Yesterday, after my once-in-a-lifetime hour with Alex Powell, I ran into Dr. Johnson. He, of course, remembered that I submitted an article to theTribune. Why did I ever tell him? And I couldn’t lie when he asked . . . They refused it with a very succinctNot suitable for publication at this time.
“It was my first try, Dr. Johnson. I’ll refine the next one and submit again.”
“You can try as often as you like, Moore. It won’t help. You need to decide if you’re right for this program. You’re way behind where you should be by now.”
My heart stopped. “What are you saying?”
“Simply this. Medill is expensive. If you have the funds and can afford a low-paying newspaper job, let’s keep at this. If you’re on loans, you might want to consider more lucrative work. Graduate school takes serious commitment and, given that, can yield serious results. Careers are made within these walls, but students are broken as well.”
“I’ve given everything to be here.”
“You have? Tell me what you’ve sacrificed, because I’ve never seen a student give so little.”
“What?”
“I see no passion in your writing. Only technique. It’s good, but it’s empty.”
“‘I certainly have not the talent which some people possess . . . ,’ but I am working hard.” I grimaced. Spewing forth a hackneyed Darcy line confirmed, not refuted, Johnson’s point.
“There you go, Moore—a perfect example. Can’t you feel yourself step away from the subject? Right here in this conversation.” He studied me a moment. “If you don’t commit, consider yourself warned. You’ll be one the faculty cuts. We don’t keep students who hold the others back.”
How did he know? He studied me again and, I think, pitied my fallen expression. I blinked hard to clear my eyes as he continued. “You must press deeper, stretch farther, dig. Give up on theTribfor now. Try theEvanston Reviewand some township papers. Get some publishing credits, grab a bit of encouragement, and drive harder. You’ve got two months, Moore. Don’t waste them.”
So here I sit, trying to stretch and dig. A writer is revealed through her work, journalism or fiction. I know that now. I learned it from Alex. Last night, I pulled a few of his books from the shelves and reread my favorites. And I found him, the real Alex, on every page. Not him directly, but I found his passion. That’s what Johnson is talking about. In journalism, you can take an objective subject and infuse it with life by your commitment to it, your passion for it.
I learned something else while perusing Alex’s books: Fiction is great to read, but it’s not for me to write. There are stories in me—hard-hitting stories, factual stories, life stories, news stories. I see them in front of me, and now I see them slipping away.
This has been plaguing me, especially since lying to Kyle about school this afternoon. I know that avoiding the bad doesn’t make it go away, and escaping into a good book or character doesn’t help either. I must deal with reality and all the mess I’ve pushed away for so long. Please know I’m working. This program, this work, has come to mean the world to me. I won’t/can’t fail.
Thanks for listening,
Sam
NOVEMBER 22
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m flooding your mailbox. Sorry about that. There is so much happening right now and you’re the best place to send this—the good and the bad. Mrs. Muir called today, and I took the Metra up to Winnetka for dinner. I’m still shocked both that she called and that I accepted. To make it more dramatic, Alex Powell showed up during dessert—and none too pleased to see me.
When I rang their doorbell, Professor Muir immediately opened it and bounded onto the front walk.
“You’re here. I was sure you wouldn’t come . . . Don’t just stand there. Come in.” He led me into the front hall. The walls were light brown and there was a patterned rug on the wood floor. The front stairs arched around the entrance hall. Not grand, like in the movies, but large enough and strong enough to contain Professor Muir. It looked like “home.”
“I have something you should read. I think you’ll love it.”
“Let her settle a moment, Robert.” A quiet voice came from beside me. I jumped, for I hadn’t noticed anyone standing there. “Would you rather help me in the kitchen, Sam? It’s Sam, right?”
Mrs. Muir was tall like her husband, but exuded serenity, not fireworks. Can someone personify peace? It’s the best way to describe her.
I looked back at the professor, who nodded at me. “Go ahead. We can talk after dinner.”
I followed Mrs. Muir into the kitchen.
“I’m Frances Muir. I’m so glad you came tonight.”
“Thank you for inviting me. And yes, it’s Sam—short for Samantha.”
“Robert always loved inviting students to dinner, and Alex was and is his most favorite. It’s wonderful to have one of his friends join us for dinner.”
