Over the summer I got sucked in to reading books about people’s 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 should’ve 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?

I’ve only fancifully imagined putting my life’s 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 wouldn’t 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 “movies” would only be shown on YouTube, which, now that I think about it, might happen.

However, I know someone with novels to be  written, with a life story so rich I can’t 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 don’t 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 he’s going to be just fine.

I’ve watched him sit in class and hurriedly fill the pages of the journal that now goes everywhere with him and, although I never would, I’m dying to take a peek at what he’s 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 he’s written in the journal I gave him make it to the top of the best-seller’s list. And when it gets optioned out as a film, he must run whoever is chosen to play my part, even if I’m 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, “Find your inspiration between the lines. There your story lies.” And as my eyes met with the final period, I realized that first of all, I was completely right, but more importantly, I’d 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 jep024@latech.edu.