Stacy
The clock above the board ticked too loudly for how quiet the lecture hall was supposed to be. A hundred students packed into rows of desks, but half of them were already scrolling through their phones, half-listening at best.
Professor Jacobs was at the front, a marker pen in his hand as he wrote the words Creative Writing 201: Narrative Tension across the board in neat block letters.
His voice was soft and barely audible, a little nasal behind those large wire-rimmed glasses. He looked like someone who never quite shook off his shyness.
He didn’t have the booming charisma of the other professors, but I… didn’t mind that.
“Notice how the choice of detail,” he said, turning toward us, “is what makes a scene feel alive.” He pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
“Not
