Last Chapter Rewrite -Scene 1

Professor Baxter made his way to the white board and in big bold letters wrote the word DESIRE. A scattering of snickers erupted across the classroom, but Baxter turned around, seemingly oblivious, and said, “We’ve discussed that to predict your characters' actions, we need to understand their desires, both conscious and unconscious. So today, our class assignment is going to get just a bit more personal. I want you to pretend that you are a character in a novel. Write a paragraph, a scene, as much or as little as necessary, to fictionalize a really important decision you’ve made in your life. Help me, the reader, understand what motivated you to make that decision. This exercise is all about character development so use the tools you’ve learned to help me understand you a little better. If you finish before class is up, you can work on your semester writing project.” He paused and glanced around the room. “Any questions?”

Catherine, a petite blonde who always sat on the front row and drooled her way through class, shot her hand up quickly. She almost never missed a chance to interact with Baxter, and I couldn’t really blame her. Baxter was a classic example of a bunch of average parts that came together in a decidedly above average package. He was of average height, maybe 5'10 or 5'11; average build, lean and fit, but not like he pumped iron or anything; and average hair, wavy brown almost to his shoulders. But he did have the most incredible eyes, they were light brown but up close they appeared to be flecked with gold and copper, almost like tiger eyes, and surrounded by thick dark lashes. Yes, I'd say it was his eyes that tipped the scale so securely in the above average direction. And Baxter was one of the younger professors on campus which also contributed to his appeal. Sadly, the fact that he wore a wedding band did little to discourage his female students from falling all over themselves to get his attention, especially Catherine.

With a slight nod from Baxter, Catherine asked, “Um…does everything we write have to be true?”

I stifled a groan, but Baxter answered patiently, “No Catherine, the assignment is to fictionalize an account of the situation, not write it verbatim. It should be based on an actual personal decision or action, but you can make up the surrounding story. I want you to focus on character development techniques to convey personality and motivation. I want to know a little about what makes your character tick. Or in this case, what makes you tick. Is that clear?”

Catherine bobbed her blonde ponytail in the affirmative, completely unaware of the rolling of eyes going on around the classroom.

Baxter scanned the room again, smiled, and clapped his palms together as if he were praying. “Okay so let’s start writing. If you need me just raise your hand and I’ll stop by.”

I glanced over at my friend Jackson who was sitting at the desk next to mine typing away. He looked up and winked just as an IM popped up on my screen.

SoGABoy: So what is your deepest desire, Scarlet?

Scarlet92: Ha, wouldn’t you like to know Jackson.

SoGABoy: With literally every fiber of my being, Scarlet.

Scarlet92: I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.

SoGABoy: So not fair. You're about to tell Baxter.

SoGABoy: Groan…You are no fun at all.

I shook my head and smiled at Jackson. True to his screen name, he was a strapping fresh faced South Georgia boy. To look at Jackson, you would never guess he was a science fiction writer. His imagination truly knows no bounds—alien beings, parallel universes, that sort of thing. I’m completely awed given that I have a hard enough time navigating this world to even consider thinking up new ones. I met Jackson almost two years ago when I transferred in from community college. We are both writing majors, and that first semester I was in three of his classes. I was really overwhelmed at the jump from small classes of twenty or so students to huge lecture halls of close to two hundred. It must have shown, because Jackson took me under his wing, always ready with advice on the quickest route to a class, the best places to study, or the cheapest places to eat. I was a bit suspicious of his motives at first, but he ultimately convinced me there was no hidden agenda. In my limited experience, guys didn’t do nice things without expecting a payback. But turns out Jackson is one of the good guys, which was cool since I’d always wanted to meet one.

I turned back to my blank laptop screen and contemplated the assignment. Since most decisions in my life were made for me, and often not in my best interest, it was pretty easy to narrow down the one important decision I’d made myself. I remembered clearly when I decided to be a writer. As a heavy Wattpad consumer, I’d just read a string of unsatisfying stories. They all started out with loads of promise, taking on hard topics like poverty, rape, bullying, real stuff that I could relate to, either through my own experiences or those of kids I’d met in foster care. The problem was that at the end of each story, every problem ended up somehow miraculously solved then wrapped up and tied with a frilly pink bow. But I knew for a fact that life didn’t work that way and for the people I knew, nice happy endings were the exception, not the rule. I felt personally betrayed by the authors, as if they had somehow trivialized the lives of the people who really lived these nightmares. Then I’d stumbled onto a book called Living Dead Girl. I started it late one night and literally stayed up all night finishing it. I’d finally found a story, horrendous as the subject matter was, that rang true to me. It was about a girl who was abducted by a man who abused her physically and mentally for years. For her, there was no knight on a white horse to save her at the end, only a grim reaper. And statistically that’s how stories like hers generally end. The book touched me deeply in a place I didn’t even know existed. Even though my heart literally ached for weeks after reading it, I realized that the intensity of feeling actually felt good because I’d become somewhat numb. And I knew then that I wanted more than anything to be a writer whose stories touched people the way that book touched me.

So I settled in to work on the class assignment and mentally debated where my truth and fiction would converge in this piece. This was normally an easy decision for me, but I was more than a little apprehensive given that Professor would know that this story was about me. It took fifteen minutes and several false starts before the words that marched their way across my screen felt comfortable to me. When I finished, I reviewed the short piece one final time before sending it to Baxter’s email.

Scarlet’s Calling

My mom told me early on that there’s no such thing as happily ever after. I think this was right after daddy took off with a stripper who lived in our apartment building. Seems like a horrible thing to tell a six year old but turned out to be one of the few things she got right. At the time though, I didn’t believe her. I mean come on, I had books filled with stories that said otherwise, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Snow White, how could they all be wrong? Less than a year later mom choked to death on her own vomit after a particularly nasty drinking binge, and I ended up in the state foster care system. Ten years and countless screwed up families later, I no longer doubted my mother’s wisdom. She was right, happily ever after was a fairy tale. Obviously the people writing these books were part of some grand conspiracy to fool us into believing that things were going to be okay. I wasn’t sure why they were spreading the propaganda but I made a decision right then that I was going to expose the lies once and for all. I would write my own stories, and they would be about real characters with real endings. None of this happily ever after bull crap for me. So at the tender age of seventeen, my writing career began. I’ve written quite a few stories since then, and a common thread is that they do not end well. My prince charmings are great--until you meet their wife and kids, or find out they’re sleeping with your best friend. But for some reason, people keep reading. Of course there are always a select few who try to convince me to end things on a more positive note. But my response to them is quite simple. I, Scarlet Stephens, am a writer of fiction—not fantasy.

After pressing send, I glanced around the room and saw that Jackson and most of the other students were still busy typing away while the professor was talking to a student in the back of the room. With only about fifteen minutes left to class, I decided to login to my Wattpad account and check out several new comments that had been posted on a story I was writing. As always, the comments spanned a wide range of opinion and emotion. The first was from a regular who called herself Crzygurl22. I’d decided early on that this particular reader had chosen the perfect screen name. She started leaving comments on my stories about six months ago, and since then, I’ve prayed often that 22 was indicative of her age and not the caliber gun she carries around in her purse. That would be one strong argument for gun control.

Crzygurl22 writes: OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG…AM DYING HERE. U DO THIS TO ME EVERY TIME…I’M SCARRED 4 LIFE. WHY DID SHE TRUST HIM???@#$#$!@#$!$# JUST THREW MY PHONE ACROSS THE ROOM…U R LUCKY IT STILL WORKS…

Seriously questioning whether I really felt lucky that Crzygurl22's phone still worked, I was fondly reminded of my love-hate relationship with my Wattpad readers. Although generally annoyed by about 75% of their comments, I feel intensely let down when they don’t leave any.

I continued reading a few more comments before coming to one that I felt needed a response. I had just started typing when something touched the back of my shoulder lightly. I jumped as Professor Baxter leaned down and asked, “Scarlet, do you have any questions on the assignment?”

Talk about awkward. Since I was obviously not working on a class writing assignment, I am sure he knew the answer to that question, but playing along, I looked up and responded as I eased the lid on my laptop closed. “Uh, no not really. I already submitted the assignment and was just doing a little research on my semester project.”

At that point, Baxter was looking at me intently and although he wasn’t exactly in my personal space, his proximity was off-putting enough that my nerves kicked in and I had to look away. When I turned back to face him, he narrowed his eyes, leaned in a little closer and said quietly, “Then I have every expectation your class assignment will be well thought out and executed, Ms. Stephens.” With that, Baxter straightened up and headed to the front of the classroom. Jackson, who must have been watching us from the seat next to me, cleared his throat, snapping me back to reality.

Well that was weird. Surely he wasn't upset that I was surfing the net during class? I’d been in Baxter’s class two months and had even had several one-on-one meetings about my writing project but never felt such weird vibes before. Since I’d already closed my laptop, I started slowly packing up the rest of my things and noticed Jackson looking my way with a puzzled expression. Annoyed, I yanked my book bag over my shoulder and headed out of the classroom since class ended in less than five minutes anyway.

Jackson caught up with me a little ways down the hall, grabbed my arm, and asked, “What the hell was that about?”

I yanked my arm from his grasp without looking at him. “What was what about, Jackson?”

“What did Baxter whisper to you? And why did you leave so fast?”

I didn’t bother responding because frankly, I hadn’t fully processed it myself.

I increased my pace until Jackson had to work to stay in step with me. “Okay, okay, don’t be mad at me Scarlet. That was just a little strange, that’s all. Look, you never answered me about Saturday night. I know you don’t like parties, but a friend of mine is playing live and I told him I’d stop by.”

Finally making eye contact, I responded, “I don’t know Jackson. Going to a party is the worst way I can think of to spend a Saturday night.”

But Jackson didn’t give up easily. “Come on Scarlet, you haven’t been out in ages. You can’t work and study all the time. It will stifle your creative juices, and you’ll never win that RITA if your juices aren’t flowing.”

“Gee thanks. I keep telling you, I am NOT a romance writer. So if you’re trying to convince me to do you a favor and go to a party, you are going about it in entirely the wrong way.”

At that point, Jackson stepped in front of me, halting our progress and forcing me to acknowledge him. “Seriously, I’m just kidding Scarlet. Come on, go to the party with me. You’ll have fun.”

I looked up at him and sighed. I was such a sucker when he batted those baby blues. Plus I probably needed a little R and R. I’d been either working or holed up in my tiny rented room for weeks now without a break. So I gave in. “Okay, I’ll go.”

His face burst into a dimpled smile as he leaned in and pecked me quickly on the forehead. “That’s my girl.”