Ch. 2: The Write Way
by Emmet
Invisibility. The Recluse wrote, “I’m Nobody, who are you, are you Nobody too?” Who do I ask that, who asks me? The Third Wheel’s refrain, the leitmotif of Silence. Walk into a room, a vacuum is heard, is not heard, which means nothing is there. Does a vacuum cleaner remove the silence, suck up invisibility? The Musician thinks his only hope is the notes, sound, sound, play it louder, play it longer, play it, play it, play me, play with me, be my friend, we’ll miss our friend together, but after the missing, is anything left? After the popcorn is thrown, after the remote grabbed, anti-parental ally, the Porcelain reaction, is there anything left to say? Are you, indeed, Nobody too? Sometimes you see me so clearly, other times you join the ranks and look right through me, and all I can do is ask for bread and find the cheese, and be noticed more by my absence.
When not singing, when not strumming, the Musician really has very little to say. Oh, to be a guitar.
There were other students too – Russell’s journal was keeping me intrigued. He lived alone with his father, a research biologist at Northwestern, and was drawing some interesting parallels between biology and poetry. At least his poems were not yet brilliant, although they could be.
It can be extremely difficult to hit your peak before reaching a quarter century, to be heading that way at 16. A young 16, a year ahead and two years behind. And I did not appreciate what I had till I didn’t. I’d heard of writer’s block, but it wasn’t even a block, it just was gone. A vacuum. There was always so much to say, three volumes in five years, First Words at 20, followed by dimension, culminating in Accidentally on Purpose. Would I still have had more to say if I hadn’t turned down the teaching fellowship at Amherst? The lure of the East, of Making a Difference. Why teach privileged college students to hone their already honed writing skills when I could actually help young high schoolers learning English in remote parts of India?
I thought, this will be fascinating. This ancient culture inspired John, Paul, George, even Ringo -- it will give me still more material upon which to write. Instead it all evaporated. I arrived after traveling 37 hours and I taught and found I had a flair. A calling. Maybe because I could so clearly remember being their age and how it felt to be on the edge, regardless of country. But after knowing my students, and the lives they lived and the hardships they surpassed, writing poems seemed trite, pointless. I had nothing left to say. I taught for my year, impressed by the dedication of people far removed from a St. Paul suburban split-level housing two happily married parents with three well-loved children.
But I was a pale boy with allergies in a country of constant sun and strange pollens. April was living in Chicago and told me of teaching opportunities there. I came back, got my certificate, taught inner city one year, then moved to the comfortable suburbs. Back to the familiar country of built-in garages and manicured lawns. I found I loved teaching English, loved seeing the reactions of students to unfamiliar authors that would become favorites, got caught up in the unique world of high-school academia. Twelve years teaching as I began my fifth decade. Soon I’d have taught more years than I wrote.
***
For the first three weeks, all writing assignments had been personal. Start with what you know, and kids certainly know themselves. For Critique, we had read and commented on two novellas and a collection of poems. Craft was all variations on the theme of Tell Me About Yourselves.
The end of September was time for the first creative writing assignment. The first topic was large, expansive – I was trying to teach the kids how to turn something personal in something larger than themselves, by fictionalizing it. “Think of the most memorable experience in your life,” I instructed. “You can write about it in your journals, if you want, if it will help you organize your thoughts. But that’s not your assignment. Ponder your moment. Then create a fictional character that has a most memorable experience. It may be the same as yours, fictionalized, it may be entirely different. But think about your own experience and what it is that makes it memorable, and then apply those same feelings to the character and story you create.”
Alexa’s hand shot up. “Can we just, like, write it as a memoir, you know, our own story?” she asked. Missing my point.
“What part of the phrase ‘create a fictional character’ did you not understand?” I responded. “No. You’ve been writing personal, “memoir”-style, if you will, for the past month. It’s time to move on. Incidentally -- Yes, Russell?”
“You mentioned something about looking at other work we’ve written, not assignments?”
I had, the first day of class. Good memory. “Yes – I was just going to say. If you’ve written other stories, you can hand them in for extra credit. I’m also happy to take a look at them not for grades, just for feedback. You can set up an appointment with me Fridays lunchtime. I’ll pass around a sheet.”
*****
Friday morning I looked at the sign-up sheet. Four on the list – a lot for this early in the year. I’d have less then 10 minutes with each student for this first meeting. Lisa gave me a story she had written over the summer, her first, she said. Russell was interested in playwriting, wondered if maybe we could do original student productions. He had a 30-page manuscript in the works, which he gave me.
Grace came in next. She paced. “I have a lot of stories,” she said.
“A lot?”
“You know I said I kept journals before?”
“Nice ones?” I couldn’t help saying. She stopped pacing and gave me a reproachful look. “Sorry.”
“That’s where I wrote my stories, before, when I was younger. Before we had a computer. Now they’re all typed in. But… I don’t even know if you’re even the right person to ask this. Forget it.” She walked to the door.