Hey everyone! I'd like to thank you all for the outstanding response to FanFiction Ruined My Life. It was really great and uplifting to hear your concerns for me, but as I have assured most of you, I've been doing okay. This one-shot below is a one year follow-up to the event of me receiving the rejection letter and how I'm moving on. So please, read on. :-)
. . x x x . .
FANFICTION SAVED MY LIFE
And so, it has been fourteen months.
Fourteen months ago today, I was hit with the biggest blow of reality of my life – I was rejected from the music department at my college in hopes of being a Music Educator. I cried, I panicked; I would've done anything to make music a permanent part of my life, but apparently having a choir voice that blends well is a disadvantage in a soloist's audition.
I was letting so many people down. My chorus teacher, who is like a second father to me, was upset at my rejection probably more than I was. He even emailed my college choir director, and the two had a common opinion which was reassuring. My parents pushed me to try again, keep trying, but I saw no real point in reaching for a major I couldn't get for years and extending the time I would spend in school. My musician friends expressed false sympathy, only because they were on the good end of the competition that was actually blessed with acceptance.
Just… don't get me wrong. I fell into a state of 'Oh my God, what am I going to do with my life now?' after this happened, but then, I started to make some interesting observations.
I didn't really want to do it. Not because of the audition; really. Before that, the pressure was hard to handle from all those true hopefuls and the doubters, but it was at least worth a shot. Sure, I messed up on an entrance to one of the verses in my English piece and came in two bars too early, but, as I left that audition room on the third floor of Cogswell Hall, part of me actually wanted to be rejected. For the life of me I didn't know why. I disregarded it, just thinking it as part of all the jumbled negative thoughts running through my head at the time, but if I am being truly honest, I am glad that it happened. I felt like I had more confidence elsewhere, even if I didn't know where 'elsewhere' was then. It suddenly felt confining.
So, about a week later, I switched my major to English Education, where I could still teach, but in a field I had a significant better track record in.
Though, two weeks later, it hit me that I didn't want to spend thirty-five years of my life in one classroom. That was the confining part. I wanted to do more, have a bigger field open to me with possibilities beyond lesson plans and attendance sheets. I wanted to do something with writing. I have always written when I've had free time (or, I'd just not do homework and write instead) since a young age. Though I still lack confidence in my own writing, I have a great feeling that it's a better option that music. I feel that it completes me, and although those who had hoped I'd be a music educator support me, they still ask why I don't try again for music.
Well, it's not like I hate music now. I own over sixty soundtracks and a week's worth of music on my iTunes and I don't know how many CDs, so I will never forget my experiences with music. Though, it is hard to wear my high school ring and look at all the music symbols on it, promising a future at which I did not succeed to fulfill. I only wear it to make my mom happy anymore.
And yeah. That's how things have been. I'm finally taking a creative writing course and learning a lot of cool writing exercises, and I'm thinking about declaring a minor in Communications Media so I can get a career with a television studio or movie crew. Having an English major is incredibly expansive in the career field, so I'm really excited about all the options I have laid before me. If one doesn't work, I can do the other. If all my plans are screwed, I'll open a bakery someday. But as of now, I plan to do something really cool with my life, hopefully writing or editing of some sort.
Oh, and next semester, I get to take a class on analyzing Harry Potter! Who has done that?! I was one of sixteen students selected, and I get to be sorted on the first day, and I have to bring a cloak and my choice of an owl, cat, rat, or toad. Random, awesome stuff like this is one of the any reasons I love majoring in English.
"And I wouldn't be doing this had it not been for the very thing I blamed my failure at music on," I announce from the top bunk in my dorm room to my ever-loyal friends looking up at me. "Pirates."
"So… now we're you're friends?" Beckett asks with an arched brow. "A year ago you abandoned us and claimed that we had ruined your life."
My shoulders fall flat. "Well, I told you I didn't mean it. I was really angry. Besides, it had been my fault-"
"Yes, but look at where you are now!" Jack says, climbing up onto the bunk and putting a jovial arm around my shoulders. "She's apologized and now she's beside herself with enthusiasm about her future. That would still include us, right?"
"Right! Granted, I'm still not writing a lot of fan fiction anymore, but you guys… If it weren't for all the crazy stories I constantly wrote about you, I'd've never really gained potential in the field, I suppose."
I shut my eyes smiling happily. I feel Jack lean into me, and I sigh.
"It's not Pirates that have ruined my life," I say, opening my eyes on a wide stretch of ocean sparkling in the rich colors of the sunset. I inhale deeply, the salt-drenched air a savory release from my musty dorm room. Jack sits beside me on a barrel top staring at the sinking sun as the black sails wave calmly in the breeze. I smile, too. "You all saved me, you realize that? You kept me from making a huge mistake."
"There are still mistakes to be had," Jack says, removing his arm from me so he can have another swig at his rum. I stand, walking up the deck with nod.
"I've already made lots of mistakes, but that doesn't pardon me."
Norrington walks up beside me in the pompous suit and hat. I give him a look as I slip my arm through his and he says, "Regardless, we have set you on a path to decency, to make your life honest with your own approval."
"I approve…" I say distantly, still looking him up and down. "You know, I always wondered what might've happened to you if hadn't died. Were you really going to turn pirate? Because that would've been ultimate."
Norrington smiles begrudgingly as we go to head inside the ship. It disappears in the darkness, but I know it's there, even as the soggy wooden steps turn to stone and we step through a sunny arch. I take in another deep breath and survey the view from atop Fort Charles placidly.
"I may not have 'turned pirate-'"
"Well you should have!" I insist, jumping up beside the bell's arch. "Everyone else was doing it! I would've written that you did."
"And how might've that turned out?" I sense genuine curiosity in his attempt to simply humor me.
"You would've got across the rope with Elizabeth. Then at some point, she or someone else would ask you why or give you a look, and you'd say something like Governor Swann said to you here about how 'piracy itself can be the right course.' I always wished they would've revisited that line with you."
He smirks. I swing around the side of the arch and swipe his hat, planting it on my head. "And even if I don't ever get to write that and publish it for all fan fiction readers, I'll be publishing something someday. Maybe even writing screenplays!"
I swing around again, but the ocean and sun vanish and bring me face to face with Davy Jones. I let go of the barnacle encrusted pole and flex my hand awkwardly as I walk backwards, away from him and his approaching seamen.
"Writing screenplays?" he mocks, that pipe suspended loosely by one of his tentacles. "How do you intend to go from small town to big city?"
I stumble and fall back onto a chest. "You know, I don't think I've even written anything with you in it."
"Perhaps you should reconsider, unless you fear death."
I give him a level look. "I told you already: you all played a part in making me realize how much I love to write. I've embraced my inner pirate! And it's helped me to write some awesome stuff for Creative Writing! And be a little less high strung."
"But you haven't written anything regarding pirates at all," Will says as he and Bootstrap Bill come to the forefront of the group. "All of your ideas contain not a single mention."
"An author can't put too much of herself in her characters," I justify. "It doesn't work like that."
"But you're supposed to write from your experiences!" Bootstrap argues. "Write about what you know!"
"Any you know us very well," Will says, "taken into account how much time you've spent with us, on us, for us…"
"Listen, that autobiography I started last year? I intend to write it!" I tell them, standing up from the uncomfortable chest (nothing like having coral and crustation-like things poking into your butt). "I've been really lax on that since I kind of have a social life now, but I write it on my calendar. You guys… you guys will probably make up a whole third of my book."
"And you're just such the gentlewoman."
I turn around at Beckett's voice, suddenly in his office where he's pouring two drinks. I roll my eyes.
"And what do you mean by that?"
He shrugs nonchalantly and hands me one of the tiny glasses. With a small 'cheers,' he downs his quickly. I'd rather not. I recently had an underage, and… Jack still isn't letting me live it down…
"Nope!" Jack himself says, popping up from behind Beckett and startling him. "I will not because for once, I was not an influence!"
"Psh, yes you were! I said 'give what you can' and Lindsay said 'take nothing back' when that night started!"
Jack shrinks behind Beckett's shoulder, recoiling his exuberant outburst. Beckett gives him a dangerous look over his shoulder.
"You interrupted my part of the story."
"You branded my arm."
"You didn't bring me back a ship of slaves!" Beckett said, voice rising as he turned to Jack. Jack looked flustered but eventually came up with:
"You sunk Wenchy!"
"Because you didn't fill her with slaves!!!"
I sigh with Elizabeth as she comes up beside me, arms folded over her chest boredly.
"Are they at it again?"
"That's another thing I would've written as a movie."
"What?"
"The whole back story those two have. It's so interesting and compelling. I know it; I just want to see it."
"So write it," Elizabeth encourages, leading me out of the office where Jack has just dumped all of Beckett's unlabeled liquor over his wig. We turn the corner, not surprisingly in another different place – this time Isla de Muerta.
I pick up one of the swords and sit Indian style on a rock scattered in gold coins, looking at my reflection in the still water.
"I'm not going to write that. There are many more qualified people, and Ted and Terry do such a great job complicating the hell out of the plots so that I'm delightfully confused. You know, it's just really cool that I can sit and write something and make it seem so true."
"It is true," Barbossa says, stomping through the water up to the cursed chest of Aztec gold, a piece of which hangs on my bedroom wall at home. "If you believe it true, it is."
"Not necessarily." I jump up and join him, taking a piece of gold from the chest. "Even if I don't believe this curse is real," – I stick my arm in the moonlight to show its undead form to Barbossa – "it's still real. Much like I don't believe I'll get far, but it doesn't matter, so long as I'm happy doing what I do."
He holds up a knife to which I take to my finger for a prick, smear some blood on the coin, and replace it in the chest with a flip.
"You're a fairytale yourself," he chides. "You think you'll always end up happy doing what you do?"
"I probably won't be happy with my lack of income, but I'll be having fun."
"But you live in your head," Pintel laughs with Ragetti as they clamber up the gold pile. "Alone from all those people you want to admire you."
"That's not ture," Ragetti says on my behalf. I smile.
"Thank you, Ragetti."
"She gets to live with all of us!"
Barbossa looks impatient. "If you say we're in her head, doesn't that defeat the purpose of explaining that we're real?"
"But you are," I say, sliding down the small mountain of gold. "You're a real influence. So many of these fan fiction writers that hope to be paid authors someday? They got to learn their mistakes and brush up on their writing while delving into this world with all of you, just as I have."
"You speak a lot more like a writer now," Jack says, sauntering into the cave with Will. "Better English, better punctuation, correct grammar…"
"Well, that's the basis of writing," I laugh. "You have to have a good knowledge and understanding of it, not just throw it around willy-nilly. Oh! Will, can I call you Willy-Nilly?"
"You already do."
"Yeah, but not to your face."
He sighs as I wander through the cavernous pathways littered with riches, pocketing a coin or two even though I know they won't be there later. "You know, I'm not even sure where this path is going to take me, literally and figuratively," I say as I continue walking. "I mean, my Creative Writing professor thinks I'm good enough to have a poem published in the school literary magazine, and I'm supposed to read my research paper at a conference next month, but how much promise is that?"
Suddenly, a door at my side flies open, slamming of the rock and making me jump. Captain Teague thumbs over his shoulder and says, "It's a start. Don't tell us after all your hard work you doubt yourself again."
"Well, there is never certainty in anything," I say as I enter the room of the Brethren Court. All of the pirates look at me expectantly as I walk up to the giant globe stabbed with an array of swords. Captain Teague hands me one. I look at my reflection, wondering what I will have completed by the time it has acquired many wrinkles and age spots.
"We are certain that we can help you as always," Teague says, "but you need to remember that – and us."
"How many times must I say it?" I chuckle to the sword. "Whether your influence is good or bad, there is no forgetting you." I look up at the Brethren Court thoughtfully. "I'm grateful you've helped me this much this far. I avoided a terrible mistake, and now, I'm doing something I've loved doing since fourth grade."
With that, I raise my sword and shove it into the globe. Smiles break out across the room.
"I'll be sticking with this. For a while, at least."
"You'll visit more often I hope?"
I turn around to Gibbs, now in the Faithful Bride in Tortuga. He hands me a drink amidst the wild atmosphere of drunkards, and I give him a sheepish look.
"Got anything else? I've sworn off the whole… drinking thing for bit."
"Here," Jack says, handing me a bottle of red Welch's Sparkling Grape Juice. He makes a face at Gibbs. "You are really insensitive sometimes."
"It was a celebratory drink! I forgot!"
I lower the bottle after a long drink, leaning against a pole. "Yeah, well, I guess you can save me from one mistake but still cause others." I clink my bottle of grape juice to their mugs, only to have some drunk stumble by and swipe it from me. I stare at my empty hand for a moment and then head for the exit with a smile.
Opening the doors, I find myself now in the small gold and ivory accented recital hall at my college that I've had every chorus concert in. All of the pirates are standing on the choir risers with music. I stop dead, my mood doing a violent 180. I stare at them, not sure what to say, as my class ring develops a significant weight on my right middle finger.
"What are you doing?" I finally ask.
"Isn't it obvious?" Mullroy asks from my left. Murtogg pipes up ext from my right, "They want you to sing!"
I shake my head. "I'm not a soloist. I- I don't want to-"
"Not as a soloist!" Beckett yells, turning around on the conductor's podium. He gives me a sardonic grin and motions to microphone beside him. "Take your place, hmm?"
I look between Murtogg, Mullroy, and the rest of the pirate choir with a heavy heart. I've sung in chorus since my rejection, but it's different somehow.
"I don't sing unless I'm with a choir-"
"Just bring her."
At Barbossa's lazy order from the top row of the risers, Murtogg and Mullroy each taken one of my arms and lead me down the aisle. I put up a half-hearted struggle despite being overly flustered. They plant me right before the microphone as the recital hall begins to fill with my friends, family, professors, and mentors.
I stare at Beckett, horrified.
"What the hell?!" I whisper urgently.
"Take up your folder, Miss."
"No! I'm not singing anymore solos ever, I write!" I say fervently, opening the folder on my stand just for the uniform of the group. "I'm happy writing, and I've said and thanked even you, and now you want me to tear open a wound and just sing my heart out like it's no bi-"
I stopped.
My eyes scanned the page before me, and I smiled ridiculously; to myself, to Beckett, to my pirate choir, and to my audience. Beckett raised an eyebrow at me and the baton, and I nodded eagerly. I had never done a reading before, but with a chorus from Pirates, it was sure to be all I could hope for.
A low, minor chord came from the depths of the pirates (and not-pirates), and I picked up my manuscript, reading it aloud for all those who deserved to know what I hadn't been able to express to them.
Although it hurts, I read. And I realize as I begin that I can always have coexisting dreams, especially if I write them that way.
"It's so funny how you can feel yourself grow up, become an adult, and loose all innocence in the wake of a few words printed on a sheet of paper…"
x x x
So maybe I didn't really get to tell them the whole story. I'm on my way to doing great things with words, and my iPod, CDs, and sheet music will come with me no matter what, instilling me with inspiration as they always have. A lot of people will never understand or care or know how I feel about my predicament, of finding fortune in my failure.
But the people who matter most know.
Jack makes a face on the poster I have of him hanging next to my top bunk. "Ahem?"
I laugh.
The pirates who matter most know, too.
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