𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐘

[25] Bad Choices

b a d  c h o i c e s
COVEY'S POV:

"Bad choices make good stories," Professor Monroe starts out, his eyes locking with my own for the shortest second before continuing, "and as writers, each of you gets to decide how to tell those stories. Your readers, they get to decide how to interpret them."

Woah.

No wonder I like this man.

I mean, look at him. Those thoughtful words, intellectual mind, very very defined abs.
I mean, come on.
Just, look at him.

Yeah, look at him. That's my guy right there. My Coco Puff.

"Have any of you ever thought about what might have gone on in an author's mind as they wrote a certain paragraph, sentence, chapter—maybe even a word? Perhaps, what their childhood was like, their tragedies, heartbreaks, experiences?" He walks around the platform of the lecture hall slowly, turning the thoughts over in his mind as the gears spin in our own heads.

"What about William Shakespeare? What went on in his deep and complex, twisted mind?" Conrad sort of scoffs. "For example, Romeo and Juliet's story is tragic, Hamlet was vengeful, and Macbeth led a life full of murder."

All I know is that Conrad is hot.
And that he's talking about Shakespeare.
Oh my dinos, I should probably be paying more attention.

I blink a few times and readjust my vision.

"It's interesting how you can use your past experiences in life to create a work of art. So, how do bad choices make good stories?"

Rebecca Stiles raises her hand. "From reflecting, you learn not only more about yourself, but you can help others by speaking from experience."

Conrad nods his head, chin in fist, with a thoughtful look on his face. "Exactly. So, does anyone have something—some past experience—that they'd like to share in brevity with a main theme to it?"

Margot Lee lifts a hand up to answer. "Professor, this isn't psychology class or a therapy session. Why are we even talking about this?"

I beat him to answering her, and speak up in his behalf. "Writing is therapy, far more than any paid therapist can ever give."

"Miss Jensen, now is not the time for debate class," Conrad says, giving me a pointed look.

I clasp my hands together on the table in front of me. "But I do have something I'd like to share."

"By all means," he says, gesturing for me to talk."

I take a deep breath, looking down at my hands. "I was emancipated when I was sixteen because I hated my childhood. A big house, fancy cars, workaholic parents, piles and piles of random and useless toys, clothes, things every kid dreams of—everything that inevitably means nothing in the end. And the last thing I said to my parents was, 'I hate you,' even when I knew in my heart that I didn't. So when they died last year in a car crash, I guess I learned that goodbyes seem like a good idea until there isn't a good in it. Until all you're left with is nothing." 

Conrad looks at me intensely for the longest time, it feels like years, and he doesn't say anything—I think he doesn't know what to say.

So I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear and add, "It's okay though, bad choices make good stories. Now I know not to let the people I really love slip away me so easily. Now I don't hate. Now I just... know."

Venice reaches over and puts a hand over mine, squeezing it and breaking me from my thoughts. That's when I realize I'm still in English class and that everyone just heard my whole life story in one minute. I look up at Conrad and feel so secluded in this tiny bubble. He clenches his jaw, but his eyes are soft, and they say more than words ever could. He cares.