I froze – and this had nothing to do with the air-conditioning– as my teacher spoke… no. Not the right words. He wasn't just speaking, he was downright preaching about the Art of Words.
Mr. Robert, stood at the bottom of the class – I say bottom only because I'm seated at the far back, which happens to be higher thanks to the seating arrangement – hair slicked back and dressed in a vintage button down shirt tucked in charcoal black slacks. His gold rimmed glasses gleam in the light and his eyes bounce all over the classroom as he talks animatedly about words.
"See it in this light," he continues, "you're an architect and words are your material. Just like in fiction, we need words to drive course. They pave the way, introducing the setting, bringing your characters to life and they lead to stunning resolutions. Well, if you know how to write, they do." He shrugs.
"What people don't understand most times is that words are personal. I'd like three people to tell me their favorite authors. Be it poetry, fiction or both."
"Poe." A voice calls from the crowd.
"Maya Walters." Another calls
"Shakespeare."
"Neil".
"Thank you all. Well, now that we have listed our favorite authors, I wouldn't ask you why they are. We all have multiple reasons. However, I can tell that most of you aspire to be like them. Am I right?"
Low hums of approval ring the room, but my legs are bouncing beneath the table, uncontrollably. There's a reason I love literature even if I barely read it. The ones I read, and read all over again, have words that sing to me. Maybe that's also why I love music. The words talk to me.
"What if I told you, that trying to be your favorite author takes away the joy of word art?"
He goes silent, letting his words sink for a minute before he goes on.
"Think about it. Words are personal and writing is art. Take your words and polish it in writing and you have a new brand. Now, when you try to emulate someone else, you take their ideas which also happen to be words and you polish them. The problem is you won't feel satisfied. There'll always be something missing and why? Because those words, even if they came out of you, aren't yours!"
And that's when it clicks. A chill runs down my spine and I'm practically running out of class when it's over.
The Youth Poetry and Fiction Competition held by Yokmi, a school co-owned by Japanese and Canadian scholars happens in two days. It is hands down one of the greatest opportunities to meet and work with great award-winning authors, if you enter the program that is.
There are two types of people in the world to me. Those who can afford Yokmi and those who have to rely on the yearly opening of the competition with hopes of being the one to win a full paid scholarship for the two years program. I am of the latter and I have been working most of my life for this moment.
The dorms are alive with people either returning from class or to it. My roommate isn't back from hers yet, which gives me time to go back and revise my work.
I always felt something was missing with my piece, I just had no idea what. But after listening to Mr. Robert, I think I know why.
Papers are strewn all over my desk situated to face the window. I love the illusion of writing to the sun or serenading the moon with dancing words. In my mind, my words dance and that's because I want them to.
Taking the papers one by one, I sort out three different works written by yours truly. One is poetry, one is fiction and the other is...borderline chaotic. I have no idea what it is. It's unfinished but the words dance back at me. Like Alice in wonderland, I'm in awe of the strangeness of it all.
Mr. Roberts' voice echoes in my brain as I take a closer look. I have from now till tomorrow to finish this and then email it to the school address. I could go physically of course, like most rich kids, but I can't afford a plane ticket, much less a hotel in Japan.
For one week, contestants pile the stage and try to awe the judges. For people like me who can't be there, our works are assigned to mouth pieces. And if the work of a mouth piece is chosen, the author recieves a phone call of acceptance. However, there's not a peep if you're not but an email of thanks for participating. How do I know this? This is my fifth year. Each year, I don't get in. And this is my final semester in college with final exams just two weeks away.
Taking a deep breath, I look out the window. And like always, words bounce when I look at things. Like that bird sitting on the pole. What I see is one word: perch.
The girl I see from up here sucking on a straw, paying attention to the phone in hand: concentrated, taken with, oblivious.
The words don't make sense, even to me but they comfort me. I don't know how long I just watch but soon I start to write. I take Mr. Roberts' advice and push Colleen Hoover and Hemingway out of my head. By the time I'm done, I have no idea what I'm looking at.
Poetry? Fiction? Non-fiction? I don't know. But there is something that's vivid. I feel satisfied. Now, I know that I may be missing this year too but that's okay. I just hope my mouthpiece doesn't have too much trouble trying to figure out what genre this is. I'm ready to put in again next year when I figure out what exactly this new kind of writing is. But this moment, I savor it.
It's been two weeks since my submission. At this point, I expect the email. And that's okay. For the past few days, I've been absorbed in this new discovery of mine and the exams. My desk is messier than ever making my roommate give me an earful.
I may not have the grand prize but I do enjoy answering the questions from the literature club about my style of writing. Twice, the club president has praised my work and twice has Mr. Robert been stunned. He's also proud to be a catalyst for this new change.
I'm sitting in the cafeteria, sucking on a popsicle while putting words down on my notepad when my phone vibrates on the table. I think nothing of it and answer,
"Hello?"
"Paris Hilther?" A feminine voice comes to.
My fingers pause, "yes, that's me."
"I am Marie and I'm calling from the Yokmi administration office. Congratulations. You've been selected as the winner of the grand prize of a full paid scholarship for the Yokmi program. Session starts in Two months. Would you be a part time or full time student?"
I may have detatched from my body during the course of this conversation. I can't feel my popsicle. Is it still in my mouth?
"Hello? Miss?"
"Uh. Yes," popsicle is still in my mouth, "I'll be a full time student." I'm surprised that I didn't stutter.
"Great. I believe you own a passport?"
"Y-yes." Oh my gosh. This is really happening!
"Okay then. We will email you the details of your flight plus all information relating to your Visa; both working and school. Expect this in about a month to session. Your orientation starts a week after you've settled and your mentor would be assigned to you."
Something is stuck in my throat. It's not the popsicle. That one is now sitting unattended on the table. My face is hot. I can't talk but I manage a hum.
"Great! Congratulations again Miss Hilther. And oh, I read your work. You're a genius. See you soon."
The distant beep signalling the disconnection of the call is totally lost to me. My phone is still on my ear even after that. The noise of the cafeteria seems to slow to a low thrum beneath my skin. My only focus is the fact that…I got in. I got in! I'll be attending Yokmi. On a full scholarship.
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