( Sometimes Allison's not positive this is real. Or, moreover, she keeps reminding herself that she knows it's not, needs not to forget that it's not. Even though she's started to keep all previous pieces in a specific stack on the side of her bed table closest the bed. She doesn't read through them as often as she finds herself staring at them, sitting there. Wondering if this is all a strange dream. Wondering when it will inevitably just cut off.
She's smarter now than she was two years ago; but somehow, she still can't stop staring.
Can't stop the way her heart jumps when she's getting the mail, and another letter is mixed in. Can't stop the way she's smiling so hard there are crinkles at the edges of her eyes, and the corners of her mouth almost hurt from her smile. She swears if it weren't in writing, she could close her eyes and hear the way his voice lifts suddenly, all quick passionate intensity as talked about his new book.
So small, in so few words, she can't close her eyes to look away from to miss a single word even the first time through, but it fills her chest like it was twelve times the size of itself. The way Luther filled up every small space they squeezed into when he suddenly let go and was babbling details about books like he'd been holding his breath until someone finally did ask.
She doesn't even care about the book itself, but she rereads that one paragraph three, four, maybe even five, times before she can even look up again. For a moment, like all those closed doors weren't. And she can't remember at all what she wasn't supposed to forget. )
Luther,
That definitely sounds interesting—your type of book. I haven't read anything in a while that wasn't a script, a newspaper, or one of the far too many magazines delivered to this place. The last one doesn't even count. It was a collection of monologues suggested by one of the other students in an improv class I was taking.
I know there's a bookstore not far from here, that we pass when we go out on the block for coffee or drinks. Maybe I'll stop in over there one of these days and see if there's anything in there that grabs my interest.
As for being graded on things, you are kind of grading on everything out here. It's a lot like home was in th-- Every facet of every job you do, every interaction during that job, around it, outside of it, how the work goes over, who it was produced by, received by. Every place you go. Every place you don't go. Everything you wear and don't wear. Every esoteric detail of anything someone thinks is important. Every conversation you have with someone that could always basically be networking to someone else, or they could know people who know things, that could lead to more work.
It's not monsters, but it's not easy either. But where's the fun without a little challenge to it all, right?
no subject
She's smarter now than she was two years ago;
but somehow, she still can't stop staring.
Can't stop the way her heart jumps when she's getting the mail, and another letter is mixed in. Can't stop the way she's smiling so hard there are crinkles at the edges of her eyes, and the corners of her mouth almost hurt from her smile. She swears if it weren't in writing, she could close her eyes and hear the way his voice lifts suddenly, all quick passionate intensity as talked about his new book.
So small, in so few words, she can't close her eyes to look away from to miss a single word even the first time through, but it fills her chest like it was twelve times the size of itself. The way Luther filled up every small space they squeezed into when he suddenly let go and was babbling details about books like he'd been holding his breath until someone finally did ask.
She doesn't even care about the book itself, but she rereads that one paragraph three, four, maybe even five, times before she can even look up again. For a moment, like all those closed doors weren't. And she can't remember at all what she wasn't supposed to forget. )
Luther,
That definitely sounds interesting—your type of book. I haven't read anything in a while that wasn't a script, a newspaper, or one of the far too many magazines delivered to this place. The last one doesn't even count. It was a collection of monologues suggested by one of the other students in an improv class I was taking.
I know there's a bookstore not far from here, that we pass when we go out on the block for coffee or drinks. Maybe I'll stop in over there one of these days and see if there's anything in there that grabs my interest.
As for being graded on things, you are kind of grading on everything out here.
It's a lot like home was in th--Every facet of every job you do, every interaction during that job, around it, outside of it, how the work goes over, who it was produced by, received by. Every place you go. Every place you don't go. Everything you wear and don't wear. Every esoteric detail of anything someone thinks is important. Every conversation you have with someone that could always basically be networking to someone else, or they could know people who know things, that could lead to more work.It's not monsters, but it's not easy either.
But where's the fun without a little challenge to it all, right?
Allison