Eve was late. She was late and she always hated it when she wasn't punctual. She prided herself on being organized, having her act together. No head-in-the-clouds reputation for this writer-to-be. She wanted to show the world that a creative person could also be efficient, get things done, be on time. Now she was late. Shit.
This wasn't just any meeting either. It was her first meeting with the professor from her most important class: creative writing. Professor Brett Michaels -- THE Brett Michaels -- had scheduled one-on-one meetings with each student in his advanced short story seminar. He was going to critique the writing sample she'd submitted to get into the class. She felt excited about the prospect and, frankly, a little nervous.
She walked purposefully along the cobblestone walkway, past the neo-classical facade of the administration building, towards the stately brick building which housed the English Department. Students scurried to their classes or stood talking in small groups. Eve hurried up the steps and pulled open the heavy door.
Eve was a junior and relatively new to the University having recently transferred from a two-year school in her home state. The semester having just started, she'd yet to meet a lot of people or make many friends.
She had decided to transfer mostly to take advantage of the writing program. In particular, she was anxious to take classes with Prof. Michaels, the celebrated author, who had recently joined the faculty. She had read almost all of his books and short stories. She found him brilliant, a scintillating speaker and, in a word, hot. She had worked hard on the writing sample she had to submit to get into his class, and was thrilled when she got in.
Ascending the marble stairs towards Professor Michaels' office, her boot heels echoing in the stairwell, she wondered if she'd dressed appropriately. She was wearing a Merino wool skirt that hugged her nicely-shaped ass and showed off her long, lovely legs. A crisp cotton blouse--with several buttons undone--outlined her generous bosom. It was a dressier outfit than she'd normally wear around campus, and she now wondered why she'd chosen it. But there was no time to think about that now. She tucked her silky blond hair behind her ears and continued on.
Finally, she arrived at the office door, #201, and knocked.
"Come," the voice inside declared. It was authoritative, perfunctory.
She opened the door slowly and peered in. Professor Michaels was sitting behind a large walnut desk in front of an enormous window overlooking a stand of maple trees. Two large bookcases flanked the walls on either side. He spoke without looking up.
"You're late," he said simply. "In the future, please be prompt."
She stepped into the office, flustered.
"Yes, of course. I'm sorry. I had a bit of trouble finding your office."
He peered at her over his reading glasses. He was around 40, with a full head of brown, wavy hair swept straight back.
"Sit down. Please."
He regarded her with a look that seemed to bore into her. His intelligent, appraising eyes were deep brown, his face clear and handsome.
She sat in a Windsor armchair opposite his desk, placing her book bag on the floor. She looked up and he was still looking at her. He returned his gaze to the papers in his hand.
"I've been re-reading your story in preparation for our talk."
She swallowed. She didn't know what to say so she just nodded.
"Before I give you my opinion," he said. "I'd like your assessment."
"My assessment?" she asked, eyebrows raised. She hadn't expected this.
"Yes," he said, waving the paper in his hand. "What does the writer think of her work?"
Eve blinked and looked down at her boots.
"I don't know," she muttered. "I guess it's pretty good."
"You guess it's pretty good," he parroted. "Surely you can do better than that?"
His tone was playful, but it wasn't letting her off the hook.
"I mean, I like way the story unfolds. The plotting is okay. I think the characterizations are a bit ... thin."
He looked at her for a long moment.
"I agree with your assessment."
He rose from his chair, removed his glasses, and gazed at the woods outside. He was tall and fit, even better looking in person. He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully.
"I think the characters are indeed underdeveloped, and there's an overall timidity in your writing that you must learn to overcome."
Eve listened intently. He turned to face her.
"And yet, on the whole, I must say I think you have tremendous potential as a writer."
Eve allowed herself to breathe again.
"Thank you," she said softly.
He leaned on the desk, raising his eyebrows.
"Unfortunately, that potential is not very evident in this story."
She felt as if he'd kicked her in the stomach.
"I'm sorry?"
"Now, don't mistake me. You have a wonderful style. Your exposition is graceful. Your ideas are first rate. The skills are there. The ability, or the willingness, to use them to their best advantage alas is not."
She leaned back in her chair, blinking.
"How so?"
He paced behind his desk, looking for the right words.
"You say your characterizations are thin. That's putting it rather mildly. They're practically anorexic. The main character ... Cynthia ... she's a bit of a blob moving through a fog, isn't she? Tell me, are there elements of you in her?"
Eve raised her chin, trying to suppress the defensiveness she felt building inside her.
"Yes, I based the story on an experience that happened to me a couple of years ago."
Prof. Michaels nodded, leaning on the front of the desk.
"So you
know
her. Deep down. You have a sense of what motivates her, what makes her tick?"
"Yes," Eve shrugged, "as much as I know myself."
"You know what she wants, what she fears. You know her private thoughts."
