing, I realised - I like words themselves. I like the art of honing and crafting words, be it in puns, or really making serious quotes like Instagram captions (ok I kid. I mean, really serious work). I like it when the right words are chosen carefully to convey the exact meaning I have in my head, or the exact thing I see, or the exact feeling in a moment. It's wondrous. And so I realised that to pursue this craft, one has to go beyond simply creative writing.

 That led me to journalism - and the queer experience of taking different types of writing modules in the same semester.

 I often imagine these two types of writing as siblings. Creative Writing is the quiet younger brother who likes to lock himself in his room, patiently squeezing his acrylic tubes of paint onto a palette and painting strokes of colour on a canvas. He plays baroque music in the background and his room curtains are closed. He never speaks much, but when you admire his work he'd look at you with such (desperate) soulful eyes that seem to need you to acknowledge: there's a lot of deep meaning in this artwork. Say that you see the same deep meaning too.

 Meanwhile, Newswriting is the elder brother who has already found a job, years ahead, and is always decked in monochrome. He speaks very fast and is always on the phone. He always wears a sharp, tailored suit. And a row of five exact white shirts that he wears every day. He's easily irritated at people, but when faced with clients he has the most professional smile and handshake. His room is very clean. And there is no paint - at all.

 Between these brothers, the differences run deep. It's the same words, but the different processes hone a completely different writer.

 When it comes to content, creative writing tends to get very personal, and you could write lines and lines of haiku which no one understands, and still pass because it has a certain artistic element or beauty in it. (There was once we even discussed as a class: Well, so what could a bad poem be?) Your subject and topic is anything and everything, and there are absolutely no rules at all except your own creativity. Write about what matters to you, said my lecturer.

 Meanwhile, in my very first Basic Media Writing class in Year 1, the lecturer said: forget about what you want to say. It's not about what you want to tell others, it's about what your readers want to hear. And although I knew media writing had to be somewhat different from creative writing in my head, here it was fully spelt out for me. Being a journalist or writing for any media means the objective of writing was now completely different. It's no longer about you, but your readers. You are a conveyor of meaning, not so much a creator.

 The way words are treated in both disciplines is worlds apart too. In creative writing, words are a delicate art. Art has no rules. Feel free to break the grammar rules and (gasp!) go ahead with thesauruses to add more complicated words to the poem. If you have to add layers of meaning to your stanzas, shrouding it in a mysterious cloud of emotionally-beautiful-sounding descriptions, then add it - and let the reader unwrap the layers themselves like a gift.

 The journalist would lambaste this kind of writing. Words are a commodity - to be roughened, sharpened, thrown around to pick the best. If you dare add another layer of meaning beyond what is simple and straightforward, woe befall you. In fact, an editor would probably cut this whole piece apart for its grammar and run-on sentences and its appalling over-use of vocabulary. Clarity is key. Adjectives, adverbs, and even verbs with two words simply don't belong in news copy.

 In a creative piece, you might have the liberty to say: He took the rod, feeling its coldness around his hands, and slammed it down on the quivering man. It felt good to meet flesh with fury. Again and again the metal twanged against his screams.

 In newswriting, this is simply: He hit him.

 Let me veer off a little into the discipline of newswriting. In every news copy, the sentences are usually simple to read, and easy to follow. But the words are also strong. That's how newspapers get readers to read one entire article in a sitting - without long, rambling sentences, and with clear, in-your-face content.

 In newswriting class, our practices were pages of long sentences and paragraphs, which we had to completely rewrite to take out redundant words, fluffy adjectives, rambling sentences, weak verbs, -ings and 'there will be' s and correct any grammar errors (but often, no one could identify what those grammar errors were).

 I used to think this meant simplifying. But I've soon realised it is a difficult discipline. The best newswriters aren't people who can't write long, extended narratives and instead choose to settle for short articles and briefs. They are people who understand the complex stories, grasp the essence of it, and present it in the clearest and simplest way. To write long essays aren't difficult - the real challenge is having one whole piece, and whittling it down to the shortest piece possible. And journalists are actually language masters when it comes to this.

 Ernest Hemingway is a curious case. He was trained in journalistic writing, and then went on to fiction writing. The combined art of both made for a never-before-seen beauty, a Nobel Prize in Literature, and books that would probably go down as the best in the history of mankind. I read some of his works for my Creative Writing class, and they've been the most compelling so far.

 It's compelling because the meaning comes quickly (as required for news articles), but the meaning is deep in a way that newswriting cannot explore (as present in creative writing). Take Hemingway's A Clean, Well-Lighted Place for example.

It was very late and everyone had left the café except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. In the day time the street was dusty, but at night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he felt the difference.

The discipline of choosing words carefully keeps his writing tight. He does not waste words. Every word has a purpose and place in crafting the story. But he chooses the right ones, again and again, to convey a certain depth in human emotion accurately. What a maestro.

 Newswriting has helped me sharpen the meaning of everything I write. It is the real art of communication - and that's why I think, even if a student wants to major in PR or Advertising, they should always hone their words with newswriting first. Communication means getting your meaning across effectively and efficiently, and newswriting does exactly that - schooling you in the art of words.

 It is not a "dishonor" to the lofty craft of creative writing, as I had thought before. It is word-smithing, through and through, and when smithed, my words become stronger and more accurate - even in my creative pieces.

 Creative writing helps people to express; newswriting helps people to understand. Each has its own worlds and purpose. I think the brothers can live with each other, and each will bring out the other's strength. Maybe then - writing will become clearer, deeper, and more powerful.

[carbonargonlithium]

The short version of this is: recognizing your weaknesses, and tackling them, is arguably more important than recognizing your strengths.

As a side note: before you decide to downsize from two computers to one (from one for work/travel and one for home, down to one for work/travel that you actually mostly leave at work) be REALLY sure that you’re not gonna decide randomly at 9pm to type a blog post and realize you only have your iPad, which does not (currently) have a real keyboard. Guess I know what I want for Christmas (but mom, or grandma, or Joe (lol he never reads my blog posts), if you’re reading this, make sure it’s a nice quality one, and it compatible with the apple iPad pro 2017 model, 10.7in. I’ll try and put a few on my amazon wishlist.)

But, luckily, I don’t live alone! My love, who is currently doing an online class using his desktop, let me use his Surface, which does have a really nice keyboard. So alas, here we are, at 9pm on a Tuesday, writing a blog post.

So, really, the words I wrote (in my “journal” aka my notability document for this week) that really inspired me to write this hopefully eventually motivational post were; “You’re not actually stupid.” And just to summarize where that came from real quick: I’m a scientist, a physical chemist, who has to deal with LOTS of quantum chemistry and quantum mechanics, and I’m not…..a math person. I’m CAPABLE of it, don’t get me wrong, but it takes me a long time, and a lot of effort and working through it six ways before I understand it. English (if you believe it) and history? Had those in the bag. Chemistry? Literal blow off class in high school, loved it in college. Biology? Ehh okay that one was just….not my friend. Math? Well, lets just say that what Florida State passes off as a math minor does NOT cut it for my line of work. And that’s okay. I gotta learn it, but I also gotta go through some self doubt to get there. And that’s okay.

[if you’re like...real real sensitive to death, this paragraph may feel realllllllllly harsh and cold, but it’s just how i’ve been coping and also, how I feel like my grandpa would want me to be coping tbh, carry on] Okay now, I’m gonna blame my Grandpa Thane for like a solid half of why Quantum is probably so hard for me. And that’s okay, I can do that, he won’t mind. He’d laugh and tell me “okay yeah sure Carli”. God I miss that laugh. Anyway. He went ahead and died right in the middle of my last semester of undergrad, which also happened to be the semester I was traveling a ton and taking Quantum. So on top of being busy af, I had to deal with a very strong emotion I’d never dealt on this scale before: grief. So it’s probably safe to say that my memories of undergraduate quantum could definitely be better.

But I passed the class, okay? I got through it, and I got through Statistical Mechanics last semester which was also a very heavy maths-based physical chemistry class, and I’m going to get through this Quantum chemistry class because I know that it’s going to be hard. I know how to ask for help, how to identify what people are going to be the most helpful for me, and I know how to study my ass off. And I’ve learned all these skills through a laborious process of becoming a professional scientist despite being mentally ill, and also, because I knew I had weaknesses, acknowledged them, and got help.

I tutored first generation students while I was at FSU (I was one too, consequently) and I can say that hands down, the reason that students ended up struggling as much as they did is that they waited too long to ask for help. Now, whether that was lack of knowledge, or shame, or fear, I can’t be sure. But I can promise you, students who asked for help as soon as they realized they were struggling were the ones who were ultimately successful. Additionally, students who were even more successful were those who knew what kind of help they needed. If they knew it was math or algebra they were struggling with, they told me. If they knew it was question comprehension, we worked on looking for keywords and finding example problems they’d already done. The most effective learners are not people who just seem to magically know everything, they’re people who understand what it is going to take for the information to get effectively encoded, and go through whatever process that may take.

Now, maybe someday I’ll actually have time to read psychology literature again, and I’ll be able to give sources and all kinds of goodies to my information, but for now, take it as firsthand knowledge; asking for help is 99% proven to help you understand something better. I’m going to reserve the 1% for really awful instructors and tutors who just...cant communicate their knowledge effectively, but that’s on them, not you.

So here’s CJ’s sleepy guide to how to be a better student

TAKE NOTES. Even if you think it’s not necessary, take notes. Pay attention, write things down, because sometimes you hear things and it makes sense, and when you try to write it on paper or rephrase it you’re like….wait hold on.

BE KIND TO YOURSELF. Not everyone understands everything immediately. And that’s okay. Brains are incredibly complex and literally no two human brains are identical. Epigentetics, nature vs nurture, it all makes sure that your brain is unique, and will have its own unique strengths and weaknesses.

IDENTIFY WHAT KIND OF LEARNER YOU ARE. I’m an auditory learner. If someone walks me through something, step by step, talking out loud while I write, I learn it immediately. I’m not visual at all. I only got through biochem because some friends helped me make a (0,1) binary-esque verbal code for how sugars were oriented. But if you learn by working through something, or drawing a picture, great! Know that about yourself and take that with you when you ask for help.

TIME MANAGE. Keep a planner, or a journal, or a calendar, or even just use your phone calendar. Plan your time effectively, but not strictly. Use pomodoro timers if you want (25 minutes work, 5 minutes break). I also sometimes play “0’s and 5’s” with myself, wherein, if I get distracted, I can stay distracted until the clock hits a 0 or a 5, and then I have to get back to work. If you’re someone who has to cut yourself off from everything, that’s okay. Learn what is going to help you be the most effective, and don’t EVER wait til the last minute to do something unless you absolutely have to. My goal is to always be a minimum 2-days ahead on school work, but I feel much more comfortable if it’s a week.

ASK FOR HELP. Find your weaknesses. Learn the stuff you can on your own, and then figure out what has you confused. Go to a tutor, or your professor, or a TA. And if the first one you ask doesn’t seem to be able to help you, ask another one. Ask friends who understand what you don’t. Don’t be afraid. You aren’t stupid. There are things you can do that no one else can do as easily, and someone will probably need your help there at some point in time too. Just….it’s okay to feel down about having a hard time, but remember rule #2 and remind yourself you aren’t actually stupid, you just haven’t asked the right question of the right person yet.

That’s all I have for now. I have so much in my head that might eventually be useful to someone, and that’s part of why I write this. Whether it’s useful because it helps people understand themselves, or if it’s because it helps them pass a test, I don’t care. I just needed a place to put these sorts of things, so alas, here we are. Blog post 3. Maybe eventually this class will end and I can go to bed, because boy has this been a long week already. And it’s only Tuesday.