Full Force Gale

James Joyce is my neighbour. Well, actually, James Joyce died seventy-five years ago. But had he not, we’d basically be besties. He’d be all, “Hiya, Chels. Come chill in my super dope tower. We’ll write short stories together, then when the mood strikes, you can fart on me.” (He was into some weird things, sexually.) And I’d be all, “Thanks a mill, Jimmy. I’d be delighted. But for the sake of our art, I think it best we keep things strictly platonic. Plus, I’m currently reading your infamous novel, Ulysses, and I am aware that you tend to divulge rather racy details about your personal life within your prose. I would hate to be just another muse.”

You see, James Joyce and I have a good lot in common. I know this, not because the tower he once lived in (for all of six days) is located a mere 10 minutes away from my quaint, seaside flat, but because my writing professor basically said I was this generation’s up and coming Joyce. I may be paraphrasing. He said nothing of the sort. But almost.

On the first day of my first writing course, entitled “Write Now”: An introduction to writing fictional novels, we were asked to introduce ourselves one by one, along with a book we’re currently reading, and something about our writing history. After bragging over the fact that I had just completed A Suitable Boy, I delved into the world of my blogging and how, as much as I enjoy the consistent self indulgent theme of Me, I struggle to write about anything but, shying away from the concept of true fiction. Something I intend to remedy, thus landing me in this course. My professor (whom I’m madly in love with, for no reason other than the fact that he is my professor and for whatever daddy laced issue that stems from, I am fated with eternal love and adoration) smirked at my revelation. (Also, while I'm well aware of the fact that the term "professor" is not entirely an accurate depiction of his role in this circumstance, it's simply sexier. So whatever.) Nodding his head he said, “Why the need to remedy? Haven’t you heard of a little known writer named James Joyce?” The classroom chuckled. “The man was made famous for writing about nothing but his immediate surroundings and self. He’s notoriously known as the Copy and Paste Guy-- not to mention the most talented writer of his time.”

So between that and the fact that we both enjoy walking the fine line of what’s deemed appropriate literary jargon, and of course the close proximity of our “writing stations”, I’m clearly the next James Joyce. It’s written in the scarce Irish stars.

For the entirety of the first day’s two hour lecture, I blushed. My adrenaline was pumping; when asked to speak, my voice shook with nerves and utter excitement. It felt like my brain was on fire, shouting, Finally! A reason to live! I am of use in all my entirety! Freed to be fed the knowledge of pen to paper!

I revelled in every word as if it were spoken solely to me, and no one else. This was my element. After weeks of feeling out of place and disconnected, I had found home. Every thursday from 6:30 to 8:30 I would belong, and I would be happy.

I practically skipped down O’Connell Street, heading for the dart to take me homeward, while my brain was busy conjuring up ideas for our first homework assignment. As the train approached, I felt a tap on my shoulder from behind. I turned to see none other than my studly, Irish professor, mouthing a hello, muffled by Joni Mitchell blaring through my headphones. Turns out Joyce isn’t the only literary genius to fall within my post code. The professor and I trained home side by side, sharing thoughts on the evening’s highlights; me, tugging at any bit of extra knowledge I could squeeze from him. We discussed books and films; our favourites and our least favourites. In length, we rehashed the exercise he had given us on opening paragraphs of anonymous books and whether we would continue to read them based on their beginning sentences; an exercise I adored, being one who lives to drown people in her rather specific and passionate opinions.

“Yes,” he began. “You seemed to feel rather strongly against one opening in particular. I believe I recall you using the word, juvenile, was it?”

“Oh, yeah. That one. Absolutely. I hate being told how to feel or what to think. As the reader, I will decide what the story will offer me, thank you very much. I mean, it’s my right to see a novel unfold for myself, through my own individual reaction to the writing, right? Not to be told up front, in the first three sentences what to expect.”

Silence. His lips seemed to pinch at the sides as if trying to contain a suggestive grin, as he reached into his bag.

Oh no.  

Oh sweet jesus, no.

Yup. There in his hands, lay the first published novel of my beloved writing professor, opened to the first three familiar sentences. And there in my mouth, should have been my foot.

Well done, Chelsea. Another bang up job. Nothing like blatantly insulting your instructor’s material on the first day. Six more stops until your station? Great. Lots of time to attempt to rectify your embarrassing behaviour, while in fact making the situation worse. No, no, keep talking, that almost never gets you further into trouble. Did you need to borrow a shovel? That grave still doesn’t look deep enough….

“In fairness, the narrator is a fifteen year old boy, so you weren’t too far off with the “juvenile” allegation.” Like throwing a life float to a drowning man; a calming bone to a rabid dog. He saw me hanging and cut the rope. I smiled sheepishly, a subtle thank you for his attempt to redeem my shattered soul.

As I stood on the platform, watching the train move on, the professor waving pleasantly from within, I felt reassured that my big mouth had not completely destroyed his impression of me. That is, until I realized that in our earlier discussion about films, in a fit of shock that he hadn’t seen my favourite, I demanded he immediately watch Wonder Boys; a film where a cowboy boot clad Katy Holmes plays the student of a creative writing professor, Michael Douglas, whom she is mad for and tries to seduce on numerous occasions.
I looked down at my western footwear.

Well, I’ve had a good life anyway. Knew it would have to come to an end sooner than later. No better time than the present, as I jumped down onto the tracks and waited for the next train to splatter my insufferable guts across the grounds of the Dun Laoghaire station.