\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Diane, did you know there\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s a dinner reception tomorrow at Curry College so staff and students can meet one another?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d
\nIt was Saturday and I was prepared to begin my writing course on Monday, not Sunday.
\n\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Isn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t that what it says on the schedule? The one they sent you weeks ago?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t 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.<\/p>\n
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.
\n\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Pick a story and make it better,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d she said.<\/p>\n
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.
\n\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Some like my writing, some say it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s terrible.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d she answered matter of factly.
\nI 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\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t. But no one yet has said it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s terrible.<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153TERRIBLE!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d I couldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t contain myself. Mercedes, the woman I had given a Puritan heritage, was so, well, restrained. She had said, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153terrible.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d She could just as well have said, “Uninteresting”, or “Make mine medium rare.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d I felt like I had to supply the proper emotion. How can a friend write back and say something is terrible?<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Sometimes she – she\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s an editor but of business publications – she sends my story back with paragraphs moved, lines missing or crossed out.”
\nSent back unrecognizable. Better to say it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s terrible.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
When she finished reading Respite Mr. Atwan said,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d This is publishable. It doesn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t need editing. Send it out just as it is.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
Hadn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t we all taken this class secretly hoping to hear those words?<\/p>\n
At our last lunch together, I scouted Mercedes’ table and sat down. I reminded her of Mr. Atwan\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s comments. I wanted her to know how happy I was; I wanted see more reaction from her.
\n\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Now what do you think of your editor friend, the one who said some of your writing was terrible?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d
\nShe 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.<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Well, I guess she doesn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know everything!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
And then with a broad smile,<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Well, I guess she doesn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t even know something!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Diane, did you know there\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s a dinner reception tomorrow at Curry College so staff and students can meet one another?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d It was Saturday and I was prepared to begin my writing course on Monday, not Sunday. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Isn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t that what it … Continue reading