I like numbers, their specificity, their exactness, their honest nature. That's why the four-letter name theory runs true in all my stories with male characters--the most normal, attractive, All-American guys tend to have four letter names. That's why when I ask for a French fry, I mean one. That's why when I ask for three pieces of paper, I don't need any more or any less. And that's why it's so easy to judge places with numbers--how many movie theaters? How many malls? How many Starbucks? Please let there be a shopping center for me to count. And while these numbers change, there are places with consistency, places that make me feel at home no matter where in the world I may be.
I used to spend a lot of time writing in Starbucks. I attribute this to my numbers and cities, but also to creative writing and L.
I think back to the first day of class, a humid Carolina afternoon, my junior year of college. I'd just trekked across campus from my Exercise Science class to join the English majors in Greenlaw and it was raining--I can still hear the squeaking of shoe soles on the first floor. I'm pretty sure we were all anxious to be there--it was Intermediate Fiction, we'd been selected for the class--and everyone looked around sizing up their competition, wondering who in the world our professor would be.
If I could compare him to anything, I would compare that professor, L, to a whirlwind. All of a sudden he was in the room and even though he was late by conventional clock measure, his demeanor insisted that he'd been waiting for us rather than the other way around. He sat in on a table front of us, curled one leg over the other, breathed us in.
You know, he told us, artists feel more than other people. I'm sure you know, since you are here. You must be careful, because since you feel more than other people, you are more likely to kill yourself.
What L was saying was completely true. True, talented artists feel more and feel differently that the average population. Their ability to describe such leads to success with the talent yet often leaves them feeling misunderstood or too attached, emotional. And when those feeling go unexpressed or are expressed too fully... you get, well, Billy Joel's Only the Good Die Young or the end of Train's Meet Virginia.
L singlehandedly had one of the biggest impacts on my college life. I remember leaving that day thinking he was simultaneously crazy and genius. I floated through the first few weeks of that class, meeting outside each Tuesday and Thursday afternoon because artists' creative spirit can't be trapped by walls and almost felt misplaced. I was early to class, intentionally meticulous with my comments and opinions, and secretly dreading my first story's workshop after that way L responded to one student's story, a student that never came back to class again.
That Thursday, I sat in my normal spot. Two benches away from L, left hand side, directly across the circle. Only one or two other students were there early. He turned to Alana, a girl I remember as simply beautiful, a great writer whose story we'd already read, a girl who already earned his respect by making it through her first workshop.
"Who's Ashley?" he asked.
I spoke up then, felt no need to be meticulous. I was ready for my workshop, no matter which direction it decided to take. And L's question only insisted that it was going to uphill or downhill and very quickly.
I'm fairly certain this incident is one of the best examples in my life of my ambiguous nature. I am a lot of things, and many of these things don't normally pair together. I am one of the strangest people I know and might be one of the weirdest people you ever meet. Yes, I have a good head on my shoulders, but I was that EXSS girl in the creative writing classes! I won't stop talking most of the time, but I keep many things inside like an introvert. And I am that girl in Intermediate Fiction who was quiet and unsure, didn't (and doesn't) really look at all artsy, a face without a name attached until that workshop day.
I don't think it was that day, but a few months later L described writing as sitting at a restaurant or coffee shop and watching a couple from across the room, giving them a story, making it interesting. What are they doing, why are there they? Don't just describe them, but give them their layers, give them their purpose, attribute to them their conflict.
After I left Chapel Hill, I spent a lot of time in the places I count, in the numbers. Starbucks is the same everywhere you go, so I can pretend I'm anywhere and everywhere and let the people around me tell the story. I can watch the guy in the center of the store, with tattoo sleeves and a face like the boy next door come in each day on his lunch break. I can write about him, about the tattoos, about the way he wears only jeans and a grey t-shirt when it's only 20 degrees outside. Barnes and Noble is the same, though most places only have one. I can post up in an armchair and escape the world or create a world of my own. And though I'm inside, and though I feel more than most, I'm not so sure that I ever feel trapped by the walls in the places on my list. I feel at home.
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