BACKSTORY Ch. 1:  The Awful Truth (page 2) by Emmet
		Home
		Backstory 1a    1c
			I watched them as they worked. A boy, Tad Lafferty, fiddled with his pen, looked out the window, then hunched down and put pen to paper. Another boy, blond, with wire glasses – Russell Wagner-- kept staring at me, then writing, stare, scribble, stare, words. A brown-haired girl with large eyes, Alexa Yagoda, began writing from the moment I said go and did not lift the pen until the bell rang. Grace shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and seemed to write with distraction. Wednesday. Grace’s Bellow paper was as good as her summer essay. I found myself looking forward to her daily journal. My weekend reading. Invariably, the first week of journal entries from students were lacking, even for those who had been keeping journals before. I was looking for impressions, notes on the world, ideas to use in writing, comments. I saved Grace’s journal for last, but began to frown as I read it. Oh, it wasn’t bad, per se, but it was removed, chatty, superficial – though she did have an ear for dialogue. Her mother appeared quite a lot, saying, Gracie, I really think you ought to see this show, Gracie can you keep an eye on your sister, Gracie do you want that extra pancake? Gracie? Grace didn’t seem to be present in her journal. It’s funny, what’s in a name. The simple addition of a vowel changes the whole sound, from a word evoking elegance to one of humor, endearment, childishness. “Grace” seemed independent, solemn, eloquent; “Gracie” seemed obedient, stifled, cute, trite. Grace Manning needed to break free from that “i” to find herself. None of the journals were perfect, or close to it. After all, a journal is not a paper or a story, it’s the chance to let loose and write badly. It’s the letting loose that’s important. I was just more disappointed with Grace Manning’s because she had demonstrated so much more potential as a writer than anyone else in the class. When I handed the journals back on Monday morning, I noticed Grace suppressing a yawn. “How did you find the journal experience thus far, Miss Manning?” I asked, annoyed. “Oh, well, I’ve kept journals before,” she said. Annoyed again that she had missed my point about the class journals. “Oh you have? And?” “It was fine. It was nice.” Nice. Of all people. I expected more from her. Nice. One of the more inane words in the English language. "I'm sorry. I thought you said 'nice.'" "I did." "Oh. Because I don't want to misquote you or anything." Why was she so resistant to this particular assignment? Should I give her break, drop it? But no. I knew she can do better. Her writing was excellent, but there was room for improvement. "I said 'nice'!" She asserted herself this time, taking a stand, getting annoyed herself. I liked that she did, that she wasn’t being… nice. But neither was I. "Nice...nice! Let's see, whatever shall I do today?" I approached her desk. "I know! I shall write in my boring old journal. It will be ever so nice!" The class laughed, and Grace smiled because she had to, flushing nonetheless. I walked back to my desk. "'Nice' is for shrimp salads and grandmothers. I'm not interested in 'nice.' Now, all of you – next time, I want to see observations – descriptions of people you’ve never thought about before, conversations overheard, snippets of ideas. These are writer’s journals, after all. Fill them with life!”
								continue to next page