Norfolk Terrace, UEA, Norwich, Day 110.
Deadline
I woke up, went for my first run of the week,
showered, and walked late to class. Generally, I run, but I just knew that I’d
be out of breath by the time I entered the seminar. I was more relaxed—I stress
this point, because I don’t walk when I’m late, so…big steps in being less
uptight about school. (I actually left the Nineteenth Century revision seminar
early as well—very few stayed the whole time, and I stayed for the texts I plan
to write on in the exam.)
The
rest of the day was a battle of time until midnight. I worked thoroughly, not
quickly, so I really did spend all afternoon half-rewriting, half-redrafting,
then editing, and re-editing my short story. By dusk, I ended up in the fourth
draft with a more filled-in story than I had previously. The premise is simple:
a boy finds a strange fountain pen that doesn’t work like a normal pen. It
gives him the strength to talk to a girl through a strange blood ritual. Yes, I
lied. The premise is not simple; ‘slightly odd’ would be a better way of putting
it. But it’s my first short story that has a style of writing that isn’t
boring, redundant, or flat-out dull. I’ve been reading a lot of Stephen King
recently, so that’s where my influence lies…
The
worst part was the word count. 2,000 words. It felt like I was squashing a
whole dinner plate of food into a tiny container and hoping that it would still
be edible, still make sense. I kept having 200-400 words over in my final
stages of writing, so I had to annihilate details here and there that I had
rather liked. 2,086 was close enough. Meanwhile, I was thinking, in envy, how King’s
novellas have character and plot developments that have all the room in the
world to expand in.
The
best part of today was the final hour. 11pm. I hadn’t actually started part two
of the assignment until 9, but I managed to get through most of the 500-word
self-commentary and by 11:40, I was done with everything. I stamped on the page
numbers, double-spaced the story, and emailed it to myself.
11:43.
I ran a flat-out sprint to the library, running along the elevated, cement
walkway above the terraces. I swiped in, ran to a free computer, downloaded the
email attachments, and printed.
11:46.
First printer I tried had no paper. 11:47. Second printer I tried had no ink.
11:48. Finally, I just looked at all the printers until I saw a ‘Ready’ sign. I
got it printed on the third try.
11:49.
I walked a few feet from the printers to two guys sitting in an opened-door
study room. ‘Can I use that pen?’ I wrote down my tutor’s name. ‘And do you
have a stapler?’ One guy checked his bag. He did. I thanked them and ran.
11:52.
I saw the box. The official in charge of collecting all the paperwork submitted
was hovering above it. I went through the library gate and dropped it in.
My
adrenaline was soaring like a rocket flying through the atmosphere. I went back
to Norfolk Terrace, told Alvin my story, remembered I had to return a book, ran
back to the library, ran back to the Terrace, told Dan and Gum Gum the story,
and then settled down and watched How I
Met Your Mother.
Despite
the stress in the final minutes to turn in a paper before the deadline, there
is a certain degree of excitement, a survival instinct that surfaces and changes
the stress into a challenge. (I do not advocate this strategy, but if it happens, it happens.) The body goes into a highly concentrated mode of
activity, the mind forgets all other details and carries a single-minded focus
to accelerate the task at hand. At least that’s what I experience. The academic
world briefly transforms into a running race—and I have no other choice but to
sprint to the finish.
No comments:
Post a Comment