Dear Mr. Knightley,
I’m sorry it’s been more than a month . . . I’ve been busy. I think you and Father John were wrong about this. The program is too tough. Dr. Johnson handed another of my articles back today and basically called me an idiot. I didn’t tell you my first efforts crashed and burned because I thought I could save myself. And this article was better. I was sure of it.
Johnson disagreed. He criticized my topic, my approach, my research, and my tone. I’m “formulaic, pedantic, and prosaic.” How can anyone be that bad? I thought I’d specialize in feature writing. I can’t now. He’s the guru of that, and there’s no getting past him. Johnson is Journalism.
In fact, I was so certain of success that I pre-registered for his winter class, Journalism Methods: News Writing. I’m dead, and I’m not the only one. One guy already left. He said that Johnson is too powerful and that a bad recommendation can kill a career. He called the Austin Statesman and got his old job back. He’s headed home to Texas and a good salary with benefits . . . What’ll happen to me?
When handing back my assignment, Johnson asked me to stay after the seminar today. Each of my classmates silently ducked out with grimaces and sympathetic glances—even Debbie, who hasn’t talked to me since that disastrous lunch. I sat there feeling sick as Johnson crossed the room and sat on the edge of my table.
“Find your voice, Moore, or you’re going to have a rough go here.” He leaned back and watched me. For a man with an amazing amount of energy and size, he can sit remarkably still.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve seen seven exercises from you and four full articles. We move fast here, Moore, and your work isn’t cutting it. You’re a good writer and I sense real potential, but your topics and approach are sterile. Is this all you’ve got?”
“I—I need to find more interesting topics?”
“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Moore. That’s not the problem; another reporter could make your topics leap from the page. I see no risk in your writing. You need to stretch so that your soul touches each topic. If you fail to connect, you fail the reader.”
“I put myself in these articles.”
Johnson plucked the paper from my desk and looked it over. “You say here, ‘The judge yielded without conviction, which was no compliment to the case’s importance.’ That voice is stilted, withdrawn, and I can’t tell what you mean. Is that you? Because if it is, you stepped away from the subject and created an insurmountable barrier for your reader. You destroyed its relevance. Why?”
“I didn’t mean to.” I sat there, confused and exposed. “I was trying to be objective.” Also, I had loosely borrowed some Austen verbiage to help me out. Oops.
“Objective and contrived are two different things.” He handed the paper back. “Figure it out, Moore.” He dismissed me with a nod and went back to his computer. Discussion over.
What am I to do? If he were wrong, I could dismiss the criticism. But he’s right. I chose topics I thought interesting, but ones that wouldn’t expose me. Then I hid further because the articles will be judged, graded. I don’t know how to be “me” in this kind of writing.
In literature analysis I hid behind the subject, and it made my papers come alive. I had a voice that mirrored, if not emboldened, the subject. When I write to you, I’m safe in your anonymity and your silence. For all I know, you may not even read these letters.
But Johnson? I need to impress him. I need a grade from him. And I need a voice—fast. My characters have always provided that, both in writing and in life—as Darcy said of Lizzy, I too “find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not my own.” But now I need to produce something objective, something original. Is there nothing that’s mine alone?
And to top it off, the nightmares are back. I used to get them as a kid, but they’ve been gone for a couple years. Not anymore—Dr. Johnson and nightmares. Doesn’t this sound fun?
Each nightmare begins with bright daylight and gray walls. There’s nothing scary as I feel myself falling deeper, but then I start to resist. Fear comes before action. My heart pounds, even before my father enters the scene. He’s always larger than life and oddly red. Yelling begins, but I can’t hear it. I can only feel the fear and the heat it creates. After that the dreams change: Mom enters some, my father dominates others, or occasionally the Putmans (my sixth or seventh foster family) drive at me. Whoever comes brings a black/red fear with them.
As a small child, Jane Eyre gets locked in her dead uncle’s red bedroom for punishment. She grows terrified by the walls, the voices, and his ghost. She bangs on the door, gasping and terrified, as his spirit comes after her, and then passes out. My walls press like Jane’s, and I suffocate. That’s when I wake up gagging and choking.
Roommates used to shake me awake, but no one’s in the cottage now. Morgan moved out last month. So I stay in the nightmares longer and wake drenched in sweat and exhausted.
School and the nightmares are related, Mr. Knightley—even I know that. If I can figure out Johnson, I’m sure the nightmares will go away. But how? I can’t try any harder. If I don’t solve this, Johnson will fail me. Then where do I go?
Sincerely,
Sam
P.S. The Chicago Marathon was last Sunday. Kyle and I still run almost daily, but I couldn’t get enough long runs in to be ready for a marathon. But on a bright note, Kyle joined the cross-country team. You’ll never believe how it happened . . .
We were running laps a couple weeks ago when a large man approached—late fifties, super fit, with gray sideburns and kind, wrinkly eyes.
“Excuse me, miss. Are you a student here?”
“No.”
“Do you work here?”
“No.” Forget the kind eyes. I grew wary.
“Do you have permission to be on this track?”
“Do I need permission?” I inched toward antagonistic.
“Yes. They aren’t my rules and I’m not enforcing them to bust your chops, but we’ve got a lot of police around here, and if they catch you without permission, they can arrest you.”
“It’s the drugs, the gangs, and the crime. They can arrest you.” He tried to soften it with a smile. Then he stared hard at Kyle. “You’re Kyle Baines, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
I got nervous. This man hadn’t told us anything about himself, but he knew a lot about us. I started to open my mouth, but he was still talking to Kyle.
“I’m Coach Ridley. I’ve been talking to Father John about you. He says you’re a strong runner. You should join our team.”
“I thought—” I started, but Coach Ridley subtly shook his head at me. If I hadn’t been so surprised, I might have gotten mad.
He focused on Kyle. “Your friend here can’t come back to the track; I don’t want her to get in trouble. But her stride’s too long. Think you could help her with that?”
Kyle, who hadn’t looked the man in the eyes during any portion of this, locked eyes on Coach Ridley. I couldn’t believe it. He was listening. But I was listening too, and I felt my face flush with anger. My stride is not too long! I remembered the day when I ran Kyle into the ground. I don’t like losing. And I don’t like criticism.
“Excuse m—” I protested, but that’s all I got out as Coach Ridley glanced at me and winked. He winked! I almost laughed as I caught on. The coach was trapping Kyle. It was a dare. And Kyle was eating it up.
“I can run you through some drills with the team, and you can help her shorten that stride. It’ll improve her times.”
“I can do that.”
“Good. I’ll see you right here after last period tomorrow.” He turned back to me. “And what’s your name?”
“Well, Miss Moore. You’ll have a better stride by next week. And the track is open to the public for meets. You can come watch Kyle.” Coach Ridley walked away without another word or look back.
Kyle and I turned and walked back to Grace House. I think we were both stunned, probably for different reasons.
“So you’re on the cross-country team?” I tried to sound casual. This is good for him. It’d be good for any teenage boy.
“Yeah.”
“Are you excited?”
“Dunno.”
“You don’t know? Why’d you join?”
“You need help.”
I shot him a glance, trying to find sarcasm. There wasn’t any. I laughed. “Well, Kyle, I’ll take all the help I can get.” That’s irony for you, if nothing else.
It’s been almost two weeks now, and Kyle looks lighter. I don’t mean his weight—he was already a lanky kid. I mean his eyes. They aren’t as cruel, and his mouth isn’t compressed so tight. Promising changes, Mr. Knightley.