Wake Me Up When November Is Over

I've been writing for years(or so it sometimes seems). This year, I've taken the advanced Creative Writings course in my local college. I was warned not to, because the proffessor loved to make it hard to keep your grade at passing. I now know why. The proffessor has assigned all 12 students(notice the small number...) to NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month. 50,000 words. He made it extremely clear, that this will either pass or fail me. And I need this grade. So I sat down, and began writing, titled 'Wake Me Up When November Is Over.' And half way through the first few chapter, I realized, this was inspired by Syd Barrett and the early days of Pink Floyd. And I like that Idea. I sorta like that my character has become the fictional double of Syd. But before I can finish this or turn it in, I need opinions. So I figured, this was the best place to put it up. So I now give you the first chapter(or five pages) of "Wake Me Up When November Is Over."

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"You have thirty days, Mr. Sands. You will report every day to the therapist assigned by the courts. You will not leave the country," There were some outraged muttering in the background about how the band would tour now.

"And, if, in thirty days the therapist feels you are not mentally ill, you will be free to go and the charges will be dropped. However, if you miss a day or the therapist feels you need greater help, you will be institutionalized. Do you understand?" The judge asked, glaring down at the young man.

"Yes, your honor." Came the soft reply.

"Very well, remain in the courthouse and report to my offices in forty five minutes." The judge said, before dismissing the court.

Jack Sands watched the judge leave the courtroom, before turning himself and heading for the main doors. The rest of the band, along with their manager, were gathered at the doors waiting for him.

"I need a fag." Jack muttered, before any of them could open their mouth. They followed him out side on to the balcony, of the second floor of the courthouse.

Luke took his pack of smokes out of his pocket and held it out to Jack, who took one. Luke's lighter followed. "I'm am so...fucked..." Jack muttered, drawing a long drag on the cigarette.

"Yeah, you've completely fucked up." Wesley snapped from his spot near a column.

"Wes, don't start now!" Ryan warned, giving the other young man a dark look.

"What the fuckin' hell, Ry?! Who's bloody side are you on?!" Wesley hit back, coming away from the column. He was glaring with his cold blue eyes, at Jack, who turned his own dark brown eyes from Wesley to look down at the London street as he smoked his cigarette. But Wesley kept advancing on Jack.

"What the bleedin' hell were you thinkin' when you did it Jack?!"

"I wasn't." Jack replied softly, still not looking at him.

"I'll agree with that!" Wesley snapped, trying to get in between the twins, Logan and Luke to get to Jack. His fingers were itching to wrap around Jack's neck.

He didn't stop until Steve, the group's manager stepped in front of him. "Knock it off Wesley, I'll have a talk with Judge Winsten. In the mean time, damn it, Split Image has a gig tonight, I suggest the rest of you go and practice and Jack and I'll meet up with you later." Steve said in a stern tone. The rest of the band, Ryan, Logan, Luke and Wesley shuffled off with grumbles.

That left Steve and Jack alone on the balcony. Steve sat down in a chair near by, regarding the 23 year old. Steve sighed. "Jack, what were you thinking, huh?"

"I already said I wasn't." Jack answered, finally turning hi eyes from the street to look at Steve. Steve Hayward had been the band's manager from the beginning He'd been a friend of Jack's father, when they were boys at Eton and Oxford, and up until Jack's father had died.

Jack had been a small child of 4 when his father had died. Steve had kept the band from giving up, and now Split Image was slowly growing more popular. With their first album selling well, they were expected to start going on tour around Europe.

But the pressure was slowly getting to Jack. He'd put the band together, from his childhood and school day friends, given the band their name. He wrote the lyrics for the songs and played guitar, while Ryan Shelfield wrote the music, and played bass. Wesley Morton played second bass. The twins, Logan and Luke Buckingham played keyboard and drums.

Ryan was tall, slightly beefy young man with a big heart and warm personality. He loved to be around people, his friends the most. He kept the others from arguing to much in the studio. He was one of Jack's oldest and dearest friends.

Wesley, while he could be a wise ass and a jerk at times, was a deeply committed musician and general a good guy, but since the band had started to get more popular, Wesley had begun, it seemed, to become agitated with Jack. He'd expressed interest in playing lead.

The twins, next to Ryan were Jack's oldest friends. They'd gone through primary school with Ryan and Jack. Both were talented for coming up with the unique sounds that made up Split Image. They were fun loving, loyal young men, but avoided conflicts with in the band as much as possible.

Jack, Jack Sands, widely known among his friends as Pink, was the heart and soul of the gang. He was 5'9 and a bit on the skinny side. Strangely handsome, leaning towards feminine looking, he was a passionate 23 year old. With his dark hair, in it's shaggy cut, the high cheek bones, the dark eyes with their constant thoughtful look. He was terribly shy, and could be oddly quiet for hours on end at times. He hated to hurt people's feelings and could never say no. And this was his mistake.

He hadn't learned to stand up, and say no. And it was costing him. It was costing him his sanity. He'd ended up in this court this morning, because he'd lost it in the sound studio, the band used. He'd trashed most of the equipment, trying to vent his rage and stress. Now he was stuck, in the month of November, with thirty days of shrink visits, because everyone believed he was crazy.

Steve sighed, shaking his head. "Go Jack, go meet with Judge Winsten." Steve said. Jack sighed, dropping the cigarette on the ground before him. He stood up, snubbing it out with his heel.

He watched the rest of the band leaving, Ryan stopping before the car, too look back at the balcony and Jack. He gave Jack a weary but confident smile. Jack managed a tired smile back, before he turned and went back into the court house.

He stopped before the judge's office door. He could hear two men inside talking and had the feeling the voice he didn't recognize was the therapist he'd be assigned to. With a dark frown, he knocked on the door. "Enter." Came the judge's voice and Jack turned the knob, pushing the door open and stepping inside slowly. He looked around the room.

The Judge was sitting behind his desk, out of his robe and wig. Sitting before the desk in one of the two chairs, was an older man, his hair white, and a noble face. He was watching Jack closely, and not hiding the fact that he was analyzing the young man right there. And this bothered Jack, he tired to keep his eyes on the judge, rather then the man in the chair.

"A bit early Mr. Sands, but that's fine." The judge said, before nodding in the direction of the other man. "This is Dr. Edward Wornington. He'll be your therapist."

Dr. Wornington stood, holding out a hand to Jack. "Nice to meet you lad." He said with a comfortable smile. Jack said nothing, but took the man's hand and shook it.

"You understand, Mr. Sands, that in normal circumstance, I would have had you spend six weeks in jail. The owners of the sound studio you destroyed would have preferred this, and wanted to ban you and the rest of your band from recording there." The judge said with a cold ring to his tone.

"You're lucky I know Steve Hayward." There was sarcasm in the man's voice. "This is for your own good. If you do not abide by the rules set down by this court, you WILL be committed. Do you understand, Mr. Sands?"

"Yes, your honor." Jack replied softly again, not looking at the judge.

"You'll begin your seasons tomorrow," The judge said, then glanced at Dr. Wornington. "Unless you'd rather start later this week."

Dr. Wornington shook his head. "Actually, Jack, if you don't have anything else to do at this moment, why don't we go get a cup of coffee and get to know each other a bit more."

"Well I have a rehearsal," Jack began to say, but saw the Judge's dark look. With a sigh, Jack shook his head. "No, that'll be fine, Dr." He muttered, looking at the dark carpet under his feet. He missed the stern look Dr. Wornington gave the judge.

"Come on Jack, I know a great little coffee shop down the street, very comfortable." Dr. Wornington said with a smile, before heading to the door.


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Author's note: Yes, I'm very afraid this is going to suck and my grade will be a failing grade... And the nick name, Pink, was a dare from a friend, and fellow writer/musician. To bring it closer to it's inspiration, I think.

So now he found himself sitting at a table near a window with the good doctor. Neither said anything while the man poured sugar into his coffee cup, stirring it in. Jack's cup sit untouched between his hands. He stared out the window for a few minutes, before looking back at Wornington.

Wornington, finished stirring his coffee, then took out a pack of cigarettes. "Do you smoke?" Wornington asked Jack, holding out the pack. Jack nodded mutely and took the offered cigarette.

Wornington lit his own and handed Jack the lighter. Taking a long drag he spoke finally. "So Jack, tell me about yourself."

Jack glanced at the doctor over the top of his hands as he lit his cigarette, regarding the man for a moment. When his cigarette was lit, he put the lighter on the table, took and long drag and took the cigarette from his lips to say, "What's there to tell. I'm sure they've given you my case history for all this."

Wornington shook his head, tapping off his ashes. "That's not what I mean, Jack. I know all that clinical bullshit, but what I want to know Jack, is from YOUR own words." Wornington replied simply.

Jack frowned, turning his eyes back to the window. A silence rose between the two men, with Jack becoming lost in his own thoughts for a moment. "What made you do it, Jack?" Wornington asked finally.

Jack clenched his teeth and glared. "I don't know!" He spat out.

"I think you do know, Jack, you just can't put your finger on it yet." Wornington said simply, calmly.

"And I suppose you do?" Jack asked irritably. Wornington just shrugged.

He then changed the subject. "How long have you been playing the guitar?"

"Since I was 10." Jack answered monotonelessly

Wornington nodded. "And you formed Split Image?"

Jack turned his eyes back to the window, still answering monotonelesssly. "Myself and Ryan, after Eton." He wasn't uncomfortable, he was just bored. Of what, he wasn't entirely sure.

"I see." Wornington replied, taking another drag. "And you write the lyrics?"

Jack rolled his eyes. "Yes." He answered simply.

"And what are you lyrics like? What do you say in them? What do you WANT them to say?"

This was the finally straw for Jack. His head snapped around to glare at the man. "Try listening to 'Broken Mirrors'!" He seethed.

Broken Mirrors had been the groups first album and a very successful album. Split Image would be going back into the studios soon, to go back to work on their second album. That was if Jack hadn't been eternally banned from the studio in Abbey Road.

"I'm not much of a rock listener." Wornington replied with a weary smile, but watching Jack very closely.

Jack was about to reply with a sarcastic remark, when he spyed out of the corner of his eyes, a flash of red hair. He snapped his eyes to the window and saw her walking by. "Shit!" He swore suddenly, before jumping from his chair.

His eyes still on the young woman, he hurried towards the door of the cafe. Wornington watched him with a raised eyebrow then glanced out the window, to see the attractive young woman, with the long deep red rich hair. She was already turning the corner by the time Jack made it to the door of the shop. Wornington frowned and got up from his own spot, following the young musician.

Jack came out into the cold afternoon, looking up and down the walk way desperately. He managed to catch her disappear around the corner of the building and he took off, running after her. But by the time he made it around the corner, she was gone, having blended into the crowds. Jack searched every where, looking this way and that. But still, he did not see her. He stood there as people moved around him.

Until he heard Wornington's voice. "Who was she, Jack?" Jack turned his head, looking at the man. He contemplated his answer for a long time, then just shrugged.

"I don't know." Wornington raised an eyebrow skeptically, and for a moment, Jack grinned at the man's confussed look.

Wake me up, before you go-go.

Don't leave me hanging on like a yo-yo.

*laughs* Yeah, something like that...great, now I'm going to have that one stuck in my head...

So...did it pass?

For a beginner's creative writing class, even at the college level, this is overkill. I can see when you get the 400 level classes giving an assignment like that, but if you don't even know how to construct a story...your prof is an oaf.

Constructing a story doesn't seem to be a prerequisite for writing a novel these days.

I see you have met Dan Brown.

No, and I hope I never do.

Very similar to Goodwill Hunting

I liked that movie.