If you enjoy writing, have something to say on a variety of topics and can convey your thoughts in an interesting and humorous way, then this is for you.
Please send us a 400-word column on the topic of “anarchy” by the end of the week, and if you’re successful we’ll get back to you and let you know if you’re Pi magazine’s new columnist.
Thanks,
The Pi team.
Oh my God. A student columnist . . . that would be amazing. I had always wanted to write professionally but had never had the opportunity—or the courage—to do so. I’d entertained the idea of joining the student magazine back in Freshers’ Week but I’d been too scared to apply. You had to give a one-minute speech in front of the entire editorial team and the thought had been enough to completely put me off. Sending in a single column entry was definitely a preferable option.
I felt my heart rate increase as I thought seriously about doing it. I loved writing. Going into journalism and having a Sex and the City–style column (once I’d actually had sex, of course) was my dream. It had always seemed pretty unreachable but this seemed like a good place to start.
Without giving myself time to talk myself out of it, I grabbed my laptop. I could do this. I had opinions. I could definitely think of something to write about anarchy. Um, the Sex Pistols? Punks? Mohawks?
Anarchy Column Entry—Ellie Kolstakis
The Sex Pistols brought anarchy to the UK. I know it already existed in other forms—take stoned hippies clutching daisies, or the late-eighteenth-century French who took anarchy to a whole new level, guillotining poor Marie Antoinette who only wanted cake . . .
I sat back and smiled with pride. I had an introduction. Now I just had to write another . . . oh, 359 words, if I counted the title. That would take only half an hour or so, and then I could watch Downton Abbey repeats all night. Perfect.
Three hours and four green teas later, I scanned over the 402-word entry to check for errors. It was finished, edited and as good as it was ever going to get. My pulse quickened with nerves as I clicked “send” but the adrenaline felt good. I had no idea if it was the sort of thing they were looking for, but at least I had finally tried. Maybe being untextable would prove to be a good thing—this lack of dates just meant I had more time to write.
I woke up the next morning feeling rejuvenated. After sending in my column entry it had suddenly hit me that my only current graduation plan was to lose my virginity. But being deflowered was not a career. The realization inspired me to get the laptop back out again and put on my Motivation playlist. I ended up applying for twenty internships at media publications before I eventually passed out from exhaustion.
I was still feeling the positive aftereffects of my hard work. Okay, so it was Day Five and Jack still hadn’t texted. But there were plenty of reasons why that could be and I didn’t have to sit around waiting to find out if he ever would. I was a modern, independent woman, just like Beyoncé, and I could ask a man out. Easy.
Sitting on the tube into East London, I felt like a deranged idiot. Instead of just asking Jack if he wanted to go for drinks like a normal person would, I had invented a reason to be near his office in Old Street station and was on my way there. I was one move away from being a verified stalker and getting a criminal record.
My mind wandered back to the text I had composed just before getting on the underground.
Hey Jack, it’s Ellie. Do you fancy going for a coffee today? I’m in Old Street, so maybe round there?
Oh God, I felt sick again. The tube pulled into the station. Doom built in my stomach as I ascended via the escalators and the signal bars on my phone crept upwards. It beeped. It was a message from him.
Sure, how about 3pm at the Shoreditch Grind?
For a split second I felt pure euphoria, until it hit me—I was going to go for coffee with him. Alone. The nerves washed over me, and I felt the urge to be sick. It was two thirty p.m. so I had half an hour. I saw the edgy-looking coffee shop opposite the station and decided to sit in there and wait for him.
I ordered a large cappuccino and for once, I didn’t have to fight the urge to order a brownie. Then I sat down and waited the longest thirty minutes of my life.
Eventually he pushed the door open and walked in, scanning the room. “Hey!” I called out in a weirdly high-pitched voice.
“Hey, Ellie, how are you?” he asked as he came over and gave me a hug. Thank God—I’d been terrified he would do another fist bump. Or maybe that was waiting for me at the end of our date?
“Good, thanks. You?”
“Yeah, not bad. I’m going to grab a drink. Do you want something?”