Something to do...
ICly private again, backdated 1 week ago.
Met with Leah tonight. Good meeting, though... bit awkward. She seems to have calmed down a bit about the whole mutant powers thing. Jean must've talked some sense into her. Or something else. I don't think I want to know.
Anyways... Hard to take criticism about your writing, even when it's well-intended. And even when it's right. Got some work to do on this stuff before it's ready. But Leah knows her stuff, if nothing else. Good ideas. Should make it a lot cleaner. Published stories. I guess Scott was right at least about that. Something to look forward to. Being alive... yeah, I'll live.
Old Brownstone Apartments #300 - Leah(#2467RA)
Plentiful light and air combine to make this tall and narrow apartment seem larger than its floor plan suggests. Directly opposite the entry's little foyer, a trio of high, leaded-glass windows dominates the main area: the central living room, the kitchen next to the entry, and the eating nook in the corner between kitchen and window. On the other side of the apartment lies private space: a tiny office next to the entry, the bedroom on the other side of a short hallway, and the bathroom between.
The decor is simple but pleasant with many touches of nature, from the polished woods of floor and furniture to the scattered arrangements of seashells, dried flowers, and framed landscapes that complete the essence of a peaceful haven.
It's evening, but not too late for a school night -- except that school's out, of course, making the town's streets a little quieter, a little safer these days. Leah's standing at the living-room windows in her apartment, arms folded and hands closed around her biceps, to watch the street below. Every now and then she glances at the clock on the kitchen wall, or the door.
John's not exactly on time, so Leah has good reason to be watching the clock. Though it's not exactly 'running late' if one doesn't really even attempt to be on time. Such is John's demeanor as he walks the sidewalk, noting the building number before sliding in behind one of the residents and making his way up the stairs. He pauses outside the door a moment, then lifting his hand to knock, a dull "Hi" on his lips for when the door is opened.
Leah spins on her heels, stops, composes herself with hands' slide down her slacks and a firm nod of her head. She crosses more casually to the door and opens it with a pleasantly formed smile. "Hey, John. Thanks for coming. C'mon in."
John glances around before stepping in, then moreso after. "Thanks for having me," comes as response, then a few moments later, "Nice place."
Leah ushers him to the living area, gesturing to either of the pillow-rich couches while she moves on to the kitchen. "Thanks. Got it for a song, so I suspect there must've been a murder or a haunting here. My real-estate agent was just a little too cheerful. . . ." Opening the fridge, she peers in. "I've got water, juice, soda . . .? Oh, and some munchies, while we go over the portfolio. Hungry work, y'know."
"A soda sounds good, I guess. Thanks," John says after her, sitting down on the edge of one of the couches, then taking the opportunity to let his gaze wander the walls while she's occupied. So this is a writer's apartment.
Fridge closes. Cabinet opens and closes. Leah returns to the living room with a pair of sodas in one hand and a bag of Chex Mix in the other. The latter she pours into a low, wide bowl already on the coffee table, next to the aforementioned portfolio. Hands over his can, then perches, with a little stiffness, on the other couch, kitty-corner from him. "There," she finishes, and tries a little smile. "Bottoms up?"
John pops the top on his, returns his own awkward attempt at a smile. "Cheers, then," he says, taking a long drink. His eyes stray to the folder on the table, his mind a moment even trying to remember which stories he'd included. Not that he's had any reason to forget one of the most important things in a writer's career, of course.
Leah contents herself with a swallow, then leans forward to rest the can on a coaster. After a hesitation, she scoots a coaster towards his side of the table, too. "So, how was Australia? All your old stomping grounds, your friends . . ." The folder sits closed, mute, and she's apparently bound and determined to break the ice into little bitty bits before easing into actual business.
"I was..." John pauses, trying to determine how much to say. And how quickly to say it. "Between dealing with extended family, legal matters and attending my parents' funeral... I didn't have much time for sightseeing." Nothing like easing into it, is there?
. . . No, not really. Leah's pale eyes go, if possible, paler because of the sudden ring of white around the light-brown irises, and she's entirely rigid now in her perch on couch's edge. "Your -- parents' funeral? Both of them? My God, John."
John's silence is doubtlessly as awkward for her as for him. Except that maybe he's had several days to begin to work through some of this. He just nods in response, not putting any words out for a few more moments. "Car wreck. Graduation weekend." That's all he'll trust himself to say at the moment.
"I'm sorry," Leah says after a long moment of silence from her end of things. She studies the hands she's clasped on her knees, but flicking up a worried look when she figures out how to continue. "I really am. Do you want to do this tonight? I can just give it back to you; I made notes, suggestions, that kind of thing. We don't have to walk through it if you'd rather--"
"I don't know what I want right now," John frowns, staring through the portfolio. "Well, other than hunting down the bastard that did it. But that's not gonna happen, so... this seems better than sitting back in an empty dorm room. Or walking. My feet are going to fall off."
Leah decides briskly, still eyeing him, "Work, then. Take your mind off it, huh? I -- won't press, John. None of my business, unless you /want/ to talk." But for now, she leans forward again to get the folder, and slides down the couch to get closer to him on his. "So, how about starting with my general impressions of your work?"
"Yeah, I'm so done with the talking about it now," John shakes his head, setting his can down. "Everyone has their own ideas about what I should be doing, feeling, saying. Don't want all of New York as my onn personal therapist. So yeah. Sorry. And thanks." His gaze strays to the folder then back to her, a flicker of interest reigniting, and he manages a hesitant, "Well, yeah. What... did you think?"
"It's good," Leah answers flatly, with a smile curved to soften the immediate, blunt response. "Hey, I can tell you that much, put your mind at ease. Rough around the edges? Definitely. Maundering in some places, in that special adolescent way? Hell, yeah. But good? /Yes,/ John. You show real promise, and I'm not just saying it."
And /there's/ the breath that John didn't realize he'd been holding. It whistles out between his teeth, then he reaches for his soda and busies himself with that for a moment. "Well... that's really... a relief. Kinda hard to be the right level of critic with your own stuff."
Leah opens the folder and starts ticking through it. "Let's see, some specifics -- okay, here." Drawing out one of the stories, she flips to a page in the middle, all decorated with thin red lines swooping here and scribbling there. "Now, your composition's not bad -- beginning, middle, end -- though I'd move a few things around . . . well, you know. But the emotions here? You really nail them, John, you really do. The language is a /little/ overwrought, but it doesn't obscure the dynamic of feelings you're setting up. Just trim back the adjectives a little. Remember, strong nouns and verbs over too many adjectives and adverbs."
As with any young tutoree, there's a mixture of excitement and caution. Because, okay, it's getting better. But... it's changing what was written. But getting better. But not inspired. Write and re-write. John leans in, though, squelching some of the resistance to try to listen to what she has to say. "Got another pen?" he asks, peering at a few of the notes.
"Shit. Hang on, yeah." Leah pushes up to standing and goes to bang a few drawers around in the kitchen. "Here," and she tosses it to the cushion beside him, coming around the couch to sit on its end, with that cushion between them. She peers over that moat at the page, too, and observes a little wryly, "First rule of writing: editor's suggestions, in the end, are only that, suggestions. You're the writing; you have the last say, although it might not get you published. Be true to your art."
John snags the pen, pulling off the cap and tossing it on the table beside the papers. Now he can work. "How do you... wait. No, how do /you/ decide then what's preference and what's important?"
Leah leans back into the couch's back, braced on an elbow and the heel of that palm pressed to her temple. She watches him work with a queer expression: pride, even affection, sifted through strange, distant wariness. "Well, in my experience, the good suggestions are obvious, and you take them. The rest are usually the editor's own preference, his or her style of writing, and you can pick /them/ out pretty quickly. 'Course, if there's a house style you need to follow, you just suck it up and go along. I don't know if Min's magazine has one; probably it's just AP or Chicago."
"Well, I guess I hope they're obvious to me too," John shrugs. "And that if I decide not to change something I don't get blown off for just being young. Do they usually /tell/ you style stuff? Or are you supposed to just figure it out?"
Leah counters mildly, "Well, /are/ you familiar with the usual guides? AP, Chicago Manual, MLA -- though that's nonfiction, so never mind with it. I'd stick to the Chicago, I'd say. Most houses have some variation of one of the biggies; you do pick it up, John, don't worry. You seem to have a solid grasp of all the basics: punctuation, grammar, formatting, numbers. Focus on using them for now, just what you already have, and adapt to whatever an editor gives you to follow as the situation arises."
"Sorta, well, a little, uh, not really," John says, sheepishly. "Well, I mean, I've heard of them all. But I couldn't tell you what the differences are. Only real hard part with grammar is... it's different here sometimes. As my English and Lit teachers told me all the time."
Leah smiles and points out, "You uses 'as' there, not 'like,' so you did pick up something. Australian English is more like the Brits', I'm guessing?"
"I guess, but I've /like/ never studied in London," John replies, a slight grin appearing with the jest. Sometimes, all you can do is throw yourself into the work. And some days, that's enough.
Leah barks a little laugh. "And /that/ is Californian English -- Valley, to be specific -- and you'd better not use it in your writing except to effect." Backing down into a grin, she continues, "I could lend you copies of the guides, but it's no big deal. Let's just concentrate on the big picture, and let the niggling details sort themselves out in the end, as they always seem to do. So. Character. You seem to spend a lot of time describing what's going on /in/ them, and not so much what's happening /to/ or /between/ them. It's metatextual, and since you're not Proust, I might shift a little more to the external stuff. Internal monologues are great, but in small doses."
"I guess that's what interests me the most," John says, frowning slightly. "Probably half my stories start because I see someone do something and start wondering what they were thing, why the heck they would do that, or something like that."
Leah leans forward on elbow's prop, her hand sliding down to support her chin on its back. Her eyes are dancing with intent energy. "Yeah, and that's where the emotions really come through. You get /into/ their heads, John, but you stay there a little too much. Why not try exploring what they're thinking from the outside? Use other characters as the mirrors set around them; reflect the protagonist's thoughts in the reactions of those around him. People are connected that way. I had a prof say in one of my classes in college that personality, and therefore a person, can't develop in a vacuum. There have to be other people to bounce off of, to make sense of yourself. Think about that for a story, maybe."
"So, you mean, I've gotta be a people person," John asks wryly. Because there's nothing comic in /that/. "I tend to get distracted as soon as I have another character there. Another mind to explore, you know?" he says. "But I guess I see what you mean. That one," he points toward a corner sticking out of the folder, "Not sure if they ever left the house."
"Writers /are/ people . . . persons." Leah makes a face at the pluralized phrase, but goes with it. She leans over to snag a handful of Chex Mix, too, and after some fast crunching, continues. "I mean, do what you obviously do: observe, analyze, put into a narrative context. But with more characters. Even a two-character study might be helpful. Or . . . you read Sartre? The 'hell is other people' guy? Good stuff, there."
"Don't think so," John says, wrinkling his brow in recollection. "Short stories? Novel? Any one I should start with?" Because if nothing else, there is the mark of an earnest writer. One who's willing to read anything, no matter /what/ the name sounds like. Or what one's peers would say carrying said name around.
Leah supplies, "_Huis Clos_ is the one I'm thinking of. It's French, because he was -- Jean-Paul Sartre -- for 'dead end.' 'L'enfer, c'est les autres,' and boy, ain't it the truth. Imagine a few people cooped up in a room with each other for eternity. What would they do? What would they talk about? How would you use just actions and dialog, no internal thoughts, to define their characters? Really, it's a great read."
John listens, nodding thoughtfully at the description. "I'll have to get a copy then. Sounds... like hell with the wrong people, sure enough. So I guess I've got to think about it backwards then. Now what were they thinking that made them do that, but... if they're thinking this, what would they do."
"Exactly! Just work through it, and draw from your own experience." Leah's expression gets a guilty tic. "Not recent experience, maybe, but . . ."
John's face stiffens at that. "Guess I've got enough conflict to keep any writer busy for a couple lifetimes," he says, the joke not quite injected with the proper dose of humor.
"Someday, maybe," Leah says quietly. "You never know, but don't touch it now if you can't bear it. It'll burn you up from the inside out. I know. My dad got shot on the job when I was just about your age. They had to come drag me out of Composition 101 at college, and I heard it over a pay phone in the hall."
"Did he... live?" John asks. He's not one-upping, and hopefully won't be seen as such. But maybe there is something there that can he can relate to.
"No. DOA." Leah lifts a shoulder: not a shrug, but a gesture towards the weight of the past, of fate. Her mouth crooks halfway. "My uncle, too; he didn't even survive to see the ambulance. That's about when I decided that going to the police academy might not be the best choice I could make in my life. I wanted -- I /want/ -- to change the world, and I couldn't do that if I was dead on the street, plugged by some gangbanger wired up on crank."
"Oh," John falters, shifting positions on the couch. He's not really much on the eye contact tonight. "I'm sorry." He pauses a moment, finishing off the soda, more for something to do. "Writing to change the world. Yeah, I guess so, hmm?"
Leah does shrug, and lets both hands fall into her lap. "Hey, can't fault a person for trying, right?" She aims for hardy cheer and comes reasonably close. "You, uh, said you read that one article of mine." The sentence hangs there between them; she can't even try to support it. It's just there, like a phone's dead dial tone.
And all the awkward stops are being pulled out. Well, this time, he's not going to echo that one. John nods slowly. "I did..." he trails off, leaving the thought for her to complete.
A sigh. Leah scrubs irritably at her forehead, her cheek. "Yeah," she pushes out on a hard breath. "Look, it's my job, and it's my beliefs, but it's not you. It just isn't. Your DNA has different expression than mine: sections turned on, maybe some turned off. Nothing you can do about that; nothing to be ashamed of. It's . . ." She trails off, too, into that queer, remote expression again, as if her thoughts have stumbled over a gap that didn't used to be there. Somehow. --Shakes her head. "It's shitty what gets shoved your way," she continues more certainly, "and I added to it when I shouldn't have. I was wrong. I'm sorry. I hope you can forgive me."
John's eyes widen and turns enough to stare at Leah. Of all the things he expected to discuss tonight, this was right up there with the space-time continuum and black 'n white photography. "Well... um, okay." Bah, okay, so he does absorb that awkwardness after all.
Leah looks solemnly back at him. "Is it?"
John shrugs at her. "Guess it has to be. And I guess I've just gotta get used to it, people freaking out, that is. Life sucks, sometimes. But what's the alternative...?"
"Dying," Leah answers him with deliberate black humor. "And I don't wanna. Do you?"
"Not particularly," John says after a moment. Eh, he's not trying to convince anyone of anything. "Too much of that going around these days."
Leah nods briskly. "Right. So. Again." A flashed smile, apologizing for the swing back to topic. "Why don't you take the portfolio and futz with it some more, if you want, before sending it on to my friend's office? Have Alyssa look at it, even; she's got a good eye. Between the two of you, you'll have a bang-up job in no time."
John begins gathering the papers together. Something to /do/. He nods. "Yeah, thanks for the ideas. A few things to think about, at least. I'll see what I can do with them. Should have some more time, now that summer's here." 'Should' being the operative word.
Leah tucks her leg up under her; a hand twitches as if she would lean forward to help him, but . . . no. She contents herself with watching with close concern. "Are you living at the school still? If you need any help finding a place in the city--" She breaks off, forces a little laugh. "Yeah, I'm trying too hard. Sorry. You hate bubble wrap." But what about honest empathy?
"Job first, place next," John shrugs. "Need to follow up with a couple people. Just... not felt like it really." Unexcusable! "So yeah, at the school for a couple weeks til I get everything figured out. I'll probably be looking for a roommate. Just hope they're not an axe murderer or something."
"Nah, that's Midwestern stuff. We prefer guns here. The occasional baseball bat or shovel out in the boroughs." Leah runs restless fingers through her hair. "Good luck." Lamely, fidgeting.
John has finished filing the papers away and tucks the folder under his arm as he stands. "I'll be around the school for a while yet, and I'll let you know how to get ahold of me when I move out. And when I've sent the stuff on."
Leah twitches an uncertain smile as she rises, too. "Yeah? Well, good. Thanks. Writers looking out for each other," she says, echoing back to earlier times, and oh, it comes so close to recapturing -- something. Or not. She takes a breath. "C'mon," she jokes, "I'll walk you to the door."
Close. Maybe as close as is possible. On either's part. John nods, smirking slightly. "Might get lost without a guide. Who knows where I'd end up then."
Leah grins and starts to clap him on the shoulder. Stops. The arm falls to her side, and she swings it on the next stride as if it were what she'd intended all along. "God knows," she agrees, and so off they go to the wilderness of the foyer and the dangerous portal of the door.
Met with Leah tonight. Good meeting, though... bit awkward. She seems to have calmed down a bit about the whole mutant powers thing. Jean must've talked some sense into her. Or something else. I don't think I want to know.
Anyways... Hard to take criticism about your writing, even when it's well-intended. And even when it's right. Got some work to do on this stuff before it's ready. But Leah knows her stuff, if nothing else. Good ideas. Should make it a lot cleaner. Published stories. I guess Scott was right at least about that. Something to look forward to. Being alive... yeah, I'll live.
Old Brownstone Apartments #300 - Leah(#2467RA)
Plentiful light and air combine to make this tall and narrow apartment seem larger than its floor plan suggests. Directly opposite the entry's little foyer, a trio of high, leaded-glass windows dominates the main area: the central living room, the kitchen next to the entry, and the eating nook in the corner between kitchen and window. On the other side of the apartment lies private space: a tiny office next to the entry, the bedroom on the other side of a short hallway, and the bathroom between.
The decor is simple but pleasant with many touches of nature, from the polished woods of floor and furniture to the scattered arrangements of seashells, dried flowers, and framed landscapes that complete the essence of a peaceful haven.
It's evening, but not too late for a school night -- except that school's out, of course, making the town's streets a little quieter, a little safer these days. Leah's standing at the living-room windows in her apartment, arms folded and hands closed around her biceps, to watch the street below. Every now and then she glances at the clock on the kitchen wall, or the door.
John's not exactly on time, so Leah has good reason to be watching the clock. Though it's not exactly 'running late' if one doesn't really even attempt to be on time. Such is John's demeanor as he walks the sidewalk, noting the building number before sliding in behind one of the residents and making his way up the stairs. He pauses outside the door a moment, then lifting his hand to knock, a dull "Hi" on his lips for when the door is opened.
Leah spins on her heels, stops, composes herself with hands' slide down her slacks and a firm nod of her head. She crosses more casually to the door and opens it with a pleasantly formed smile. "Hey, John. Thanks for coming. C'mon in."
John glances around before stepping in, then moreso after. "Thanks for having me," comes as response, then a few moments later, "Nice place."
Leah ushers him to the living area, gesturing to either of the pillow-rich couches while she moves on to the kitchen. "Thanks. Got it for a song, so I suspect there must've been a murder or a haunting here. My real-estate agent was just a little too cheerful. . . ." Opening the fridge, she peers in. "I've got water, juice, soda . . .? Oh, and some munchies, while we go over the portfolio. Hungry work, y'know."
"A soda sounds good, I guess. Thanks," John says after her, sitting down on the edge of one of the couches, then taking the opportunity to let his gaze wander the walls while she's occupied. So this is a writer's apartment.
Fridge closes. Cabinet opens and closes. Leah returns to the living room with a pair of sodas in one hand and a bag of Chex Mix in the other. The latter she pours into a low, wide bowl already on the coffee table, next to the aforementioned portfolio. Hands over his can, then perches, with a little stiffness, on the other couch, kitty-corner from him. "There," she finishes, and tries a little smile. "Bottoms up?"
John pops the top on his, returns his own awkward attempt at a smile. "Cheers, then," he says, taking a long drink. His eyes stray to the folder on the table, his mind a moment even trying to remember which stories he'd included. Not that he's had any reason to forget one of the most important things in a writer's career, of course.
Leah contents herself with a swallow, then leans forward to rest the can on a coaster. After a hesitation, she scoots a coaster towards his side of the table, too. "So, how was Australia? All your old stomping grounds, your friends . . ." The folder sits closed, mute, and she's apparently bound and determined to break the ice into little bitty bits before easing into actual business.
"I was..." John pauses, trying to determine how much to say. And how quickly to say it. "Between dealing with extended family, legal matters and attending my parents' funeral... I didn't have much time for sightseeing." Nothing like easing into it, is there?
. . . No, not really. Leah's pale eyes go, if possible, paler because of the sudden ring of white around the light-brown irises, and she's entirely rigid now in her perch on couch's edge. "Your -- parents' funeral? Both of them? My God, John."
John's silence is doubtlessly as awkward for her as for him. Except that maybe he's had several days to begin to work through some of this. He just nods in response, not putting any words out for a few more moments. "Car wreck. Graduation weekend." That's all he'll trust himself to say at the moment.
"I'm sorry," Leah says after a long moment of silence from her end of things. She studies the hands she's clasped on her knees, but flicking up a worried look when she figures out how to continue. "I really am. Do you want to do this tonight? I can just give it back to you; I made notes, suggestions, that kind of thing. We don't have to walk through it if you'd rather--"
"I don't know what I want right now," John frowns, staring through the portfolio. "Well, other than hunting down the bastard that did it. But that's not gonna happen, so... this seems better than sitting back in an empty dorm room. Or walking. My feet are going to fall off."
Leah decides briskly, still eyeing him, "Work, then. Take your mind off it, huh? I -- won't press, John. None of my business, unless you /want/ to talk." But for now, she leans forward again to get the folder, and slides down the couch to get closer to him on his. "So, how about starting with my general impressions of your work?"
"Yeah, I'm so done with the talking about it now," John shakes his head, setting his can down. "Everyone has their own ideas about what I should be doing, feeling, saying. Don't want all of New York as my onn personal therapist. So yeah. Sorry. And thanks." His gaze strays to the folder then back to her, a flicker of interest reigniting, and he manages a hesitant, "Well, yeah. What... did you think?"
"It's good," Leah answers flatly, with a smile curved to soften the immediate, blunt response. "Hey, I can tell you that much, put your mind at ease. Rough around the edges? Definitely. Maundering in some places, in that special adolescent way? Hell, yeah. But good? /Yes,/ John. You show real promise, and I'm not just saying it."
And /there's/ the breath that John didn't realize he'd been holding. It whistles out between his teeth, then he reaches for his soda and busies himself with that for a moment. "Well... that's really... a relief. Kinda hard to be the right level of critic with your own stuff."
Leah opens the folder and starts ticking through it. "Let's see, some specifics -- okay, here." Drawing out one of the stories, she flips to a page in the middle, all decorated with thin red lines swooping here and scribbling there. "Now, your composition's not bad -- beginning, middle, end -- though I'd move a few things around . . . well, you know. But the emotions here? You really nail them, John, you really do. The language is a /little/ overwrought, but it doesn't obscure the dynamic of feelings you're setting up. Just trim back the adjectives a little. Remember, strong nouns and verbs over too many adjectives and adverbs."
As with any young tutoree, there's a mixture of excitement and caution. Because, okay, it's getting better. But... it's changing what was written. But getting better. But not inspired. Write and re-write. John leans in, though, squelching some of the resistance to try to listen to what she has to say. "Got another pen?" he asks, peering at a few of the notes.
"Shit. Hang on, yeah." Leah pushes up to standing and goes to bang a few drawers around in the kitchen. "Here," and she tosses it to the cushion beside him, coming around the couch to sit on its end, with that cushion between them. She peers over that moat at the page, too, and observes a little wryly, "First rule of writing: editor's suggestions, in the end, are only that, suggestions. You're the writing; you have the last say, although it might not get you published. Be true to your art."
John snags the pen, pulling off the cap and tossing it on the table beside the papers. Now he can work. "How do you... wait. No, how do /you/ decide then what's preference and what's important?"
Leah leans back into the couch's back, braced on an elbow and the heel of that palm pressed to her temple. She watches him work with a queer expression: pride, even affection, sifted through strange, distant wariness. "Well, in my experience, the good suggestions are obvious, and you take them. The rest are usually the editor's own preference, his or her style of writing, and you can pick /them/ out pretty quickly. 'Course, if there's a house style you need to follow, you just suck it up and go along. I don't know if Min's magazine has one; probably it's just AP or Chicago."
"Well, I guess I hope they're obvious to me too," John shrugs. "And that if I decide not to change something I don't get blown off for just being young. Do they usually /tell/ you style stuff? Or are you supposed to just figure it out?"
Leah counters mildly, "Well, /are/ you familiar with the usual guides? AP, Chicago Manual, MLA -- though that's nonfiction, so never mind with it. I'd stick to the Chicago, I'd say. Most houses have some variation of one of the biggies; you do pick it up, John, don't worry. You seem to have a solid grasp of all the basics: punctuation, grammar, formatting, numbers. Focus on using them for now, just what you already have, and adapt to whatever an editor gives you to follow as the situation arises."
"Sorta, well, a little, uh, not really," John says, sheepishly. "Well, I mean, I've heard of them all. But I couldn't tell you what the differences are. Only real hard part with grammar is... it's different here sometimes. As my English and Lit teachers told me all the time."
Leah smiles and points out, "You uses 'as' there, not 'like,' so you did pick up something. Australian English is more like the Brits', I'm guessing?"
"I guess, but I've /like/ never studied in London," John replies, a slight grin appearing with the jest. Sometimes, all you can do is throw yourself into the work. And some days, that's enough.
Leah barks a little laugh. "And /that/ is Californian English -- Valley, to be specific -- and you'd better not use it in your writing except to effect." Backing down into a grin, she continues, "I could lend you copies of the guides, but it's no big deal. Let's just concentrate on the big picture, and let the niggling details sort themselves out in the end, as they always seem to do. So. Character. You seem to spend a lot of time describing what's going on /in/ them, and not so much what's happening /to/ or /between/ them. It's metatextual, and since you're not Proust, I might shift a little more to the external stuff. Internal monologues are great, but in small doses."
"I guess that's what interests me the most," John says, frowning slightly. "Probably half my stories start because I see someone do something and start wondering what they were thing, why the heck they would do that, or something like that."
Leah leans forward on elbow's prop, her hand sliding down to support her chin on its back. Her eyes are dancing with intent energy. "Yeah, and that's where the emotions really come through. You get /into/ their heads, John, but you stay there a little too much. Why not try exploring what they're thinking from the outside? Use other characters as the mirrors set around them; reflect the protagonist's thoughts in the reactions of those around him. People are connected that way. I had a prof say in one of my classes in college that personality, and therefore a person, can't develop in a vacuum. There have to be other people to bounce off of, to make sense of yourself. Think about that for a story, maybe."
"So, you mean, I've gotta be a people person," John asks wryly. Because there's nothing comic in /that/. "I tend to get distracted as soon as I have another character there. Another mind to explore, you know?" he says. "But I guess I see what you mean. That one," he points toward a corner sticking out of the folder, "Not sure if they ever left the house."
"Writers /are/ people . . . persons." Leah makes a face at the pluralized phrase, but goes with it. She leans over to snag a handful of Chex Mix, too, and after some fast crunching, continues. "I mean, do what you obviously do: observe, analyze, put into a narrative context. But with more characters. Even a two-character study might be helpful. Or . . . you read Sartre? The 'hell is other people' guy? Good stuff, there."
"Don't think so," John says, wrinkling his brow in recollection. "Short stories? Novel? Any one I should start with?" Because if nothing else, there is the mark of an earnest writer. One who's willing to read anything, no matter /what/ the name sounds like. Or what one's peers would say carrying said name around.
Leah supplies, "_Huis Clos_ is the one I'm thinking of. It's French, because he was -- Jean-Paul Sartre -- for 'dead end.' 'L'enfer, c'est les autres,' and boy, ain't it the truth. Imagine a few people cooped up in a room with each other for eternity. What would they do? What would they talk about? How would you use just actions and dialog, no internal thoughts, to define their characters? Really, it's a great read."
John listens, nodding thoughtfully at the description. "I'll have to get a copy then. Sounds... like hell with the wrong people, sure enough. So I guess I've got to think about it backwards then. Now what were they thinking that made them do that, but... if they're thinking this, what would they do."
"Exactly! Just work through it, and draw from your own experience." Leah's expression gets a guilty tic. "Not recent experience, maybe, but . . ."
John's face stiffens at that. "Guess I've got enough conflict to keep any writer busy for a couple lifetimes," he says, the joke not quite injected with the proper dose of humor.
"Someday, maybe," Leah says quietly. "You never know, but don't touch it now if you can't bear it. It'll burn you up from the inside out. I know. My dad got shot on the job when I was just about your age. They had to come drag me out of Composition 101 at college, and I heard it over a pay phone in the hall."
"Did he... live?" John asks. He's not one-upping, and hopefully won't be seen as such. But maybe there is something there that can he can relate to.
"No. DOA." Leah lifts a shoulder: not a shrug, but a gesture towards the weight of the past, of fate. Her mouth crooks halfway. "My uncle, too; he didn't even survive to see the ambulance. That's about when I decided that going to the police academy might not be the best choice I could make in my life. I wanted -- I /want/ -- to change the world, and I couldn't do that if I was dead on the street, plugged by some gangbanger wired up on crank."
"Oh," John falters, shifting positions on the couch. He's not really much on the eye contact tonight. "I'm sorry." He pauses a moment, finishing off the soda, more for something to do. "Writing to change the world. Yeah, I guess so, hmm?"
Leah does shrug, and lets both hands fall into her lap. "Hey, can't fault a person for trying, right?" She aims for hardy cheer and comes reasonably close. "You, uh, said you read that one article of mine." The sentence hangs there between them; she can't even try to support it. It's just there, like a phone's dead dial tone.
And all the awkward stops are being pulled out. Well, this time, he's not going to echo that one. John nods slowly. "I did..." he trails off, leaving the thought for her to complete.
A sigh. Leah scrubs irritably at her forehead, her cheek. "Yeah," she pushes out on a hard breath. "Look, it's my job, and it's my beliefs, but it's not you. It just isn't. Your DNA has different expression than mine: sections turned on, maybe some turned off. Nothing you can do about that; nothing to be ashamed of. It's . . ." She trails off, too, into that queer, remote expression again, as if her thoughts have stumbled over a gap that didn't used to be there. Somehow. --Shakes her head. "It's shitty what gets shoved your way," she continues more certainly, "and I added to it when I shouldn't have. I was wrong. I'm sorry. I hope you can forgive me."
John's eyes widen and turns enough to stare at Leah. Of all the things he expected to discuss tonight, this was right up there with the space-time continuum and black 'n white photography. "Well... um, okay." Bah, okay, so he does absorb that awkwardness after all.
Leah looks solemnly back at him. "Is it?"
John shrugs at her. "Guess it has to be. And I guess I've just gotta get used to it, people freaking out, that is. Life sucks, sometimes. But what's the alternative...?"
"Dying," Leah answers him with deliberate black humor. "And I don't wanna. Do you?"
"Not particularly," John says after a moment. Eh, he's not trying to convince anyone of anything. "Too much of that going around these days."
Leah nods briskly. "Right. So. Again." A flashed smile, apologizing for the swing back to topic. "Why don't you take the portfolio and futz with it some more, if you want, before sending it on to my friend's office? Have Alyssa look at it, even; she's got a good eye. Between the two of you, you'll have a bang-up job in no time."
John begins gathering the papers together. Something to /do/. He nods. "Yeah, thanks for the ideas. A few things to think about, at least. I'll see what I can do with them. Should have some more time, now that summer's here." 'Should' being the operative word.
Leah tucks her leg up under her; a hand twitches as if she would lean forward to help him, but . . . no. She contents herself with watching with close concern. "Are you living at the school still? If you need any help finding a place in the city--" She breaks off, forces a little laugh. "Yeah, I'm trying too hard. Sorry. You hate bubble wrap." But what about honest empathy?
"Job first, place next," John shrugs. "Need to follow up with a couple people. Just... not felt like it really." Unexcusable! "So yeah, at the school for a couple weeks til I get everything figured out. I'll probably be looking for a roommate. Just hope they're not an axe murderer or something."
"Nah, that's Midwestern stuff. We prefer guns here. The occasional baseball bat or shovel out in the boroughs." Leah runs restless fingers through her hair. "Good luck." Lamely, fidgeting.
John has finished filing the papers away and tucks the folder under his arm as he stands. "I'll be around the school for a while yet, and I'll let you know how to get ahold of me when I move out. And when I've sent the stuff on."
Leah twitches an uncertain smile as she rises, too. "Yeah? Well, good. Thanks. Writers looking out for each other," she says, echoing back to earlier times, and oh, it comes so close to recapturing -- something. Or not. She takes a breath. "C'mon," she jokes, "I'll walk you to the door."
Close. Maybe as close as is possible. On either's part. John nods, smirking slightly. "Might get lost without a guide. Who knows where I'd end up then."
Leah grins and starts to clap him on the shoulder. Stops. The arm falls to her side, and she swings it on the next stride as if it were what she'd intended all along. "God knows," she agrees, and so off they go to the wilderness of the foyer and the dangerous portal of the door.