Here's to you Petey.

When I was a sophomore, I took a creative writing class. It was one of those moments where I needed to finish out my core classes, and that involved me taking 10 hours of electives. It was a three-hour course that met once a week for two hours and forty-five minutes. I had always been a good writer and got rave reviews from my professors, so I figured it would be an easy class to make an A in.


But then a tall man, resembling William Shatner, walked through the door carrying a coffee and a manilla folder of papers. He wore black, and he was big-boned with the stereotypical writer's attire (dark pants, colorless shirt, black glasses). He had grey hair and eyes that constantly observed the world around him. He was the toughest SOB that I had ever encountered. He required us to write for at least an hour a day, and we had to maintain a portfolio to be turned in at the end of the semester. The portfolio was the one thing that I thought would be the death of me. I had all of my "free writes" in there - the daily ramblings in a creative manner spanning an hour of my day that I usually wrote listening to music (Christopher preferred Mozart but I preferred a mixture of various songs and artists to capture the mood). I had things that motivated me, inspired me and even touched me in that portfolio.


As I said before, I spent the entire semester groaning, complaining and mumbling under my breath about that "stupid portfolio". But by the time that the class was finished, I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. I still have it around here somewhere. But the portfolio isn't the most important thing that I learned in that class. My professor, Peter Christopher, taught me a lot about myself and about life. He had a saying: "Go for the jugular!" It meant that if it wasn't painful to write about or it wasn't in some way riske, then you shouldn't write about it. He would be the kind of person that said that any story with a happy ending isn't finished yet. We talked about death, and we admitted to each other that the thought of death scared the shit out of us. He taught me to write a story with concrete life facts in it. He believed that if you told the truth, it was possible to raise the story into a myth. But above all, he loved a story that told the truth. He loved characters that truly lived.


I could end it on a happy note and tell you that I came out of the class with a B and all was fine with the world. The stars lined up, and the world didn't end. But that would be the same kind of story where no one dies and everyone lives happily ever after. And it would be a horrible thing for Peter Christopher to have to endure, wherever he is.


He died of liver cancer yesterday morning. He had only been undergoing chemotherapy since last week.He was 52. The world lost a great writer. However, to all of the writers out there, he had a message:


Go for the jugular.


Tell the truth.


Raise it to myth.


Live.

Small crimes.

Watching this video on YouTube, I couldn't control myself as I cried at the thought that I might actually end up in a loveless relationship. All of my life, I have been the less than emotional character in my own story. I am strong, but only when provoked. I found myself wondering if I would ever be in a relationship with any sort of passion, any sort of romance. I understand that I am young, but I cannot bring myself to end my current relationship for fear of what will happen. I cannot bear the thought of being alone, of spending nights alone and with no one to laugh with. But at the same time, I know that it may be a step towards that passionate relationship. I am simply too chicken-shit.


And if I do stay in this relationship, will it simply be a small crime? Or will that decision become the little white lie that completely sinks the vessel of my dreams? Are there men out there that believe in romance anymore? Are all of the chivalrous knights of King Arthur's round table gone? Are there any more noble cowboys? What about the heroes in fantasies? Am I merely a child for wanting them to jump off of the pages of books and appear before me to give me hope for a future that will one day be mine to live?


If you can tell that a man loves you by the look in his eyes, what should you do if you can't ever tell what's going on inside of his head? What if he never really even looks at you unless it is in lust or mockery? That's the message in my latest creative endeavor - if I finish it, that is; I have a habit of not ever finishing the things that I start. I finish this post with my own creative endeavor, a scene from a script that I intend on finishing. The backdrop is that Catie and Richard have been forced to marry because of her father's dying wishes, despite the fact that Richard is ten years her senior. Richard, a military man, displays no emotions towards Catie, and this is an emotional confrontation that takes place after Catie watches Richard's interactions with a young boy that he rescued. He is kind and gentle with the boy, which is something Catie has never seen in her husband.



INT. THE JONES HOUSEHOLD - NIGHT

CATIE: Do you honestly have no affection at all for me?

Richard turns from the cabinet, taking a sip from his scotch, looking quite confused.

RICHARD: I do.

Catie does not laugh, nor does she smile. Her answer is quick.

CATIE: Really? You have a funny way of showing it.

At her words, Richard puts down his drink and comes closer to her, folding his arms over his chest as if trying to understand her.

RICHARD: I am responsible for you.

Catie shakes her head in frustration, the tears in her eyes finally coming down her cheeks.

CATIE: Thank you, Commodore. I'm leaving now.

As she turns to leave, Richard catches her by the wrist, turning her so that she faces him instead of the door.

RICHARD: Where are you going?

Catie tries to jerk her arm away from him, but he holds on.

CATIE: Why does it matter? You don't care.

Richard does not let go, and his words are said with authority and in a matter of fact kind of way.

RICHARD: I do. I care for you.

Catie looks into his eyes to see nothing but an unreadable blank stare filled with confusion. He does not understand.

CATIE: Well, then. You are without a doubt the greatest thespian of all time.

She tries to walk away again, but his other hand goes to her other arm so that he is holding both of her wrists.

RICHARD: I care.

His words are strangled and difficult for him to say.

CATIE: You have the emotional range of a rock. No, not even a rock. A rock can at least be used in angry situations and has sharp edges.

His eyes and words match now, as his voice is still strangled. His words are strangled and difficult for him to say. For once, Richard and her eyes meet, and there is something deep inside of them that burns into her own. It is bright and it is passionate, something new.

RICHARD: I care for you, about you.

It is a breathless moment when his lips meet hers. It is a kiss that is full of a passion that had previously been missing from the relationship, as if in that explosive moment all of their passion engulfs them. But they are interrupted.

PRIVATE: Commodore. Forgive the interruption.

The two break away from each other, heavily breathing and holding hands. It is without taking his eyes off of Catie that he answers, his eyes still full of that passionate fire that has awoken inside of him.

RICHARD: What is it, Private?

PRIVATE: There's been a disturbance, sir. You are needed at the fort.

So much for my happily ever after...

My favorite movies seem to always be the ones with endings of torture or sadness. I've yet to come across a happily ended movie that has changed my way of thinking or made any sort of profound impact. In my Mass Communications class, we talked about how the movies that we love and the characters we identify with says something about ourselves. I recently watched the movie "The Painted Veil" and was completely drawn to the characters in such an amazing way. The entire movie was exquisitely made, from beginning to end.


But most importantly was the relationship of Kitty and Walter. I could not help but imagine myself in that situation with my current leading man, Allen. He, like the character of Walter, is a scientist of sorts that does not believe in anything unless he can prove it. He is not exactly what could be described as an emotional person. In fact, I often feel that I identify with characters just based on their love and devotion to their significant others. His way of showing affection is quite similar to a child; he buys presents and loves surprises. And while I do love spending time with him, I oftentimes wonder if this is really love and what it is supposed to feel like.


Allen doesn't like children. He wasn't raised around them like I was. He barely plays with my nieces and nephew. He does what he wants to do, and sometimes we do what I want to do. I find myself giving up to stop a fight from happening, to avoid the fights that should under all circumstances happen. Today (technically yesterday since it's nearly 1 a.m.) was our anniversary. We have been together for six years (granted we have broken up for three days total through those six years, all of which dealt with Allen's feelings about a certain Maynard girl and the possibility of them becoming more than friends). Perhaps that is why I identified so well with Walter; we have both been hurt by those that we cared so deeply about. Often, Allen is much to narrow minded to realize that there are other things out there. He doesn't want to really travel unless there is good fishing and good beaches involved. I guess all of this rambling could go on for days, weeks, perhaps even years. But my point is this: if we identify with the characters we are most like, is it really worth noting that all of my favorite characters are victims of their lovers' decisions? Will my ending be happier than my fantasy counterparts? I don't know for now, but I do know that there is somewhere out there for me. I just don't know whether I've met him yet or not. Perhaps one of my personal favorite characters said it best, below.

The memoirs begin...about me

True or false: I am a senior in college. If you answered true, then maybe I should make it a bit more challenging to figure me out. You're right; I am a senior at Georgia Southern University that still does not have a job lined up for after graduation. Everything is piling up on me, and I can't help but think that I'm going to fail miserably at life in general.


But now to get to know the basics about me. I'm a journalism major obsessed with the idea of being an actress - not for the glory, mind you, but for the sheer art and work involved. Yes, I am an odd character. I have always fancied myself as something of a drama queen, but when you grow up in such a small town with little opportunity, you don't get much of a chance to strut your stuff on a stage. I'm a shy person at first, and I hate talking in classes but get me in front of a group and I can do it.


It's that drive to find myself in the entertainment industry that made me want to become a journalist. I am working on a few scripts, one of which is my own adaption of a Pirates of the Caribbean movie, which will in my opinion have a better, more fulfilling ending than the previous ones (though I absolutely am in love with the films and the writers are amazing). I like drama, if you couldn't tell. And I'm typically the person in the background of a crowd but secretly enjoying my own personal monologue where I'm involved in some big production or some amazing story. I like to put myself in the center of things, and I'm often a peace maker between my friends.


I'm not really into the whole workout thing. It's not because I'm lazy; it's because I don't really need it that much. If I want to tone myself up, it usually takes about a week, and I eat food that is not the best in the world for my health. I'm a tomboy at heart, and I love to sing (classicals, musicals, opera, pop) and think of story ideas to write about. If I could, I would move to LA and write scripts or act or something. But this isn't the perfect universe. This is my life. Welcome to it.


I'm a 22 year old college senior that is looking back over her years in Statesboro, Georgia and everything that has happened in that time. These are the best years of my life; these are the memoirs of an eagle.


**EDIT**


This is from my own personal prospective on what I want to do with my life.


Growing up in a small town, it seems quite the preverbial tale of a girl with big dreams. Think of me as a young Julia Roberts (we’re from Georgia, the two of us, though I look nothing like her) that appears younger than she really is. I’m petite all around, and I am painfully shy at first. It seems quite contradictory that I might in some way want to take classes or even act. I like to watch people, and I love to watch how people react. Oftentimes, I like to imagine what they are thinking. It is the simple, unsaid things in life that have the most importance. The old man sighs and shrinks in his posture while beside him an old woman crosses her legs and looks the picture of proper. I love to write, and I love to act – or I loved to act, when I took classes in middle school. I am twenty-two years old, five foot nothing, one hundred and nothing with an athletic build, brown hair and eyes that have green on the outside with a more yellow color on the inside. Some may mock me for wanting to act in any way, but it is my dream. If I don’t finally overcome my small town hinderance then I will never get the chance to taste the sweet nector of this dream. And, therefore, that is my post for all to plainly see. I want to act, not for money or fame. I want to act for myself, for all of those around me that I watch. I want to bring a character to life and help it to grow.