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Memoir of a Memoir-Writing Class, Week 8:
In Her Own Words (Sort of)

By Harris Bloom

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Click here to learn what this column is all about.

Addendum: The Homework Assignment.

I sat in the classroom wondering why I bothered coming to class.  After all, my two critiques were finished, Gail was gone, the lessons were unhelpful, and my classmates were complete and utter… then Natalie walked in.

“Hello, Harris.”

“Hey there, how’s it going?”

“I am guud,” she solemnly replied as she took a seat across the room from me, sitting where she always sat. “How vus your veek?”

“It was okay,” I responded. And then, after a few seconds of silence, I couldn’t resist asking, “So what do you think of the class?”

“Eet ees guud. Not reedy vhat I had een mind zough.”

I looked at her quizzically. “What did you have in mind?”

“I sought I may been over my head, seence my Engleesh not so guud, but I sink I feet right een.”

“Oh, I completely agree.”

“You feet right een, too.”

“I really don’t think I do.”

“No, reedy, your firsht piece may have been a leetle boreeng, but you make up vor eet weeth next von. Eet vuz guud.”

“Thanks.”

“I sink you just need confeedence. Weeth confeedence you can do eenytheeng.”

“I agree. Well, actually, I’m not sure I’d be a good basketball player…no matter how much confidence I had.”

“Zat ees bad atteetude. Eef you want be…vhat ees eet…?”

“A basketball player?”

“Yez, eef you vant to be baskeetball player, you need to keep tryeeng. You reedy shouldn’t geet deescouraged so easily.”

“Okay, I’ll keep trying. Maybe I will become a basketball player.”

“Zat eez better.

After letting it sink in, she said, “I dunt know eef I tell you before, but I dunt alvays geet your humor.”

“Yeah, I think you have.” (Week Six.)

“I sink I see theengs deefferent zen you.”

“That’s probably a good thing.”

“Vhy you say zat?”

“I was joking.”

“See vhat I mean? I no see joke.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. It wasn’t a very good joke.”

“Vee just see theengs deefferent.”

Her words hung in the air. Vee just see theengs deefferent. I wondered what it would be like to go through life seeing things as she did. I could probably guess. Hmmm…

* * *

Several classmates soon joined us. Timmy walked in wearing black parachute pants with red zippers, a skin-tight red shirt, a red leather jacket and old school high top sneakers.

Vhat zee hell eez he veareeng zees veek?! Every veek he comes een luukeeng vierder and vierder.

“What’s up Tim?” I scanned him up and down. “You going to an ‘80’s party after class?”

“Ha-ha. Didn’t you know? The 80’s are the new 2000’s….anyway, how are yoouuu?”

“Good…liked your story. As us literary types would say, I enjoyed your voice.”

“Did you really?”

“Totally…you’ll get published and be invited to A-List parties in no time. Heck, you’ll be hosting A-List parties.”

“God, I hope so. This languishing in anonymity sucks.”

“I feel your pain. But I’m tellin’ ya…just look at your competition in the young adult gay market.” I nodded towards Jon.

“You didn’t like his?”

“It was okaaaay,” I replied, and leaning in to him added, “But yours was much gayer.”

He laughed. “Yeah, well, I’m a little older in my story so I gotta put it all out there.”

“And so you did.”

Finally, the rest of the class filed in, as did Michelle.

“Before we begin, I have a question,” I said. “When trying to write, I’m curious how you…or the rest of class…” I looked around, “How do you keep the voices in your head that tell you to kill low enough to concentrate?”

A few people laughed. Michelle shook her head.

“I don’t think anyone else in the class has that problem. I can say for sure I don’t.” She scanned the class. “Anyone?”

Vhy does she even ask zees schtupeed qvestion? Only people veeth mental problem hear voices een head. I sought he may have mental problem. Now I see…eez true. Vhy eez he een class eef he haz mental problem?

Our Lessons of the Day were about “Dialogue” and “Description.”

“Dialogue,” Michelle started, as she wrote on the board, “is used for Creating Character, Illustrating Relationships, Emphasis, Rhythm and Timing, and Advancing the Narrative.”

“Can it be used to tell the actual story?” Juanita asked.

“That’s what I meant by advancing the narrative.”

Vhat an eedeeot.

“Description,” Michelle continued, “is something you have to do. You should use it sparingly.” She added, “Personally, I don’t believe in it.” And as Forrest Gump might have said, that’s all she had to say about that.

Vhat does she mean ‘I dunt believe een eet’? Descreeption eez no Zanta Claus. Eet eez real! I begeen to sink zees class eez for zee birds.

During the break, Natalie handed out her latest opus (“A Russian Bride”) as did Skeletor (“Family Issues”).

While others discussed their dreams of getting published (insert joke), I poked my face into “A Russian Bride” as if I were a jonesing crack whore and it was, um, crack. Needless to say, I was already looking forward to going home to take in the whole thing. Here are a few snippets:

“She liked reading poems. That was easy. She didn’t like getting up early to milk the cows. That was hard.”

“For the first time in her life, she had her own room. It was tiny, without much light but with many roaches, but it was hers.”

“While her sisters and school friends were dating sexually aggressive men and getting pregnant prematurely, Anna was left alone and treated nicely.”

Unwilling to spoil my plans for later that evening (a pizza, a Diet Dr. Pepper, and “A Russian Bride”), I put it down. But I was unable to go “cold turkey.” I picked it up again:

“She hoped for better life in America with her new husband. They did not love each other but hoped their love would grow. But only thing that grew was tumor in Henry. He die in three months.”

Smiling, I put it down again. I noticed Natalie was looking at me.

Vhat vuz he smileeng at? My story eez not funny. Eez serious! He eez true eedeeot!

Once we’d settled back into our seats, we dove into Timmy’s untitled manuscript.
When my turn came, I informed Timmy that I had a treat for him.

“I spoke to Gail during the week and she wanted me to give you her critique.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet!” he gushed, and leaned forward as if preparing to take in her words of wisdom.

“Gail said, and I quote,” I paused, as his eyes widened, “that your story was really, really….gay.”

“Tell her I said ‘Thank You’,” Timmy deadpanned.

Vhy vood she say such stupeed theeng? Any vhy eez he sanking her?

After my usual mush and a few others, it was Natalie’s turn.

“Eet vuz vedy guud viteeng. Vor eenstance, on page zree, you say ‘zee road can geet az old az a scorned hard’…zat vuz guud.” She glanced at Timmy and then looked back down at her notes. “Az a suggestion vor revision, I vood just feex zee grammar. Und I vant to mention zhat I dunt mind gayness ov story.”

Zere. Zhat should make heem feel better.

Not content with the blistering critique she gave Gail last week, Michelle continued to pile it on, even though Gail wasn’t being critiqued…and in fact, wasn’t even there!

“I thought your story, like Gail’s from last week, appears to be stringing us along. It just went on and on without getting to the point. You need to get to the point sooner. Gail did the same thing.” That hussy!

Meechelle eez right. Zhey both streeng along. Eet make no sense!

Finally, we tackled Jon’s “God, Are You Out There?” As I mentioned in the homework section, it was 25 cliched pages with a 10-year-old’s voice. Not my cup of tea. But, it was at least one other classmate’s cup of tea…

“Eet vus much stronger zan previoz ztory you deed…een a guud vay.” I guess that’s as opposed to being stronger in a bad way? I had to fake a coughing fit when my eyes met with Timmy's.

When my turn arrived, Michelle asked me if Gail gave me any comments on this one.

“Yes, as a matter of fact she did.”

“Do tell.”

“She said that it wasn’t as gay as Timmy’s but she was thankful since Jon was ten in the story.” It was the best I could improvise.

Michelle shared my reservations.

“I knew where the story was going before it got there, which is not a good thing.” She continued, “I hope the subsequent chapters contains some sort of twist, though I can’t imagine what it would be.”

“Isn’t that the definition of the word ‘twist’?” I interjected.

“I guess you got me there.”

Now zhat eez guud und funny. He deed hav her on zat von. Hee hee!

He steel an eedeeot zough.

Next Week, Part Nine: My Cup Runneth Over
Click here to read Part One.
Click here to read Part Two.
Click here to read Part Three.
Click here to read Part Four.
Click here to read Part Five.
Click her to read Part Six.
Click here to read Part Seven.

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Harris Bloom lives and works in New York City. When he’s not pleading with, or attempting to bribe, his puppy to quit biting him, Harris is hard at work on a short story collection. He can be reached at harrisbloom@yahoo.com.

© 2004 Me Three