Writing my own movie

They tell us college is about exploring. They say, take classes outside your comfort zone and see what lights a spark. I have nothing but resentment for truthful clichés. But I still signed up for “Writing the Movie” last semester to bring some diversity to my class schedule. Plus, who doesn’t dream of writing their own movie? By accident, I fell in love with my characters­—fictitious personas of my own creation—and marveled at a world carved out of my own mind. I was committed in a way I hadn’t been committed before, and expressed an interest to my professor in finishing my movie after the semester ended.

Ninety pages later, I met with my professor­­­—now working at the school-that-must-not-be-named— to review my first draft. She gave me every kind of advice I could ask for—specific content revision, plan of action, people to talk to and mechanisms for refining my skills. But I left our meeting feeling sick to my stomach. Not because my script was bad, but because it wasn’t finished. She told me she thought I had talent and that my script had potential, but it would take hard work. She said she would be busy this semester, and it became clear for the first time that I was on my own.

I want my hand held. I want to be guided from one step to the next, and my success to fuel me along a designated route. If you do well in Orgo, you move to Orgo II, and then you become a highly paid neurosurgeon. I’m not Pre-med but that’s how I think it works. To suddenly find myself off the train tracks and on my own is troubling. I don’t know if I can do it alone. I’ve never had to.

Then there’s this concept of hard work. What do you mean it’s going to be hard work? I just worked for ninety pages. Where’s my fame and fortune? There’s a tendency, especially at Duke, to want to be successful rather than earn success—to be good, not get good. I think Hannah Montana once said something about the journey not the destination. Thanks Miley, but I’d rather just be a prodigy.

My experience isn’t unique. At least once in our Duke careers, most hear that clicking noise when a new interest doubles as a new strength. We spend the next four nights fantasizing about our Forbes magazine interview or 60 Minutes special. If that were all it took, you’d be looking at four-time Olympic medalist, Oscar-winner, Senator Kyle Harvey. But when we finally find that quintessential passion people have badgered us about our whole lives, do we have a responsibility to pursue it? Do I have to be four years deep in hot dog sales, before I can say this movie-writing thing isn’t really working out?

At some point, I have to be honest with how far hard work can take me. We all have to weigh how much we care about our goals against the possibility­—perhaps likelihood— that we don’t achieve them. I’ve dodged questions about my script and refrained from sharing any dreams I have for it. Not because I’m afraid that my friends will watch me fail, but because I’m ashamed they may see me give up. The chorus of childhood adages and famous quotes all sing the same song: giving up on a dream is the cowardly equivalent of offering the school-bully your lunch money. It’s difficult to reconcile such prevailing wisdom with pragmatism. Any cost-benefit risk analysis would argue that pursuing a lofty dream is a foolish endeavor at best.

But I’m going to try. In fact, I’m going do more than try—I’m going to work hard. Half of me is scared I don’t know what working hard really means and the other half worries I don’t have the discipline to do it alone. I’m going to risk looking like a quitter by raising the bar of what constitutes success. My logic tells me I’m setting myself up for disappointment and embarrassment. My ambition reminds me I’ve seen a lot of other people’s movies, and prefer the scenes I wrote myself.

Kyle Harvey is a Trinity sophomore. His column runs every other Thursday.