Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
I turned his statement over in my head. On the surface, it sounded like a platitude, but he did make a good point. If I kept hearing the same thing coming out of different people’s mouths, maybe there was some truth to it.
“Look, Jamie,” he continued. “I’d be glad to stand behind you in any kind of recommendation, review, reference, referral… whatever you need—”
“Does it have to begin with an R?” I interrupted with a grin.
Dr. Washburn rolled his eyes in annoyance but didn’t miss a beat. “However… in return I want to see you putting out some real effort. Take an active part in shaping your life. Partying and video games may be good enough for your friends, but you deserve more than that, and all you have to do is reach out and take it.”
I nodded, at a loss for what to say. The man seemed so earnest, I was actually beginning to believe what he was saying. But my mind was also full of doubts.
“You know, I was lost at that MMA event,” I admitted, stuffing my hands into my jeans pockets and giving a sheepish grin. “I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. Half the stuff in my report just came from research after the fact. At the event, I looked like some idiot who had found a press pass on the floor, stuttering and scared to speak to anyone. It got me thinking that I’m in the wrong major. What if I’m just no good at it?”
Dr. Washburn laughed. “Welcome to the world of real journalism, Jamie. The stuff you see on TV may be tied up with a pretty red bow, but you have no idea what hell someone may have gone through to get it that way. That’s where the talent comes in. You work with what you have, do your best, and learn as you go.”
“You really think so? I was feeling like such a fraud, like a cheater or something.”
Dr. Washburn leaned forward and put a hand on my shoulder, peering up at me through his glasses. “You did fine. You taught everyone in this class some things today, and you entertained us in the process. That’s what journalism is all about. Educating and entertaining your audience, using whatever you can get your hands on, however you can get it. Within reason, of course.”
A light suddenly came on inside my head. It wasn’t about being perfect; it was about getting the job done. With his simple words, it felt like Dr. Washburn had just opened up my entire future for me, and I couldn’t help smiling all the way home after our talk.
I FLOATED through the end of school with a kind of euphoric confidence, earning straight A’s on all of my final exams. Several times, I thanked Dr. Washburn for what he’d told me. I don’t know if he’d understood how profound his words were when he said them, but they had really made an impact on my attitude. I was starting to realize that my outcomes were dependent on and directly related to the amount of effort I put in.
“What’s got you so fired up about school?” Layla asked me over lunch the day before our last exams. “You seem different. I’ve never seen you so concerned about your grades before. You’re not going all nerdy on me, are you?”
She was teasing, I knew, but it rubbed me the wrong way. Suddenly I was that little guy in elementary school again— the one with glasses and a book in his hand. The one who joined the football team to seem more like the other boys.
“Everything is not about sports and partying, you know. Some of us have aspirations.” I picked at my spaghetti with my fork, dragging the overcooked noodles around on the plate.
“I have aspirations, Jamie. I’m not just some air-headed cheerleader. I’m going to be a school teacher. That’s an important job.”
There was hurt in her eyes, and I immediately felt guilty. I reached over and slid an arm around her narrow shoulders, pulling her into a one-armed embrace. “I’m sorry, Layla. I didn’t mean that you don’t have aspirations. It’s just… I guess I just don’t like being called a nerd. I heard it enough when I was a kid. Do you really think I’m a nerd? I play basketball.”
“Of course not. I was only joking.” She rested her head on my shoulder. “You’re like what Dr. Bayne would call a renna… renna...”
“Renaissance Man?” I supplied the term begrudgingly, because knowing it just further solidified my nerd status.
“Yeah, that’s it. That’s what you are.”
But the whole conversation over lunch left me feeling unsettled. Not because I thought I was a nerd, though I guess if I was honest with myself, I had to admit it was something I’d always been worried about. What really bothered me about the exchange with Layla was that it had felt so strained, and it wasn’t the first time. More and more over the past few weeks, I was getting the impression that the two of us were drifting apart, with only a gossamer cord of desire still keeping us tethered to each other.