Dear Henry.

Circa 1974, 318 Beacon St., Somerville

My turn to cook lunch. Diane and Jim McMahon sat at our pine table.
ìShould I make Campbellís Chicken Noodle Soup or their Vegetable Beef?î
Both Jim and Diane agreed – Vegetable Beef.
I opened the can, poured the contents into the saucepan and stirred. Jim got up from the table, looked in the pot and asked, ìWhereís the beef?î
Nothing but chicken and noodles swimming in that broth.
Iím still not real good at following directions.

Adam and Tricia keep their house, guarded, and the perimeter mined, to keep prying eyes from seeing the almost finished addition/deck.
The great unveiling occurs on the 18th of October, the first Saturday after we return from our camping trip to Maine. Speaking of which, I checked the long range forecast for the nearest town, Millinocket, and look what I found.

TodayOct 08 Partly Cloudy 67∞/45∞
Thu Oct 09 Mostly Sunny 64∞/36
Fri Oct 10 Partly Cloudy 64∞/43∞
Sat Oct 11 Partly Cloudy 64∞/45∞
Sun Oct 12 Mostly Cloudy 59∞/51∞
Mon Oct 13 Rain 61∞/43∞

Anyway, the Kibbes are having a room warming that Saturday, inviting twenty people including the usual suspects and close friends from Connecticut. However, and the reason I bring this up, I had to borrow tools from Adam and yesterday I got a sneak preview. Adam has slaved for weeks, arduously completing those time consuming finish details : painting, installing window,door and cabinet trim, tweaking light fixtures, it goes on, as you know all too well. The room, in a word that Adam often uses, is astonishing. Or one that I often use , puissant. After the party, Adam will post photos and youíll see what I mean.

Last Thursday was the first night of my second writing class. This one, taught at the local Junior High School by freelance writer, Joan Cass, has an enrollment of eleven – more men than women. Another course that Diane, of course, found for me in our local Adult Ed catalogue. Remember, Adult Ed in Acton is the equivalent of an honors course at a school like Carleton.

I anticipated a formal beginning to class, one where the instructor asks each of us for a short bio. An efficient way of shaking every hand at once. But she did not. She seemed nervous and immediately launched into our assignment for the night, to write an essay in forty-five minutes to then read aloud. Here is the first paragraph from her handout:

ìDuring tonightís class, I ask each student to write a short piece, presenting a character with at least one dominate, interesting trait. The idea is to show the character in action, rather than just to describe her/his personality.î

Was she kidding? Should I get up, walk out, go home, and strangle Diane? How am I supposed to write a story in less than an hour? It takes me that long to compose a decent email. Cripes, Henry, you have seen me struggle for days to type the shortest of blog entries.

I thought, maybe hoped, Iíd pass out. Fear of failure tip-toed up my spinal cord in search of that last unfrozen brain cell. I tried to calm myself by taking deep breaths, focusing on the task, and tuning out Ms. Cass as she explained in more detail, what was required. I did hear her say ,îWhat ever you do, donít compare your writing to others in the class. You will always appear lacking, even when youíre notî. I scanned for a past blog entry that might fit. Spirits, about two friends dealing with the death of loved ones…nope, that has two semi-dominant characters. Besides, who needs more reminders of death. What to do?

Then, I thought, how about the best character I know? Iíll write about my humbling experience at my summer writing class. In a writing class, writing about a writing class, I liked that. But was this what she wanted? Donít know, but now Iím down to thirty-eight minutes and forty-five seconds and the walls are closing in.

I scrawled away as fast as I could, hoping that when it was my turn, I would be able to read my writing. Those minutes darted by like a neutrino in search of a planet to penetrate. When she said, stop writing, I was pretty happy with what I had produced. There was a story line, a character or two, and it made me laugh. I wanted to read first but the choice was taken from me when she began clockwise around the room.

The first reader, name not known, read his story from a scrawl that looked at a distance not unlike mine. His story was short, but I was amazed by his compact, descriptive sentences. ìCold can of beer against the back of my neck.î I liked that, and told him so, but I thought, thatís not what I wrote.

Next, a slender woman in a bulky sweater, who read quickly. That was a good thing because she had three tightly spaced pages involving multiple characters and a complex plot. I was drawn into her story, again, by descriptive phrases. Reminded me of Virginia Wolff.

At the bottom of our handout were instructions regarding feedback. ìIt is not helpful to a the writer for someone to say, ëI liked that piece.í What is helpful are comments like ëI was very involved with your character because he was convincingly desperate.íî Helpful or not, I almost shouted, ìI canít believe you wrote that in forty-five minutes!î I thought, privately – that is not what I wrote.

She was attached in some way to the guy next to her – husband, boyfriend, brother? – who read his story about a man, Elon, and his agonizing employment problems. It was almost as long as his wifeís, not as flowery, but equally flowing. Suddenly, I wanted the comfort of my summer writing class, where there were good writers, but also mortals.

Iíll skip the next three essays, including a college studentís Boston Globe Magazine-ready piece about lost love, saliva baths, and teeth pulled by slammed closet doors.

The story that convinced me I had failed was read by a woman slightly older than I. Its pacing tighter than my jockeys now felt, her story depicted a war weary old man stumbling around the streets of Brussels during the end of WWII. As she read, scenes unfolded in bold strokes following this man beaten down by the destruction of his beloved city. It ends with a V2 rocket landing nearby, throwing a GI from his jeep. The loop closes with an emotional reconciliation as the old man cradles the dying young man.

That was not what I had written. Not even close. Mine was not close to anyone’s, even the guy who had only managed a paragraph. How had I ignored her directions? I looked down at the handout one more time and read, ìPlease note that written characters arenít always believable when they do exactly what an actual person did in real life. Truth is stranger than fiction. Your fictional characters need to be more consistent than the people we know.î

I had written one of my patented verbatim stories. Sheesh.

In spite of the imperative not to compare to others, I tried hastily to reshape the class assignment. Without a fictional narrative, maybe I should introduce my story as a comedic interlude.

M. Cass looked at me and nodded her head, as in ìGo.î

ìI feel like you said, ëGet in a car and drive to Harvard Square,í and I got on a bus to Worcester. I canít write fiction, never have. I write memoirs and thatís what Iíve done. Iím not sure there will be anything to say when I finish, but here it is.î

(The unvarnished, first draft, written-in-class version)

---

The Importance of Verbs

ìI think itís Michaelís turn to read his story.î
This was the fourth day of our writing class and Iíd brought Clemency, a story Iíd worked on for months. Even yesterday, knowing that my essay was longer than most, I managed to whittle another full page. Hearing others read their stories, I could see a familiar trap. Clemency, ostensibly about a camping trip, but touching on my relationship with my father, had been written for people I know. I needed to explain all those names or cut them out entirely. Or so I thought.
I looked up at Mr. Atwan and asked, ìIf itís okay with you, Iíd rather have someone else read it. Iíve read it a thousand times; I canít hear it anymore. Becky Jackson has already agreed to read it.î
Mr. Atwan turned to Becky and asked, ìHave you read it before?î
To which she replied, ìNo.î

ìI did last night; Iíll read it.î

Sensing something was up, but happy to get the teacher’s attention, I sat back – anxiously.

He was, after all, reading what I had thought was my best story. Maybe as he told Mercedes the day before, he would say mine is ready for publication. I had high hopes.

Until he pronounced gunwales, gunwhales.

Until he got lost in my weaving of timelines.

ìYou mean itís a three hour bus ride from Boston to Indianaî?

ìNo, my bus ride was when I lived in Indiana.î

Until he came to my approaching an accident scene late at night, after a brief description of my making love to my college girlfriend.

He turned to Becky and said, ìArenít you glad you didnít have to read this?î

Becky an English teacher at Lawrence Academy said, ìEven my students donít write like that.î

She might have been kinder, but that is what I heard.

Now I wanted it to stop. I wanted a second chance to write it again.

Finally, he finished, reading my last carefully crafted, tortuously developed ending, ìIt was then that I realized my fatherís voice had caught up with me.î

But Mr. Atwanís expression was blank. As if he didnít understand my epiphany. I wanted to run out of the room, or hide under my desk, but I stayed knowing, hoping, the bulls eye would move to someone else.

But Mr. Atwan wasnít quite done. The day before he lectured us on the use of interesting verbs. ìBe careful of boring to be verbs.î

He turned back to page one of my story, and as if continuing yesterdayís lecture, he said, ìIíll read just the verbs on this page.î

I hadnít quite grasped the verb concept so I thought, okay, go ahead.

He began:

He was
She was
They were
He had
You were
I was

Oh, those verbs, I thought.

---

I raised my voice when I got to the last sentence, hoping it would sound more like an ending.

There were many comments, but the one I remember most vividly was from the Ms. Cass. She said. ìYouíre living in your own little world, arenít you?î ìYour character is living in his own little world, isnít he?î

I was tempted to reply, ì What kind of soup would you like?î

Unfortunately, the class ended after my story and Iíll miss the next one, Thursday the 9th. Hopefully, Mark, Adam and I will be camped on Debsconeg Lake in the shadow of Mt. Katahdin.

Henry, you are no doubt wondering what the status is of the BMW. AVA Restoration in Dublin NH received, then sent to Dover NH, the difficult to machine flywheel. They are confident that by early next week the job will be done. In the meantime Iím sending them the throw bearing that also needs to be replaced. They THINK they have a replacement, but need to make sure.