MaineCourse

Something

“Diane, did you know there’s a dinner reception tomorrow at Curry College so staff and students can meet one another?”
It was Saturday and I was prepared to begin my writing course on Monday, not Sunday.
“Isn’t that what it says on the schedule? The one they sent you weeks ago?”

I filled my plate from the buffet and sat down at a table with three women and two men. I felt anxious about this writing course and unhappy that I knew no one. Jeanne, who had taught writing at a local community college for forty-two years, was sitting to my right. She introduced me to Bob Demling, a surgeon, and Joe Dolan, a retired insurance salesman, both of whom I learned, were in my writing class. There were four separate courses offered at the Blue Hills Writing Institute- Memoirs, Advanced Memoirs, Finding Your Voice, and I was hunting for those I hoped would share mine - Epiphanies.

I saw Mercedes, short brown hair, well dressed, and slender, as she was choosing her table. From across the room she reminded me of a folk singer. I couldn’t will her into my Epiphanies class, but Monday morning, there she was. And Nancy, a woman with hair like my wife's, blonde streaks, but tighter curls, and an alluring smile. The only person missing from my wish list was a strawberry blonde, hair pulled up, whose posture reminded me of the only poet I know.

But it was Mercedes, Ann, and Edith with whom I had lunch on Tuesday, the second day of class. We talked about how the course was progressing. All three were adamant - they wanted more structure and more assignments. I was perfectly content with Mr. Atwan's polite request for people to distribute copies of their stories to be read aloud and critiqued. It jelled with the one given to me by Diane.
“Pick a story and make it better,” she said.

After Ann and Edith left, I asked Mercedes,who from across the table looked less like a singer and more like a descendant of the Founding Fathers, if she received writing help from her friends.
“Some like my writing, some say it’s terrible.” she answered matter of factly.
I thought about my own experience. Some people focus on content, mostly, or so it seems, style and grammar. Some like the weaving of time lines, some don’t. But no one yet has said it’s terrible.

“TERRIBLE!” I couldn’t contain myself. Mercedes, the woman I had given a Puritan heritage, was so, well, restrained. She had said, “terrible.” She could just as well have said, "Uninteresting", or "Make mine medium rare.” I felt like I had to supply the proper emotion. How can a friend write back and say something is terrible?

“Sometimes she - she’s an editor but of business publications - she sends my story back with paragraphs moved, lines missing or crossed out."
Sent back unrecognizable. Better to say it’s terrible.

The following day Mercedes read the second of her two essays, Respite , a gentle, introspective, story that takes the reader on a spring walk. It was written around the time of our invasion of Iraq.

When she finished reading Respite Mr. Atwan said,” This is publishable. It doesn’t need editing. Send it out just as it is.”

Mercedes expression changed but only slightly. Her face redder but not by a full shade. From my seat, I wanted to clap. I rationalized that Mercedes was unprepared to respond, as though her creator had tacked five more years onto her life, but instead of presenting the gift, wrapped, with trumpets blaring, had slipped a note under her front door.

Hadn’t we all taken this class secretly hoping to hear those words?

At our last lunch together, I scouted Mercedes' table and sat down. I reminded her of Mr. Atwan’s comments. I wanted her to know how happy I was; I wanted see more reaction from her.
“Now what do you think of your editor friend, the one who said some of your writing was terrible?”
She reflected, only briefly, her face brightening, her eyes finally betraying how flattered she was. As if she were just now reading that note shoved under her door.

“Well, I guess she doesn’t know everything!”

And then with a broad smile,

“Well, I guess she doesn’t even know something!”

Lest anyone mistake me for "Editor", from comments past, I am not. But I DO wish to add to my ubiquitous praise a note that the beginnings of the first couple of paragraphs left me stranded in story time & space -- was I at the Sunday social, the first day, or Wednesday, or all three at once? Also, there's a carefulness to the language, though I may be inventing that.

Other than the place confusion, this erstwhile generous anecdote is a joy to read. But it seems to me also something of a confessional, and quite effective in its obliqueness. It is when Michael comes to you in open, declared humility, that you must be most cautious. Here the vulnerability IS -- to borrow another editor's term -- touching. I love it.

Posted by lacking proper authority.

When Mark told me you were taking a writing class, my response was that you should be teaching one!

Posted by Jan.

Posted by Michael at August 22, 2003 11:13 AM