Over the summer I got sucked in to reading books about
peopleís lives. Mostly people who have struggled far more
than I probably ever will. Their stories made me believe in myself. To know that if they could make it through
unthinkable trials (i.e. rehab, molestation, mentally ill parents, and hell,
being a homosexual) I could make it through a broken heart that shouldíve
mended long before it did. And I did. With far less drug use,
mental/physical torment and without a 28 day stay at a rehabilitation facility.
While reading each page I wondered what my memoir would
be like. What would the ripped pages from my journal, legal pads and the backs
of receipts say about me years later? Would people find hope in my story? Would
perhaps an awkward-looking girl, with small features and a thing for applying
peroxide to her hair on a regular basis get her tiny little hands on it and
read it while the color set?
Iíve only fancifully imagined putting my lifeís events
into short-story format, mostly because stories of a lonely girl smoking too
many cigarettes with no real problems except for the ones she creates for
herself and self-medicates wouldnít really interest anyone. My story is not one
movies are made of. If it was, everyone would have one
and theaters would go out of business because the ďmoviesĒ would only be shown
on YouTube, which, now that I think about it, might
However, I know someone with novels to be† written, with a life story so rich I
canít wait to be able to read the meaning between the lines, because if anyone,
I would be the one who deciphers it.
For Christmas, I gave him two books to inspire him and a
journal to begin writing his own memoir. I donít think he really understood the
gift until he opened the first book and saw his reflection staring back at him.
In fact, until I read the book for myself, it was startling how sometimes I
felt like I was seeing my friend ten years down the road and at the same time,
incredible to know heís going to be just fine.
Iíve watched him sit in class and hurriedly fill the
pages of the journal that now goes everywhere with him and, although I never
would, Iím dying to take a peek at what heís filled the pages with so far.
However, I will take all the credit and demand royalties
after he signs a multi-million dollar publishing deal and the scribbles heís
written in the journal I gave him make it to the top of the best-sellerís list.
And when it gets optioned out as a film, he must run whoever is chosen to play
my part, even if Iím only in the background of one scene, by me first.
(Consider yourself warned.)
Moments ago I devoured the last page of one of the books
I gave said friend in which I wrote on the title page months ago, ďFind your
inspiration between the lines. There your story lies.Ē And as my eyes met with
the final period, I realized that first of all, I was completely right, but
more importantly, Iíd rather be the person able to read in-between the lines
than write them.
Jess Peregoy is a junior journalism major from Bossier
City and serves as the managing editor for The Tech Talk. E-mail comments to