“For this last assignment,” Marie says, standing up straighter, “I have decided to push you out of your comfort zone. To force you to take risks. And most of all, to teach you to embrace something, a skill that will become crucial as you make writing your career, even though it seems to go against every anti-social, introverted bone in your body. I know a lot of you in here wouldn’t classify yourselves as such.” She nods at Rio and Blake and a few others, who don’t exactly fit the image of a quiet, lonely writer. “But when it comes to writing, we all shut down and internalize everything. That’s the nature of the game. We reach deep within ourselves to pull up all the muck and the dirt and the roots of who we are. But when you’re working with editors and publishers and marketers and librarians and whomever else comes your way, you realize that though writing is a lonely, isolating, primarily selfish profession, you need to be able to work well with others in order to make this your job.”
“What if we don’t want to make it our job?” Camelia Parsons says, raising her hand. I swear this girl is half the reason why book pirating is so rampant. “Making money has never been an issue. It’s not why I write. I write to bare my soul, regardless if it sells or who reads it.”
Marie shoots her a placating smile. “Then all the power to you. But if that’s all you envision, writing for a hobby, then you can’t truly care about bettering yourself, about learning the craft. We learn so that we may succeed, and that goes for anything in life, including the arts. It’s a falsity that the moment we earn money or wish to earn money for our creations that it ceases to become art. If that’s truly what you believe, that sales don’t matter, then you need to question what you hope to get out of this. After all, art isn’t just about creating. It’s about sharing. And whether you want the sales or don’t need the money at all, what you do need is all eyes on your work. You want to be recognized. You want to be seen.”
“No disrespect, Professor,” Blake says in his British accent, biting his lip for a moment. All eyes in the class swivel toward him. I know that he can’t possibly be one of the artists that Marie is talking about—he’s just another college kid looking for an easy elective to get his final grade. “But I’m curious as to what you’re getting at. Just tell us. We can take it. After all, we’ve survived this long with you as our teacher.”
Marie raises a bushy eyebrow but that’s the extent of her reaction. How he doesn’t get a rise out of her, I don’t know. Marie is always a lot tougher on the guys in the class than the girls, but with Blake she seems to let things slide.
“Right you are, Mr. Crawford,” she says. That’s the other thing. Always calling him Mr. Crawford, as if he’s not just another college student. Must be the accent. It gives him an air of respectability that fogs out all of his other shortcomings.
She clears her throat and eyes us all. “Excuse me. You know I’m prone to a tangent with the best of them. The point of the final assignment is this—to make writing hard. To force you to think outside the box. And to ensure you learn to work well with others. Your final assignment is to write a twenty to thirty-thousand-word novella with another person in class.”
There are a few gasps. I look over at Rio with wide eyes, hoping we can pick our partners. Writing with someone has never been on my agenda, but I think if writing with Rio were an option, we could really make it work. We’re on opposite sides of the spectrum, but that might just bring out the best in both of us.
Marie goes on. “I know you have a short time span, but this will also help hone writing under a deadline. My hope for all of you is to share the work evenly. Whether you trade off chapters or point of views, or collaborate on each and every sentence, you should hope to contribute ten to fifteen thousand words each, which is about the same length as the last assignment. The only caveat here is…” She pauses, and this is when her sympathetic smile comes back into play. “That you don’t get to choose your partner. I will choose them for you.”
Ah. Shit. Rio grimaces, even though I know it’s more for me than for her. She has this easy ability to get along with almost everyone, girls, guys, animals, plants. Me, on the other hand, I’m not so lucky. I’m not socially awkward, but to be honest, most people are total morons, and my tolerance for them isn’t very high. Some have patience. I do not. And especially not when it comes to writing.
Marie twists behind her and picks up a piece of paper, clearing her throat before she starts going down the list. Rio gets paired with Ali, who of course isn’t here. She’s lucky though—Ali is one of the smart ones, and after whatever happened with Blake, she probably has enough emotional torment driving her to take on the whole project by herself.
“Holly McGuire, your partner will be Alice Oakes,” Marie says, and while those two come to terms with it, her eyes meet mine, and not only do I know I’m next, I know I’m in deep shit. “Amanda Newland,” she says, drawing out the pause, “your writing partner for this assignment will be Blake Crawford.”
Silence sinks over the room.
Then someone titters.
“Oh, this should be lovely,” Blake says from across the room, his voice dripping with sarcasm, his accent somehow amplifying it.
I can’t even look at him though. I’m frozen in place, stuck staring at Marie with my mouth open a few inches. She can’t be serious. There has to be some mistake.