From the Fan Fiction Unbound Archive,
posted by conTessaofthecastle:
Clouds darkened the sky above the tree canopy as they picked their way through the forest. Daphne stopped once or twice to close her eyes and repeat the pathfinder chant. They couldn’t use the sun to guide them in this part of the woods, and she wasn’t at all sure that they were headed in the right direction. She didn’t say anything to Astoria, instead relying on the chant. She’d know soon enough if it was wrong.
Soph.
After breakfast on Monday morning, we go into a large conference room with Celestine. On one end is a big screen, and Celestine tells us to make sure we can all see it.
“This morning, we are going to do an exercise called ‘Show and Tell.’ It will seem more familiar to those of you who write nonfiction, but it is useful for every writer. The first part is simple. I want you to watch this short video.” She dims the lights and the screen brightens. She’s right. It is short. When it ends, Celestine turns off the monitor and puts the lights back on. She walks around the long conference table handing each of us a blue exam book and a pen, saying, “Now I want you each to write down what you saw in the video, so that someone who reads what you’re writing will know what happened.”
I write: In a school library, there are a few wooden tables and a girl sitting at one of the tables studying. She finishes what she’s doing then stands up and leaves. A heavyset girl with short hair walks up to one of the tables, looking for the first girl, who was supposed to meet her there. Then she reaches under the table and picks up a messenger bag. She searches for the other girl again, but doesn’t see her, so she shrugs and leaves.
After we finish writing, Professor Forsythe, Joan, and Grace come into the room. Celestine says, “We’re going to divide into four groups now. Each of us will take one of the four groups into another room. We’ll read out names of our respective participants and you should follow us out. Bring what you’ve written and your pen.”
Professor Forsythe calls my name and puts me in a group with Ellen, Peggy, Keisha, Yin, and Tess. We follow Professor Forsythe into a smaller room with a round table and a video screen. I sit between Ellen and Yin. My mother would be thrilled. I can hear her reminding me that I need to seize “every chance to make an excellent impression, darling.” Get out of my head, Mom! But I should try to make up for that fan fiction fight I started yesterday. When we’re seated, Professor Forsythe asks us to go around the room reading aloud what we wrote.
Ellen, the songwriter, is first. She wrote: A man and a woman meet in a book-filled room but the woman doesn’t like the man. When the woman sees the man approach, she leaves. The man likes the woman and doesn’t understand. When he sees that she left her backpack, he picks it up and goes to find her.
Yin treats it like a blog, which fits with her work: Another day in a nearly empty study hall. One student leaves, another comes in. The bell rings, and he leaves. I wonder if Professor Forsythe sees how little Yin got from the video. I hope so.
Peggy, who wants to be a lawyer, has a different take: A high school girl leaves her backpack in the cafeteria. A thuggish guy comes in from outside and steals her backpack.
Keisha, the historical novelist wrote: This is a transitional scene where two lovers fail to connect. Clearly, the girl and the guy have had some type of disagreement and are trying to avoid each other. The girl, seeing that the guy is coming, leaves so she doesn’t have to see him. He’s relieved that she’s not there.
I go next, and then Tess is last. I’m very curious to hear what she wrote. I wonder if she’ll embellish the scene since she writes fan fiction. She reads aloud, A young woman is sitting at a table in a room which could be a conference room, some type of lobby, or a large schoolroom. She stands up and walks offscreen to the left, as if she were leaving or going to another area of the room. Another person walks in from the right. The person could be a man or a woman. The person sees a bag on the floor, which might belong either to the young woman or this second person. The person looks around, perhaps for the young woman, then walks off to the right.
Interesting. Tess sounds unsure of what she saw. If she’s going into the military, I thought she would show more certainty. Also, there’s nothing fanciful about what she wrote. I’d have thought a writer of fan fiction based on a TV show about witches would see magic or dragons or something.
Professor Forsythe asks us to review our own pieces and see if we have any changes based on what we heard from each other. I don’t have any. I know what I saw and I didn’t put in any extra details. No one else makes any changes either.
Professor Forsythe says, “Well, that means that you differ on material facts, doesn’t it? It also means that each of you has made assumptions which are incorrect. Take another look and see if you can identify your assumptions.”
She’s right. We all did make assumptions, and they are different! Professor Forsythe leads a discussion in which we go through them. As we do, she writes on a whiteboard:
1. Where did this take place?
2. What was the first person doing at the beginning?
3. What did she do next?
3. What is the second person’s description?
4. What is the relationship between the two people?
5. What was the second person doing there?
6. What did the second person walk out with? Why?
I wish I could figure out the point of all of this, because obviously Professor Forsythe is looking for something specific. The only good news is, I don’t think Yin has any more of a clue what the Professor wants than I do.
Professor Forsythe puts down the marker. “Let’s play it again.”
Each of us was wrong in a million different ways. It was not a second girl, but a guy, so Peggy, Keisha, Yin, and I got that wrong. I thought the room had bookshelves in the back, but there were only a couple of books on the tables and no shelves. I was right that it was a messenger bag. When we see the whole thing again, it’s clear that the girl didn’t sit anywhere near the bag, so it couldn’t have been hers. No bell went off, so she didn’t get up because study hall ended as Yin thought. Finally, the guy smiled a little when he picked up the bag and left. He didn’t shrug. So much for making “an excellent impression” on Professor Forsythe this time. Tess was the closest, but she also bought herself the most wiggle room by putting in multiple possibilities.
When the video is over, Professor Forsythe asks us, “Do you know why this exercise is called ‘Show and Tell?’”
Yin answers, “Because you’re showing us something and asking us to tell about it.”
“Close, Yin, but not quite. Anyone else?”
I raise my hand, and Professor Forsythe nods at me. “What we’ve written shows and tells something about us?”
“Yes, Soph, correct.” Hah! I got the answer before Yin did! And she finally got my name right.
Professor Forsythe keeps talking. “Each of your assumptions says something about you. So do the assumptions you did not make. And for Tess here, the assumptions she implied but refused to make. Now I don’t know you very well, but I’m going to make a statement about each one of you and I want you to think about whether I’m right or not.”
“First, Soph: School is very important to you, and you work hard at it. You have a lot of friends and are devoted to them, but you have strong opinions about how they should act. In fact, you have strong opinions about a lot of things. But you’re generous, too. Am I right? Does anyone know why I came to these conclusions?”
She is right, and I have to admit it, but I wonder how she figured it out. At least she didn’t say anything bad about me.
Ellen guesses, “Well, for one thing, she said it was a school and she assumed the girl and the guy knew each other and were supposed to be there together.”
Peggy agrees and adds, “Also, you think they were supposed to be there together but the girl ditched the guy.”
Ellen has more. “You said that they were supposed to meet but that the girl blew off the guy. Actually, you said they were both girls. Then when the guy couldn’t find the girl, he shrugged as if he knew she was wrong to leave.”
Professor Forsythe describes the others, but I don’t pay much attention. I think my memory is great. Also, I may have strong opinions, but I’m perceptive, not judgmental. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. I still wonder how I got so many details wrong. I guess I should be grateful Professor Forsythe got my name right this time.
We go through everyone’s answers but I’m so distracted by how Professor Forsythe figured me out that I don’t really pay attention until I hear her describe Tess. “You are an extremely careful person. You’re careful about what you say and do and you’re concerned about being judged by others. You’re very observant, but you keep your own counsel.” She looks around the room and continues. “What in Tessa’s writing suggests this?”
I correct her. “Her name is Tess, not Tessa.” I wonder if Professor Forsythe is as perceptive as she thinks she is. I realize too late I probably shouldn’t have corrected her. I can’t keep arguing with her. From rooming with Tess, I know some of what Professor Forsythe said is right. The rest is intriguing, and I wonder if it’s true.
Professor Forsythe tells Yin she has a creative voice but needs encouragement to share her talents. “But you’re working hard,” she says, smiling.
Great. Another point for Yin. She hasn’t corrected Professor Forsythe once.
* * *
At the end of lunch, Joan stands up. I guess Professor Forsythe is taking a break from playing the announcer. Joan says that we will devote the afternoon to individual writing instruction. “After carefully reviewing your applications and listening to you over the last twenty-four hours, we’ve assigned each of you to work with one of us. Our goal is to help you define your objectives and help you to realize them. We’re going to post a list in the lounge which identifies which instructor is paired with which writer and schedules a time for each of you to meet one-on-one with your instructor today. You should find your instructor and your appointment and then pick a place to write for the rest of the afternoon. We’ll be conducting our meetings in the large conference room. You can work in your own bedrooms, in any of the public spaces, or in the smaller rooms on the third floor.”
Excellent! I’m sure I’ll be paired with Professor Forsythe, since she’s a poetry expert. I can’t wait to show her what I am working on and finally ask for her insight. Maybe I do have a shot at Minerva. If nothing else, I now have something to tell my mother that has nothing to do with the stupid deb ball. I join the crowd at the list on the bulletin board and push my way to the front.
I can’t find my name on Professor Forsythe’s list. Tess is on her list. That makes no sense, since Professor Forsythe clearly doesn’t know anything about fan fiction. I am assigned to Grace. That sucks. She’s the youngest one here and isn’t even affiliated with Minerva. I’m the first one on her list and have to meet with her right away, which leaves me no time to figure out how to approach Professor Forsythe about this.
Each of the four instructors sits at a corner of the conference room table. Professor Forsythe is already talking to Yin. That figures! I sit at Grace’s corner, shaking my head.
“Hi, Soph. Let’s talk about your work. I see you’re a poet and you write historical poems?” Her voice goes up a little at the end, as if she’s one of those West Coast girls on TV, making a statement into a question.
“No, not quite.” I get it now. They mistook my interest in historical structures for poems about history, which must be why they didn’t assign me to Professor Forsythe. “I do write poetry, but I’m interested in sonnets. I’ve been working on the simpler types, you know, with couplets, but I want to be able to do the more complicated rhyme schemes.”
“Ah, I see. Tell me what you write about?”
“Everything. I mean, everything that’s going on around me. Sometimes about how I’m feeling. Other times about what I see: right and wrong, that type of thing.”
“How do you decide what to write about?”
“I don’t. I write… whatever hits me. It’s the form that I think about all the time.”
“Show me what you’re working on now?”
I take out my sonnet about coming here. “This one is a Shakespearean structure—the first one I did which wasn’t just couplets.” I watch her read it.
“Yes, I see, ABAB. So, you want to write more of these?”
“Sort of. I want to write ABAB. But I also want to be able to write Petrarchan and Spenserian.” Those are pretty complicated poetry structures. I assume Professor Forsythe would know them, but I can’t tell if Grace does. She nods.
“And those formats are important to you because?”
This seems like a waste of time. Grace turns everything I say into another dumb question. “I love them. They were developed hundreds of years ago, and everything should still be able to fit into them. I like ordering my thoughts to fit into them. I like being who I am in the twenty-first century, but using an historic construct. It’s traditional but updated, which is more sophisticated.”
“Huh.” She’s still nodding, but I don’t think she knows what I’m talking about.
We go back and forth like this, and Grace suggests I consider what “comes next?” I think she means I should do something else, but I do not intend to do that. “You should think about how what you want to say about yourself fits into the form and whether the form should be updated.”
On my way out, I notice that Professor Forsythe has finished with Yin and I try to catch her eye, but she’s focused on the papers in front of her.
Tess.
I don’t know why Professor Forsythe chose me. Yesterday, I thought she didn’t like fan fiction at all—or me. In the hour before I have to go meet with her, I retreat to our room to think up a defense for what I write. I’m trying to read my latest chapter on my tiny phone screen, and am pretty frustrated, when Soph comes in. I politely ask how it went, but she glowers at me as if I did something to her and says nothing.
“That bad?” I can’t figure out what she might be upset about.
“Professor Forsythe should have been mine; she’s a poetry expert. But I got Grace instead, who just picked me apart. You’re lucky you got Professor Forsythe. That’s a big honor.”
It doesn’t feel like much of an honor, but I don’t want to argue with Soph. I also don’t want to explain what I saw last night between Chris and Orly. I have my own problems.
“Was Grace mean?” That’s a bad sign. If Grace was mean to Soph, Professor Forsythe will almost certainly be worse to me. This week is getting harder and harder. I don’t know why they chose me. Some of these girls have been published or won awards for their writing. I’m putting things online that aren’t edited and that no one even knows I wrote. They’re taken from a TV show that Professor Forsythe doesn’t watch. At least Soph has a poet for an instructor. There’s no “fan fiction professor” here for me to talk to. Soph is still glum.
“Worse. She didn’t say anything outright, but she questioned everything I told her, as though she didn’t buy any of it. What a pain! I don’t think she understands structured poetry at all.”
“What are you going to do?” Soph doesn’t strike me as someone who just accepts things. She’s probably going to make a fuss.
“I’m not sure. I want to talk to Professor Forsythe and see if I can change. It must be a mistake.”
“You can have my spot, if you want it.”
Soph perks up when I say that. “I can?”
I say, “Yes,” without thinking.
“When are you supposed to meet with her?” She’s got a glint in her eye as if I offered her something important. Maybe I did. Maybe it will save me from being critiqued even more and keep some distance between Professor Forsythe and me. I don’t care who my advisor is. I want to make it through this week without more humiliation and go home.
“In a few minutes,” I tell her.
“Great. I’ll come down with you, and we’ll work it out.” She’s a lot happier now. Better for Soph to ask to switch anyway. Again, I think maybe Soph and I could be friends.
We go down to the conference room. Professor Forsythe is distracted. “Good afternoon, Tess.” She turns to Soph, “And Ms., um, why are you here?” Great, she can’t remember Soph’s name again.
“Professor, we think there’s been a mistake, that I should be working with you, not Tess.”
“And why is that?” She’s clearly not happy. I didn’t think that it was a mistake. Soph did, and I don’t want her putting words in my mouth. But it’s too late. Soph is already explaining.
“Because I’m a perfect match for you. I’m a poet, which is your specialty, and I am working in pre-twentieth-century structures, exactly what you’re working on in your current project. I meant it when I said I want to work with you.” Soph is almost pleading.
Professor Forsythe gazes back and forth between us without speaking. I haven’t said anything, and I feel Soph nudging me. “It’s fine with me if Soph wants to switch, ma’am.”
“Well, Soph, I may be flattered by your interest.” She doesn’t sound flattered at all. “But I assure you, there’s been no mistake. We assigned you to work with Grace. I am confident that when you meet with her, you’ll understand and appreciate our decision.”
Soph looks as though she’s about to say something more, but nothing comes out. That’s a relief.
“Now, please leave Tess and me so that we can discuss her work. If you want to talk to me about your work, we will have an opportunity later this week.”
Once Soph leaves the room, Professor Forsythe turns to me with one eyebrow raised. “Before we start, Tess, do you have a problem here?”
“No, no.” I rush to assure her. “I… It was important to her… but no.”
“Good. Now let’s talk about your fan fiction.” To my relief, she doesn’t say it with the same emphasis she used yesterday morning. “I have read some of it and I listened to you talk about it yesterday. I appreciate that you want to use it to demonstrate women’s inherent power, but I think you should try to put more of your personal experience into it.”
“Well… the show is set in an alternate world with magic.” I don’t know how to explain that the whole point of writing fan fiction is that it’s set in a place and time that aren’t real, that have absolutely nothing to do with my puny, pathetic existence in Castleton, New Hampshire.
“Yes, as I say, I did read it, both when you submitted a writing sample with your application and more recently. Your writing technique is very competent. But there’s not much of you in here, Tess. Even if you try to address it through one of the show’s characters, I’d like to see some of your own feelings and hopes, as well as your personal history.”
I’m slightly sick to my stomach as I leave. There’s no way that I can do what she wants. And there’s no way I can tell her why I can’t.
* * *
From Soph Alcazar’s Writing Journal,
February 12, 2018
Two chances to shine and I failed outright.
Shone but shown up to the wrong one assigned.