2 Chapter 2

Abusing

An interesting word choice, I thought, trying to explain to my inner voice that I meant to say wasting, not abusing. But it was not lost on the class, or Clarissa, who was nibbling her pencil eraser and twiddling the curly strands of her chestnut-brown hair.

“Are there any further questions about today’s lecture?” I asked. “Or next week’s writing assignment?”

Everybody seemed eager to pack their bags with their textbooks and notebooks and race out into the last balmy month of the year. Fall would be here before we knew it, along with the beginning of a long, cold Adirondack winter.

The bottoms of chairs scraped along the floor as the rush of bodies shifted and clamored out from behind desks, and meandered to the front of the room. “Don’t forget to pick up your writing portfolios,” I said. “And if you have any questions about your final essay grades, you know where you can find me. You can call me or stop by during my office hours today between 1:30 and 2:45.” I collected the day’s roster of student names, today’s lesson plans, and other paperwork, and stuffed everything on top of my father’s monthly medical bills inside my brown leather briefcase.

As I navigated through a throng of students, wishing everyone a good week, someone called my name. I turned to Robert Gallagher hurrying toward me, slinging the strap of his shoulder bag over his head and waving last week’s assignment at me, a miffed expression on his stern face. “Professor Whitley, hold up.”

My grip tightened on the briefcase handle. I held his intense gaze. He smelled like patchouli oil, a whiff of cardamom. He removed his hat and I noticed he had his hair in a man bun, wrapped tightly in a rubber band. His features hardened when he asked, “Can we talk about my lousy D?”

I looked down at my watch—11:45 A.M. “Come by my office today.”

“It won’t take long.” I could hear the eagerness in his determined tone.

“I’ve got to be somewhere right now, Robert. I’d rather you use my office hours so I can give you my full attention.”

“I can’t. I’ve got class.”

I sighed. “Walk with me, Robert.” I strolled down the corridor and around the corner to the side door, stepping out into a blindingly buoyant sun. I closed my eyes against the heat of the late morning light warming my face, praying for good news about my father.

Robert stood on the steps next to me, waiting for me to say something. I turned to him. “What do you aspire to do after college?”

He shrugged and adjusted his heavy-looking book bag over his shoulder. “I want to write.”

“What do you want to write about?”

Another shrug. His face took on the weight of someone who had been thinking too hard. Deep wrinkles pitted his high forehead, as he squinted against the harshness of the bright day. “I don’t know.”

“From one writer to another, let me give you some advice. In order to write you have to experience things.”

He moved out of the way to let a group of students exit the side door and desc the stairs. “What kind of experience?”

“Life.”

“Whatever happened to write what you know?”

“Well, that’s half of it. But good writers recycle everything that happens in their life—good and bad—and they write about it. You’re still young, and you’ve got a lot of living to do. A lot of experiencing and researching along the way will help strengthen not only your writing, but you as well. Everything builds character and makes you a stronger person.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I was where you are when I first started out as a writer. I knew I wanted to be a writer, but I wasn’t sure how it would take form, and help pay the bills, and make me happy.” I paused. “Writing is hard, and it’s a struggle, and you will need to work one or two jobs to put food on the table. But when you invest in the hard work and energy needed to be a good writer, the journey will be rewarding.”

“I’m not going to be rich or famous like Stephen King?”

I fought back laughter, didn’t want to diminish his dreams of being a writer or bruise his young beginner’s ego. “Most likely not. But that’s not why we write.”

“Then why, if not for big houses, swimming pools and sports cars?”

“Most writers live a modest life, Robert. Not like Stephen King or Dean Koontz. Writers take pride in the writing, not the royalties.”

“Am I going to fail your class?” he asked, changing gears.