So, once again, dear readers, I have to disappoint you- I couldn't get the OK from my doctors to attend the conventions. Apparently, something about thousands of people in a concentrated space with terrible air circulation doesn't scream medically sound to the immunocompromised. And, given the state of my seriously terrible health plan (sorry, Hugo, it's awful, but I don't blame you); well, it doesn't seem like it's in the cards. And, why would it be? The most interesting political campaign of the last 40 years, at least, and my dream is completely ruined because I have this fucking cancer so my entire goddamned degree is totally worthless.

But don't worry, it gets better! No, I'm not throwing in the ginzu knives, I still don't know what they are; but I can tell you my mom just found out she's pregnant with a boy and a girl- which is amazing… but I don't get to see her. See, she's got Strep right now, and with my immune system, I'm not allowed around her. So, the biggest news of our entire lives- the entire time we've been Gilmore Girls- you know, basically the last 24 years of my life, and I don't get to be there.

But, I did just get a giant bill from my insurance for all of the fun I'm having. Because, it's not enough that I'm paying $400/month, about ½ of my freelance pay, to cover my incredibly mediocre HMO plan, one that is highly subsidized by my dad and my fiance, no matter how humiliating that is-

Well, that didn't seem like a good post. Once again, personal subjects were proving to be problematic. She never expected it would be easy to write about certain things, but in the past it hadn't been this difficult. Sure she was struggling to make ends meet without dipping into her trust, and she knew it was dumb she didn't want to dip into that- but she just- well, she wanted to prove she could do it, dammit.

Lorelai left home at 17, with a baby. She moved into a potting shed with a curtain around the bathtub and toilet, she and her daughter shared a bed for years… but she did it. She stood on her own. And here was Rory, floundering to find an authentic, meaningful voice in this new world of trolls and chatter. How far the apple had fallen from the proverbial tree. She tried to live the way she was raised, and Logan didn't exactly have the cash he had before, (although, his trust fund was still worth more than she'd make in a lifetime). And yes she had her own trust, but it was crazy to think about it and she truly worried it would interfere with her hunger as a reporter, her work ethic, how could someone so cozy and comfortable put up with the indignities and inconveniences of a globe trotting correspondent. Not to mention, she still hopes some day to be based out of New York or even Paris or Hong Kong, lord knew she'd need the money then.

"Ace, I can practically see the steam coming from your ears, your typing has become incredibly heavy and deliberate. Either you're getting into it on Twitter with Lindsay Graham himself, or…"

She sighed, of course he would know. Of course he would be so perfect that he picked up on every single click and clack of her keyboard that she didn't-

"Nothing. It's fine."

"So, you know that the way you just said fine, like it was a very different four-letter F word? Yeah, I'm thinking it's not so fine." He looked over, and she huffed at him- if she was wearing a wig or bangs right now, that puff of air would have blown them up in a cute wave.

"If… Ok, hypothetically-" She stopped again. This was going to be a more difficult conversation than she anticipated. "Fine, riddle me this: I'm a white woman with an Ivy League education and I have a large readership who knows that I have not only a pretty rich dad and a decently well off fiance- so how do I write about access to medical treatments and my personal journey without sounding like a dilettante. Basically, in the most uncomfortable of terms- how would your father, the Pulitzer Prize nominee… how would he tackle it? I know this is a tacky way to talk about it, but WWMD- What Would Mitchum Do?

He sat there, looking at her, thinking, that was one hell of a question.

"Well, if I'm being honest with you, I don't think Mitchum would ever be in this situation. I know I told you once how so many of the greats get in the action and become a part of it to tell the story from the inside; but in the last 30 years especially, Mitchum relies a lot more on great connections than he does getting in the thick of it. And what you're doing here? You're not just reporting from inside, you're reporting about your life . You have opened the door and let millions of readers into a very real and very personal journey you're on- I don't think I could do it, be that vulnerable; what you're doing is amazing. I am so proud of you. And I can't tell you how Mitchum would behave or react right now, because not only does he not have a fraction of the courage that you do, but this is a new thing- this medium, blogging? No one knows how it works or what the rules are, so you just have to decide what you want to say, what your voice sounds like, and what you can and can't manage right now.

She looked up at him, she bit her lip as she considered what he said. She sighed before finally nodding. He was right, even if it didn't help.

A few hours later found Rory pulling up to the white stone facade of a place she honestly never thought she'd see again- Chilton Preparatory Academy.

When she got in the car an hour ago, she didn't have any idea where she was headed, but historically just going out for a long drive with really loud music blasting would sometimes end the writer's block, give her some kind of inspiration. She pulled off the highway and ended up in a wooded area that felt incredibly familiar- she slammed on the breaks, knowing in a second where she was. She didn't get out and walk around, remembering the day she was hit by a damn deer when she had been at her most stressed and desperate, she felt like she was losing everything. God, what she wouldn't give to go back to the days when a failing grade was her worst problem.

Before she could figure out why, she found herself driving to Chilton, it was 5:00, the school would be mostly empty- she didn't even know if any of her former teachers still worked there. She parked in front of the building, it was after hours, no one would care that she didn't bother with finding a parking space. She slowly walked through the entrance gates, remembering how excited she had been once to be going there, but- and she never admitted this to her mom, also so small. These kids had been going to prep schools and working with the top tutors in the area since they were babies, they knew this world and the work and commitment it would take to make it through here, to make it into the Ivy League…And of course, once you graduated from Harvard or Yale, you settled in with your family business or used their connections to set yourself up and never worry a day in your life.

And ultimately she'd conquered it. She had been Valedictorian; she had not only survived Paris, but became best friends with the girl. She'd been through the heartbreak of Jess leaving, of everything that happened with Dean… she became editor of the Yale Daily News and found Logan- and even there, she had survived, mostly, being apart from him and now they were engaged.

So, why did she feel so much like she did the day the deer hit her. Maybe wandering the halls would help remind her how she got over that?

She entered the building and meandered around, walking towards her old locker, then to the spot on the staircase where her mom had left a memento after her graduation- something she still couldn't believe even Lorelai Gilmore had done.

As she walked towards the cafeteria, famous for many incidents during her time here- sitting with the Puffs, running for Vice President, the never to be lived-down speech from Paris about losing her virginity and Rory being a virgin… That was certainly a day she wouldn't forget, ever.

It felt like it was so long ago, but when she really stopped to do the math, it wasn't even 6 full years. She thought back to her classmates: Paris was immersed in med school at Harvard, Brad was back on Broadway- she'd even heard rumors that he had been dabbling in TV out in California. Louise was, by all accounts, thrilled to be married to some Hollywood plastic surgeon to the stars and even Louise supposedly had started working on a vegan cosmetics line that was coming out any time now. And she lived in her parents pool house.

She was just getting ready to leave the building, wondering if this had been a mistake.

"Rory Gilmore?" She stopped fishing for her keys in her purse at that voice, surprised, her eyes big as she looked up.

"Mr. Medina?" Her favorite teacher, the man that she genuinely wanted as a stepfather once upon a time, was right in front of her, and she smiled.

"Please, Ms. Gilmore, I think at this point you can call me Max."

"Well then I'm going to have to insist on you calling me Rory."

"Rory- is that your preferred name right now? You don't prefer Reporter Girl?" There was a sparkle in his eye, he was smiling and she blushed just a little bit- would she ever not want to impress certain people from her past?

"You know that's me?"

"Well, after I followed you at the Yale Daily News, and of course at Clio- excellent work, by the way, very impressive. Then a favorite contributor to the political discourse wasn't there with the same frequency, but there were occasional links to a very well-written, very emotional, very personally vulnerable blog that had a few stylistic tendencies I recognized… even a few allusions to a certain hometown- small, quirky and sometimes smothering with its good intentions? I'm a very well-educated man, you understand that, right?" He was teasing her with that last bit, but it felt oddly reassuring.

"In fact, do you have a moment? I don't know what you're doing here, but I'd love to take you and show you something, if you have the time?" She just nodded and he turned, gesturing down the hall, towards his classroom.

"You're in the same classroom?"

"Well, I've been back here from California for a few years now, managed to talk myself into being Head of the English Department, and who knows? If Charleston ever decides to retire, or much more likely, dies from old age at his desk giving a student a disapproving look, I just may make it to Headmaster some day." She laughed at that- the idea of Chilton without that man at the helm was unthinkable. As they entered his classroom she saw that not much had changed in the almost six years- same posters on the walls, the same quotes, mostly Shakespeare, Proust and Dickinson around the room.

There was a new one, from Barack Obama, that made her smile- she knew that must have caused some aneurysms on Back to School Night for him. She moved closer to see it, " change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we've been waiting for. We are the change that we seek."

And right there, beneath that quote was a note: as reported on Super Tuesday by Rory Gilmore, Chilton Alumna .

She felt the tears pooling in her eyes, she never could have imagined this, it felt overwhelming. Chilton was prestigious, there were heads of banks, hedge funds, authors and playwrights who had graduated from here- a few state supreme court justices and many people on some of the most important Boards in the country, if not the world. But her mentor, her friend at one point, had not only followed her career- but had followed it- had posted about it.

"That was a hell of a story you wrote about the ballroom that night. We were all so proud of you, even Headmaster Charleston said something along the lines of "the sentiment may be nonsense, but you can't fault the reporting." Rory laughed again, the commentary had surrounded her since the decision to follow the young upstart from Chicago and, possibly worse in some circles, Harvard, rather than John McCain the former POW or at least an Eli like Hillary Clinton.

"I'm a little surprised he read it- I wasn't certain he knew how to access the internet."

"Well, it's possible that a few of your former teachers print out certain pieces of yours and leave them on his desk when they think she should be particularly proud. Not to mention, there is something I've been trying to convince him of for a little while, something I should probably run by you, in fact." He nervously moved over to his desk, looking for the paperwork on something.

"So, if you follow Reporter Girl, you know quite a bit, I guess." That was a heavy statement, there was a lot that meant.

He breathed out heavily, there probably wasn't a lot he could have said without her knowing how much he knew.

"Yeah, I suppose I know everything that you published- I know about Lorelai, please, give her my best wishes- I really hope she's happy." She smiled and nodded, but they both knew that was barely the tip of the iceberg. "And, I heard, actually from many places, about your engagement to Logan Huntzberger, so congratulations to you."

"And, you know that I'm sick?"

"It would be difficult to follow your blog and not know that. How are you doing? I have to say, you look wonderful, I don't know that I would have guessed anything was wrong with you if I hadn't known."

"Well, it's an off-week for chemo this week, and my Chemo Fairies made sure my wigs were absolutely incredible."

"Your Chemo Fairies?" She waved him off that one, not enough time in the world to try to explain the unholy alliance that was Finn and Lorelai.

"Well, I hope you know that we're all in your corner; but more than that; I'd be remiss if I didn't say that your writing in the last few months has only gotten better." She shook her head, looking to her feet. "No, I mean it- I don't know exactly what it is, maybe it has to do with the vulnerability and the amount of personal insight you've rolled into all of your stories- whether they're about your or not, maybe you were always slightly held back by not being allowed to have more of an opinion- the cold, objective style of reporting isn't always everyone's best. You have a point of view and an objective and you're clearly on a journey where you don't know the ending any better than the reader- there is something incredibly compelling about that. You write with candor and heart, a bit of humor. It's incredibly readable.

"Can I ask you something? Since you've read my work, and, hell, you're one of the people who helped me find my voice, as a writer, as a journalist… And I suppose I could go to one of my college editors for advice, but since one of them is Paris and the other is dating and living with Paris," That got a raised eyebrow from him, she'd have to fill him in on those tales at some point. "Believe me, they were the toast of New Haven in every way you can imagine."

"One of these days you'll fill me in there, yes?"

"Of course, we'll meet for coffee and I'll fill you in on the time that Paris had an antique printing press delivered to our dorm room, the time that she built a bunker in the Daily News and I had to keep her hot pot from burning the building down, and of course the time that she kicked me out of our apartment because I was chosen as the new Editor."

"Ms. Gellar was never anything but fodder for someone's tell all, was she?"

"I fully intend to begin the extortion process as soon as she graduates Med School."

"Ever your mother's daughter, aren't you? Always a witty remark?"

"Well, that's what being a Lorelai Gilmore means." He nodded, understanding that instinct.

"So, what can your old teacher assist you with. Clearly something was bothering you today, to get you wandering around old haunts. What can i do for you?"

She sighed, not really knowing what to say, where to start. What did she want help with after all?

"How do I balance real, actual journalism with my story? Here I am, telling a very real, personal story about everything I'm experiencing, but I'm also trying to explore and talk about these serious issues that affect millions around the country and I want to sound authentic. And I feel like I'm right there with all of them, in the trenches, a sister-in-arms; but I'm living in my grandparents' pool house, with access to maids and cooks; my fiance and my father flash their massive amounts of cash at any extra charges on my insurance bills; I actually have health insurance…

"My situation is so different from so many, so when I try to write and talk about what's happening with me, but then go into the massive medical debt facing the average American, I'm a fraud and a dilettante. How do I do it?"

Max sat on the edge of his desk, one leg crossed in front of the other, Classic Mr Medina. She took a seat at a desk in the front row, smiling at the callback to high school English.

"Well, let me ask you this- do you believe you really do come off that way to most people? Or is it that blogging changes the interaction you now have with your readership so you get to know everything that every single person who reads your work thinks of you?" That was a point. One she hadn't thought of, one that naturally made her stop.

"Oh. Well." And she thought about it. She had been able to read the comments on her articles for Clio all along, but honestly she had been so busy and her schedule and subjects so planned that she usually hadn't bothered to find the time or the interest. Every once in a while Hugo or someone on the social media team had passed along particularly effusive comments or follow-up questions/points of clarification people requested; and of course she'd seen the odd negative comment, but they were mostly about she was supporting a hack, or how the Senator wasn't really born in America and why didn't she write about that.

But with Reporter Girl these days, she didn't have quite a specific or dedicated subject list, she frequently found herself reading her comments as she tried to determine what people most wanted to read about. She also had a large number of followers who would write in tips for her in dealing with nausea from the chemo, scarf styling tips; or asking for resources to handle a loved one going through a major illness. As she mentioned this to her mentor he nodded.

"I think what you're seeing is this new phenomenon in the media- it's no longer the broadcasting of one person's thoughts to the masses, there is now an actual feedback loop. Now it's not 1 to many, it's pretty much 1:1. Why else would we have so many shows about the Kardashians and Paris Hilton? Everyone is expecting to hear what they want to hear when they want to hear it and they aren't concerned with sparing anyone's feelings."

She nodded, it made sense.

"So I just learn to tune it out?"

"Well, that depends. I have opinions and ideas, but I think what's most important is that you are being true to yourself and what you want to accomplish." Of course, Mr. Medina would never give her an easy out by just telling her what to do.

"What I want is to be back covering the Obama campaign, live and in person. I was starting to take off just a little, get my foot in the door and I miss it. I mean, it was absolutely the hardest first job I could have imagined, there is even less glamor out on the trail than you might think. But I was doing it, and I think I was doing it well."

"Oh, you were doing it very well, we are all so proud of you- I'm so proud to be able to say I was your teacher for just a brief time." She smiled, it felt nice to be validated by someone she respected so much. And maybe it was just exhaustion, or maybe it was something else, but she couldn't keep the tears from her eyes.

"I'm sorry, I guess… It's an off-week from treatment, but I've learned that sometimes, things just hit me a little bit harder than others. I swear, the comparisons to my life in chemo and my mom's pregnancy are alarmingly similar- we're both constantly nauseous, exhausted, emotional and I get this crazy thing I call I Chemo Brain where I forget everything."

"So Lorelai is pregnant? You're going to be a big sister?"

"Yeah, they're having twins- a boy and a girl, they just found out. I kind of hate that we're not allowed around each other too often, the chemicals from the chemo are really dangerous for her and the babies. So, I'm not entirely sure it's sunk in yet, that there are going to be two little babies in the house- well, the new house. Mom and Dad had to move- don't worry, still in Stars Hollow, but they needed a bigger place."

"Wow, that's a lot going on; your mom and dad and twins and now you're engaged and sick, that seems like quite a lot on your plate, it's understandable sometimes it feels overwhelming." She smiled. How was he so sweet?

"Now, I'm certainly no therapist, I know very little about psychology, but is it possible you're feeling stuck more about your situation than your writing?"

"I don't know, I'm pretty sure that isn't helping."

"Listen, you are a very talented writer and your voice is critical right now. I'm very sorry for what you're dealing with right now, but it's really opened up doors for you, I think. I don't know what you want to do when you're through dealing with all of this, but I think you have set yourself forward as a remarkable candidate to be either a political correspondent or an expert and advocate on healthcare. I'm not going to pretend like I know the right thing for you to do in terms of marketability in the future, but I do think that when you're ready to get back out there, full time, you're going to have nothing but offers.

"But, remember that time you were trying to write your college essays and they simply weren't flowing? Evey topic you tried just felt wrong? You were thinking too much about what the readers wanted to see, not what you had to say. And what got you out of that funk?"

"You told me to take a day off and read my favorite things, and then to start writing- why did I want to go to college, what that meant to me."

"And as I recall, a rather impressive 30 pages later, we were able to find your essays scattered throughout. You had so much to say, that by starting with expectations and limitations and constraints was stifling you. Sometimes we get too caught up worrying about what people want to read, what they want to hear or see from us that we lose focus on what we can contribute to the conversation. And so, sometimes, refocusing our perspective is what matters. Go home, read a book that's just for fun. Any other human I would probably recommend some form of exercise, but I'm going to guess that's still against the Gilmore Girls' rule book?" She smiled.

"Yeah, I don't even know what my mom would say if she caught me exercising."

"I think you need to stop worrying so much about your readers and what they want to hear, and just write- see what comes out. I can almost guarantee you will end up being something we need to read. And not everyone will love it, I'm assuming frequently for asinine reasons." Boy he didn't even know how petty so many of the complaints are.

"Thanks, perhaps some homework from an old teacher is exactly what will help me out of this. I'm sorry if I took up too much of your time, I should probably head out, let you get out of here too."

"Actually, there was something I wanted to discuss with you. Either myself or the Headmaster was going to reach out to you shortly, it's rather serendipitous you stopped by today." He turned around and took a red folder off his desk. Before he handed it to her, he said, "Now, I know that you've only just begun your career, but what you have done is truly wonderful and we're all very proud of you. Recently your father, a Christopher Hayden, contacted the school, wanting to make some kind of contribution to the school in your name."

"He did what?"

"Yes, well it seems as though he wants to do something to help others like you- smart kids without the means to study at Chilton, but also maybe not quite the same financial need as our rules frequently dictate. Well, we all put our heads together and came up with the idea of a Rory Gilmore New Frontiers Scholarship. It would be an annual grant to subsidize the cost of tuition for a student who wants to challenge the norm, forge a new path in a more traditional subject. You, and your current work, seems to be the embodiment of what we're hoping to encourage."

And God help her, she broke down crying yet again.