"chasing pavements"
"What are you going to do with your life, Rebekah?"
They're driving back from the airport, it's her junior year of college and she's coming home for spring break. She'd skipped out on winter break under the excuse that she was spending it with her (now ex-)boyfriend's family in D.C., hadn't been home for Thanksgiving cause she had a show; one more vacation spent not at home and her parents would've been suspicious. Normally she and Carley would travel in tandem, but her family ended up deciding to go to Mexico instead, so while she's living it up in the sun and sand, all tequila-happy and tan, Bekki is stuck in the passenger's seat of her father's hybrid station wagon, barely even a "hello, how's school" and he's asked the dreaded question.
He used to be so good about believing in her, telling her "of course you can do it, you're such a gifted girl, you can do anything you put your mind to," and she thought he believed it, too. But lately, he's been springing this on her, this doubt, this "you know, public speaking skills and writing skills can get you far in any career, business, advertising, even my job is always looking for good writers," as if what he really means is "you know you can't seriously be thinking about becoming a writer, you'll be a starving artist the rest of your life."
She tells herself she doesn't care if she's rich or famous - she wants to be a writer, an actress, because those are the things she loves and she can't imagine spending the rest of her life doing anything else. As long as she can get by, live in the City, do those things - she's happy. Her father doesn't understand that.
"Do you have a real job yet, Rebekah?"
They're talking on the phone, she's twenty-two and she's been out of school more than a year now, working at Starbucks, working on her novel, trying to get jobs in the theatre and for the most part happy, content at least. She's still young, still starting out, sure it'd be nice to get a big break but she doesn't mind it so much. He doesn't think she's got a real job, thinks she's wasting her time, "you could be interning at a marketing firm, you have to start somewhere, you know, it's time to abandon childish dreams," he tells her.
It starts to wear on her, this sort of talk. She worries a lot more than she used to, sees girls she went to school with land roles, get a piece published, put out an album; she starts to wonder whether or not she's good enough for this, whether she can keep up. Even Carley's had more success than she has, though it's no wonder with that voice of hers, all angel-pure and opera-high. Bekki doesn't have any specialties, anything that sets her apart - sure she's cute, sure she's okay at things, sure she knows every word to dozens of songs and every film by Tarantino and she can play piano okay and she knows how to string a sentence together, but is that good enough?
She will never tell her father that sometimes she wonders if he's right, that she should just give up (he never says give up but that's what she hears) and give in and get a "real job," whore herself out to the highest-paying company and spend her days spinning advertisements or corporate propaganda - oh sure, it's not always so awful, she's got nothing against it really, corporations and the like, but it's not her, it's not...
"What are you doing with yourself, Bekki?"
It's her most recent lover talking - only the third she's had, though she doesn't say that to most people, the number - and he hasn't a clue that what he says will hit her so hard, that the question echoes the ones she's heard for years. He's a musician, but he gets paid well; he wonders why she's still stuck in a Starbucks. She doesn't answer. She rolls over in bed, pretends to be asleep. She doesn't really know the answer to his question.
They're driving back from the airport, it's her junior year of college and she's coming home for spring break. She'd skipped out on winter break under the excuse that she was spending it with her (now ex-)boyfriend's family in D.C., hadn't been home for Thanksgiving cause she had a show; one more vacation spent not at home and her parents would've been suspicious. Normally she and Carley would travel in tandem, but her family ended up deciding to go to Mexico instead, so while she's living it up in the sun and sand, all tequila-happy and tan, Bekki is stuck in the passenger's seat of her father's hybrid station wagon, barely even a "hello, how's school" and he's asked the dreaded question.
He used to be so good about believing in her, telling her "of course you can do it, you're such a gifted girl, you can do anything you put your mind to," and she thought he believed it, too. But lately, he's been springing this on her, this doubt, this "you know, public speaking skills and writing skills can get you far in any career, business, advertising, even my job is always looking for good writers," as if what he really means is "you know you can't seriously be thinking about becoming a writer, you'll be a starving artist the rest of your life."
She tells herself she doesn't care if she's rich or famous - she wants to be a writer, an actress, because those are the things she loves and she can't imagine spending the rest of her life doing anything else. As long as she can get by, live in the City, do those things - she's happy. Her father doesn't understand that.
"Do you have a real job yet, Rebekah?"
They're talking on the phone, she's twenty-two and she's been out of school more than a year now, working at Starbucks, working on her novel, trying to get jobs in the theatre and for the most part happy, content at least. She's still young, still starting out, sure it'd be nice to get a big break but she doesn't mind it so much. He doesn't think she's got a real job, thinks she's wasting her time, "you could be interning at a marketing firm, you have to start somewhere, you know, it's time to abandon childish dreams," he tells her.
It starts to wear on her, this sort of talk. She worries a lot more than she used to, sees girls she went to school with land roles, get a piece published, put out an album; she starts to wonder whether or not she's good enough for this, whether she can keep up. Even Carley's had more success than she has, though it's no wonder with that voice of hers, all angel-pure and opera-high. Bekki doesn't have any specialties, anything that sets her apart - sure she's cute, sure she's okay at things, sure she knows every word to dozens of songs and every film by Tarantino and she can play piano okay and she knows how to string a sentence together, but is that good enough?
She will never tell her father that sometimes she wonders if he's right, that she should just give up (he never says give up but that's what she hears) and give in and get a "real job," whore herself out to the highest-paying company and spend her days spinning advertisements or corporate propaganda - oh sure, it's not always so awful, she's got nothing against it really, corporations and the like, but it's not her, it's not...
"What are you doing with yourself, Bekki?"
It's her most recent lover talking - only the third she's had, though she doesn't say that to most people, the number - and he hasn't a clue that what he says will hit her so hard, that the question echoes the ones she's heard for years. He's a musician, but he gets paid well; he wonders why she's still stuck in a Starbucks. She doesn't answer. She rolls over in bed, pretends to be asleep. She doesn't really know the answer to his question.