Dear Henry.<\/p>\n
Circa 1974, 318 Beacon St., Somerville <\/p>\n
My turn to cook lunch. Diane and Jim McMahon sat at our pine table.
\n\u00c3\u00acShould I make Campbell\u00c3\u00ads Chicken Noodle Soup or their Vegetable Beef?\u00c3\u00ae
\nBoth Jim and Diane agreed – Vegetable Beef.
\nI opened the can, poured the contents into the saucepan and stirred. Jim got up from the table, looked in the pot and asked, \u00c3\u00acWhere\u00c3\u00ads the beef?\u00c3\u00ae
\nNothing but chicken and noodles swimming in that broth.
\nI\u00c3\u00adm still not real good at following directions. <\/p>\n
Adam and Tricia keep their house, guarded, and the perimeter mined, to keep prying eyes from seeing the almost finished addition\/deck.
\nThe 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.<\/p>\n
TodayOct 08 Partly Cloudy 67\u00e2\u02c6\u017e\/45\u00e2\u02c6\u017e
\nThu \tOct 09 Mostly Sunny 64\u00e2\u02c6\u017e\/36
\nFri \tOct 10 Partly Cloudy 64\u00e2\u02c6\u017e\/43\u00e2\u02c6\u017e
\nSat \tOct 11 Partly Cloudy 64\u00e2\u02c6\u017e\/45\u00e2\u02c6\u017e
\nSun \tOct 12 Mostly Cloudy 59\u00e2\u02c6\u017e\/51\u00e2\u02c6\u017e
\nMon \tOct 13 Rain 61\u00e2\u02c6\u017e\/43\u00e2\u02c6\u017e<\/p>\n
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 you\u00c3\u00adll see what I mean.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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:<\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acDuring tonight\u00c3\u00ads 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.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
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. <\/p>\n
I thought, maybe hoped, I\u00c3\u00add 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 ,\u00c3\u00aeWhat ever you do, don\u00c3\u00adt compare your writing to others in the class. You will always appear lacking, even when you\u00c3\u00adre not\u00c3\u00ae. 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?<\/p>\n
Then, I thought, how about the best character I know? I\u00c3\u00adll 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? Don\u00c3\u00adt know, but now I\u00c3\u00adm down to thirty-eight minutes and forty-five seconds and the walls are closing in. <\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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. \u00c3\u00acCold can of beer against the back of my neck.\u00c3\u00ae I liked that, and told him so, but I thought, that\u00c3\u00ads not what I wrote.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
At the bottom of our handout were instructions regarding feedback. \u00c3\u00acIt is not helpful to a the writer for someone to say, \u00c3\u00abI liked that piece.\u00c3\u00ad What is helpful are comments like \u00c3\u00abI was very involved with your character because he was convincingly desperate.\u00c3\u00ad\u00c3\u00ae Helpful or not, I almost shouted, \u00c3\u00acI can\u00c3\u00adt believe you wrote that in forty-five minutes!\u00c3\u00ae I thought, privately – that is not what I wrote.<\/p>\n
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 wife\u00c3\u00ads, not as flowery, but equally flowing. Suddenly, I wanted the comfort of my summer writing class, where there were good writers, but also mortals.<\/p>\n
I\u00c3\u00adll skip the next three essays, including a college student\u00c3\u00ads Boston Globe Magazine-ready piece about lost love, saliva baths, and teeth pulled by slammed closet doors.<\/p>\n
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. <\/p>\n
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, \u00c3\u00acPlease note that written characters aren\u00c3\u00adt always believable when they do exactly what an actual person did in real life. Truth is <\/i>stranger than fiction. Your fictional characters need to be more consistent than the people we know.\u00c3\u00ae <\/p>\n
I had written one of my patented verbatim stories. Sheesh.<\/p>\n
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. <\/p>\n
M. Cass looked at me and nodded her head, as in \u00c3\u00acGo.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acI feel like you said, \u00c3\u00abGet in a car and drive to Harvard Square,\u00c3\u00ad and I got on a bus to Worcester. I can\u00c3\u00adt write fiction, never have. I write memoirs and that\u00c3\u00ads what I\u00c3\u00adve done. I\u00c3\u00adm not sure there will be anything to say when I finish, but here it is.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
(The unvarnished, first draft, written-in-class version)<\/p>\n
The Importance of Verbs<\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acI think it\u00c3\u00ads Michael\u00c3\u00ads turn to read his story.\u00c3\u00ae
\nThis was the fourth day of our writing class and I\u00c3\u00add brought Clemency, a story I\u00c3\u00add 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.
\nI looked up at Mr. Atwan and asked, \u00c3\u00acIf it\u00c3\u00ads okay with you, I\u00c3\u00add rather have someone else read it. I\u00c3\u00adve read it a thousand times; I can\u00c3\u00adt hear it anymore. Becky Jackson has already agreed to read it.\u00c3\u00ae
\nMr. Atwan turned to Becky and asked, \u00c3\u00acHave you read it before?\u00c3\u00ae
\nTo which she replied, \u00c3\u00acNo.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acI did last night; I\u00c3\u00adll read it.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
Sensing something was up, but happy to get the teacher’s attention, I sat back – anxiously.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
Until he pronounced gunwales, gunwhales.<\/p>\n
Until he got lost in my weaving of timelines.<\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acYou mean it\u00c3\u00ads a three hour bus ride from Boston to Indiana\u00c3\u00ae? <\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acNo, my bus ride was when I lived in Indiana.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
Until he came to my approaching an accident scene late at night, after a brief description of my making love to my college girlfriend.<\/p>\n
He turned to Becky and said, \u00c3\u00acAren\u00c3\u00adt you glad you didn\u00c3\u00adt have to read this?\u00c3\u00ae <\/p>\n
Becky an English teacher at Lawrence Academy said, \u00c3\u00acEven my students don\u00c3\u00adt write like that.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
She might have been kinder, but that is what I heard. <\/p>\n
Now I wanted it to stop. I wanted a second chance to write it again.<\/p>\n
Finally, he finished, reading my last carefully crafted, tortuously developed ending, \u00c3\u00acIt was then that I realized my father\u00c3\u00ads voice had caught up with me.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
But Mr. Atwan\u00c3\u00ads expression was blank. As if he didn\u00c3\u00adt 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. <\/p>\n
But Mr. Atwan wasn\u00c3\u00adt quite done. The day before he lectured us on the use of interesting verbs. \u00c3\u00acBe careful of boring to be verbs.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
He turned back to page one of my story, and as if continuing yesterday\u00c3\u00ads lecture, he said, \u00c3\u00acI\u00c3\u00adll read just the verbs on this page.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
I hadn\u00c3\u00adt quite grasped the verb concept so I thought, okay, go ahead.<\/p>\n
He began:<\/p>\n
He was
\nShe was
\nThey were
\nHe had
\nYou were
\nI was<\/p>\n
Oh, those verbs, I thought.<\/p>\n
I raised my voice when I got to the last sentence, hoping it would sound more like an ending.<\/p>\n
There were many comments, but the one I remember most vividly was from the Ms. Cass. She said. \u00c3\u00acYou\u00c3\u00adre living in your own little world, aren\u00c3\u00adt you?\u00c3\u00ae \u00c3\u00acYour character is living in his own little world, isn\u00c3\u00adt he?\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
I was tempted to reply, \u00c3\u00ac What kind of soup would you like?\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
Unfortunately, the class ended after my story and I\u00c3\u00adll miss the next one, Thursday the 9th. Hopefully, Mark, Adam and I will be camped on Debsconeg Lake in the shadow of Mt. Katahdin. <\/p>\n
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 I\u00c3\u00adm sending them the throw bearing that also needs to be replaced. They THINK they have a replacement, but need to make sure.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Dear Henry. Circa 1974, 318 Beacon St., Somerville My turn to cook lunch. Diane and Jim McMahon sat at our pine table. \u00c3\u00acShould I make Campbell\u00c3\u00ads Chicken Noodle Soup or their Vegetable Beef?\u00c3\u00ae Both Jim and Diane agreed – Vegetable … Continue reading