Page 13 of Past Present Future

I try my best not to focus on the vagueness of the assignment or how immersed everyone else seems. I drum my fingertips on the keyboard, waiting for inspiration to strike. Something. Anything.

When the timer goes off with a ding that startles a few people, I’ve only written a single sentence.

The classroom is small and sparsely decorated, but sitting here in a circle with other writers, one feels

Scratch that—half a sentence.

A boring, cliché observation about what’s right in front of me. One is clearly a bit of an idiot and should have had more of one’s coffee this morning.

“So? How did that feel?” Professor Everett asks.

“Stressful,” one guy calls out, which is met with laughter.

“I like to begin every class this way to jog our creativity, to loosen ourselves up. I’ve found that nothing opens up the mind like ignoring craft for a moment and giving yourself space to play, and there are far too many assignments with a concrete goal. It can be easy to lose the reason for why we write. The pure joy of it. These freewrites aren’t going to be turned in unless you decide to expand upon them for any of our assignments. They’re just for you.”

A murmur of excitement spreads through the room, all of us arriving at the same conclusion at the same time: Miranda Everett is the real deal, and we’re lucky to have her.

I urge my too-stiff shoulders to soften. This is why I’m here: to learn from the best. To grow into the kind of person who won’t be intimidated by a freewrite.

Professor Everett talks about the structure of the class, which is unique in that it runs both semesters here at Emerson. A third of our grade will be based on participation, and she wants us to grow more and more confident with sharing our work over the course of the year.

“Let’s go around and have everyone introduce themselves with their name, their pronouns, their year, and why they decided on creative writing.”

A wave from the student she gestures to first. “I’m Tegan, they/them. Sophomore. And, well”—they break off, blushing—“I swear I’m not sucking up, but I really loved Thursday at Dawn.”

Though Professor Everett has surely heard this hundreds of times, she looks genuinely touched. “Thank you so much, Tegan. I’m thrilled to hear that.” Then she gives them a wink. “And might I say, you’re well on your way to a 4.0?”

After Sierra, Felix, and Noor, it’s my turn. “Rowan, she/her,” I say. “I’m a freshman, and even though I’ve been writing for years, I only just recently started sharing it with other people and admitting that I, um, want to be a writer.” Even this admission in a classroom of other writers makes me a little fidgety. I drag a hand through my bangs, blow out a breath. “See? Still getting used to it.”

“Welcome,” Professor Everett says. “Talking about your writing, putting out into the world that you want to be a writer—those are huge steps. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

And just from the way she says it, I really am.

“Kait, she/her, freshman,” Kait continues next to me. “And I write… because it’s cheaper than therapy?”

For the rest of class, Professor Everett explains Emerson’s creative writing major and discusses the different paths we might take, the ways we might use this education in our future careers, whether we’re novelists or essayists or reviewers or marketers. Or something else entirely, since creative writing can open up plenty of doors.

“For our next meeting on Thursday, I’d like to get to know you better through a somewhat open-ended piece of writing. I want you to tell me what brought you to this classroom today in the form of a personal narrative. No more than a thousand words.”

I write this down in one of my new notebooks. I love that she gives us a maximum but not a minimum, because these aren’t the kind of people who are going to write a scant paragraph and turn it in expecting full credit because she didn’t define the parameters, like some kids might have done in high school.

Despite my performance anxiety during the freewrite, I’m eager to get back to my room and open up Word again, a new kind of adrenaline running through my veins. At first I’d been worried Professor Everett would be a cold, no-nonsense literary type, but she couldn’t be further from it. And everyone in class is so engaged, which wasn’t always the case in high school.

Next to me, Kait is sliding her laptop into her bag. “That was… wow.”

“I know. Nothing like I expected, but everything I wanted.”

Kait nods vigorously, the room’s fluorescent light glinting off her septum ring. “Miranda Everett is an icon.”

Then I see an opportunity. “Not to be, um, too forward or anything, but would you maybe want to grab some coffee or lunch after this?”

“I have another class at noon.”

“Oh. Sure. Sorry.”

“But I’m free after that,” she says. “How about two thirty? Coffee at the Lion’s Den?”

I grin back at her. “Sounds perfect.”

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