Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
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The next week flashes by in a blur of snow and coursework.
A snowstorm hit this weekend, which I took full advantage of by bundling up in my favorite pajamas while camping out on the living room couch next to the fireplace to stay warm. With a hot chocolate in hand, I systematically checked off everything on my to-do list, starting with my assigned reading and homework, and ending with an essay for my Writing for Publication class.
After Nia, Jenny, and I cleaned the entire apartment while blasting our favorite playlist, I started the outline for my USASN article. I've had a pretty good idea of where I wanted the article to go since Beck agreed to let me write it. I want to break it into three sections—past, present, and future. I'm hoping that structure will allow me to introduce him to the reader and get them to care about him and his journey as an athlete, so when I end on the future section, they'll not only want to know where he's going from here, but hopefully, they'll also want to keep up with him afterward. That's the effect of a good feature—turning curious readers into new fans. And since I know this article is the last thing Tristan Beck wants to be involved in, I want to make it worth his while. Which is why I spent the rest of the weekend drafting up as many questions as I could, touching on subjects that I know will help humanize the person beneath the jersey.
The snow didn't ease when classes resumed Monday, and while Tristan still kept me entertained—or rather, distracted—during chemistry, I tried to ignore his jokes and the ridiculous notes he'd pass me. They were usually terrible drawings of the molecules we were learning about, personified to have arms and legs and faces, and almost always had a speech bubble with a terrible chemistry joke. I'd gotten so used to his antics that when I went to class this morning and he wasn't there, I could actually feel his absence. While it wasn't great for my entertainment, it did wonders for my attention span. For once, I made it through the entire lecture without missing huge chunks of information since I wasn't too busy drawing my own doodles on his notebook or elbowing him in the side when he would make soft snoring noises in my ear as he pretended to fall asleep.
After my last class ended, I spent a few hours in the newspaper room making final touches on my article about the two first-year pre-med students who created a fundraiser to offer free women's health screenings at the student health center. After turning the final draft into the submission box on the editor-in-chief's desk, I headed home to study for chemistry.
Now, two hours later, I'm sitting on my bedroom floor surrounded by flashcards as I try to organize them into definitely know, kind of know, and don't know at all piles. When a knock at my door sounds, I don't look up from the cards as I call for them to come in. A glance at the fuzzy black slippers tells me it's Nia who's standing in the doorway.
"What the hell is going on in here? Are you studying or performing a seance?" She blanches, leaning against my doorframe. Amused by her dramatics, I look up at her.
"There are so many key terms and concepts in this class. This is the only way I'll learn them all." I shrug, picking up the card closest to my toe to sort it into the kind of know pile.
