Study Writing Seminar

On second thought, the work is really starting to pile up, so you head back to your room to pick up some books. You deliberate heading back down to the lounge for a second, but the bed looks temptingly comfortable, so you slip under the covers with a pen and book in hand, ready to annotate whatever the heck it is that you’ve been assigned this time around.

The first thing you crack open is an essay by someone called Julia Kristeva. She writes on the Oedipal complex. It seemed decently simple when Freud was writing about it—guys want to fuck their moms and kill their dads, stuff gets screwed up along the way and people end up fucked up.

But this essay is a little harder to read. Rather like the stuff you were assigned last week, it is dense, and the words are confusing, and the sentences jumble together, and it’s a struggle to put together meaning. Eventually, you think you can piece together what she’s trying to say. It’s something like, there’s an imaginary father figure that comes before the real one, which allows one to create mental separations (how this happens is a little beyond you at the moment)… and somehow, this all comes together, and then some sort of split with the father provides the foundation for **** and law and society, and then somehow language comes into the picture, allowing for a transformation of the self… and then you’re kind of lost again.

You kick off the sheets and roll out of bed, feeling bleary-eyed. Surely there is something a little easier to read? You grab another book (a collection of short stories by Margaret Atwood) and head downstairs.

Finding a bean bag on the side, you get comfortable again, flip open the book, and then scroll through your phone for a second, needing a little bit more of a break before you dive into work again.

“Engrossing reading material.”

Lucy

You turn around, and see a hot brunette girl sporting two pigtails. She has a slim figure, a well-tanned body, and erotic thoughts begin to rise in your head. It takes you a second to realise that she’s pointing at your book, and you turn to look at it, realising that the short story you have open is one titled “**** Fantasies”.

“It’s for class,” you say, trying to play it off cool. “Not… not like you think it is.” You did not play it off cool.

“It’s a good read,” she laughs, giving you a pat on the back. “I thought it was fun.”

“Oh, thank God it’s fun. The last thing I had to read was a… right mess.”

“Well, let me know what you think when you’re done,” she says, beginning to skip away (yes, skip!).

You call out quickly. “Wait, who are you?”

“Lucy,” she says. “And who are you? Sorry, I don’t really hang around here much, so I don’t really know anyone in my own hall. Embarrassing, I know.”

“I’m Alex, I’m the guy who got here two weeks late. I’m still getting to know the people around the hall too.”

“Oh yeah, Christina’s mentioned something about you. She’s my roommate,” she explains. “Anyways, I got to go now, but see you around!”

She skips away, leaving you to the story. It’s as she says—a pretty enjoyable read, and one that gives you something to think about. How many women do have **** fantasies? And why does it seem to be so common?

You’re supposed to write a reflection on something that you’ve read today, and knowing that it’s definitely not going to be on the Kristeva, you spill your thoughts on the Atwood story instead. By the time your done, it is late, and you are tired, so you head back up to your room.

Lucy +10