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Memoir of a Memoir-Writing Class, Part Four:
Like Karate, Writing in Head and Heart…No in Hands

By Harris Bloom

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Click here to learn what this column is all about.

Addendum: The Homework Assignment.

I arrived to class in a good mood.

For better or worse, my first critique was behind me. I decided I would take another look at my own story when I felt I could be more objective. Maybe they had a point. After all, Charlie Lau was a mediocre baseball player at best, but went on to become a great hitting coach. Maybe this was similar. Yes, I will take a second look, I decided.

The next person to arrive was the teacher, Michelle. As promised she told me she’d finished her expanded comments on my essay. On her way over to my desk, she ominously warned, “I was in a bad mood when writing it, so take that into consideration.”

“That’s okay,” I replied, buoyed by my new attitude, “I can take criticism.” I winked at her and buried my face in the manuscript. I noticed she’d made some comments in the margin but I went straight to the back two pages, which contained her main critique…

“Very, very funny…” – Okay, so far so good.

“Characters are vivid…you use your unique vision to flesh them out.” – I like that. Yes, I do have a unique vision, don’t I?

“Details are fresh, smart but sometimes unkind…” – Maybe true, I’ll take another look.

“It’s that unkindness, mean-spiritedness, arrogance, unfounded sense of entitlement…oh my!” – Huh? Unfounded sense of entitlement?

“The narrator reads with about as much depth as a slightly less dirty Howard Stern.” – Say what?

“What’s the point of this piece? Dating is hard? Well, duh…you’re part of the problem.” Duh?!?

“For me, this piece came into its own on page 9, and from there until the end it was brilliant.”

The piece totaled 11 pages.

I think Gigli got better reviews. Of the two pages of commentary, about a quarter of one page was positive, the rest was negative. That made sense since she liked two out of the eleven pages. The criticism seemed almost personal. The story began with me going to a singles event after I broke up with my then girlfriend. Michelle asked in the margin,” Why did you break up? Do you have ISSUES WITH COMMITMENT?” The emphasis was hers. (When I asked her later what her question had to do with my story, she said she was just curious. Great. I’m analyzing every comment she makes for guidance and she’s analyzing me for fun.)

Timmy walked in and took his customary seat to my left. He was wearing a tight black shirt and tight black pants which flared at the bottom. His shoes were like a black and white checkerboard.

“Hiiii Harris. How are yooouu?”

“Check this out.” I handed him Michelle’s critique.

He took it and leafed through. “Oh my God! Mean-spirited! A slightly less dirty Howard Stern? Ouch!”

“Ouch is right. You didn’t think it sounded like Howard Stern, did you?”

“No, not at all,” Timmy replied emphatically. Of course his agreeable nature made me think he would have said, “Yes, totally, just like him,” if Michelle had posed the same question to him in private.

“Thanks, dude.”

“I do have one question though.”

“What?”

Timmy looked up and asked, “Do you have commitment issues?”

“Yes, I do, but that’s not the point!” I ripped the critique from him.

At 7 p.m., everyone was present but Gail. Skeletor sat to my right. I think she’d lost some weight during the week and was now down to 70 pounds. For the third week in a row she wore leather pants, which matched her skin. She looked like a 110-year-old version of Kate Moss. She may be the first person in history to write a memoir and explain in the last chapter what it’s like to be dead.

We exchanged greetings and then stared at each other for about ten seconds. Her hopeful smile suggested she was waiting for me to say something.

“By the way, I loved your story,” I blurted out, finally remembering she was being critiqued this week.

“Why, thank you,” she replied. “I thought you would like it given that our senses of humor are very similar.”

I grinned though clenched teeth.

The Lesson of the Day was about structure, and more specifically, the choices we have with which to begin our stories. We all read the first page of the memoirs we were told to bring. It was at times painful to hear some students make their way though one page. Michelle should have let at least one student read hers in Russian. One week, I’m in a remedial writing class; the next, remedial reading.

The point of the exercise, once we got there, was to display the various ways authors begin their memoirs. Some began in the past, some began in the present, some were located in the present but with memory and one even started in the future. So basically, we could start any way we wanted. Thanks, I’m sure next week’s lesson will be something along the lines of, “Memoirs should be about YOU!”

Gail walked in, apologized for her lateness, and sat near the door so as not to disrupt the class. She glanced in my direction and we exchanged smiles. I wondered, would she have sat next to me if Skeletor hadn’t taken that seat?

Michelle summed up the lesson by stating, “The choices we make are what makes writing so great. To me it’s the most fun thing ever, well, almost.” I threw up in my mouth. Judging by the sour look on Gail’s face, so did she.

With time to go before the break, Michelle started the week’s critiques. Chosen to be first, we reviewed Gunjan’s story about her family dealing with her father’s illness and subsequent death. Predictably, everyone mentioned how well written it was, how much it “touched” them, and how great the recipes sounded.

When Natalie burbled, “Zees ees really fantasteec. I sink zees ees immediately ready to publeesh,” I glanced blank-faced at Gail, who rolled her eyes in response.

Timmy delivered his usual up-with-people speech. “I just loved everything about it,” he gushed, “the writing, the emotion, even the recipes.” It was surprising he didn’t mention how much he liked the death.

Michelle’s praise was equally effusive. She raved about how the narrative was so well written and so poignant that it almost brought her to tears. “It was just so incredibly moving and beautiful, really showing how writing may be literally done with your fingers, but it starts here (she pointed to her heart), and here (she pointed to her head).”

“So it’s like karate,” I added.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, in The Karate Kid, Mr. Miyagi explained to Daniel-san that karate here (I pointed to my head) and karate here (I pointed to my heart), but karate no here (I made chopping motion with hands).”

Michelle eyed me suspiciously before stammering, “No, well, yes, I guess so.” After pausing she continued, “I think it’s time for our break.”

The people to be critiqued the following week handed out their manuscripts. Helen (a.k.a. The Drama Queen), Ann (The Broadway dancer) and Rhonda (whom I knew nothing about other that she had a voice like Fran Drescher’s) distributed copies of their work.

Gail walked over to me.

“Hey, did I miss anything before I got in?”

“Yeah, you missed the Russian chick trying to read. As far as useful information in writing a memoir, you didn’t miss anything.”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

“Look at this.” I handed her Michelle’s comments on my manuscript.

After turning a few pages Gail’s eyes bulged. “Wow, either she’s holding you to a higher standard…or she hates you.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. All I know is that I came in worried that I’d be overmatched; then I was worried that I walked into the wrong class; now I don’t know what to think…but I’m still worried. After all, I’m Jewish.”

“Of course,” She agreed, “But I seriously wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. Half of the class can’t speak English and I don’t think they’re your target audience anyway.”

“That’s true.”

“I think I'm much closer to your target audience, and I loved it."

Okay, it's obvious she likes me. I saw it in her eyes. I can sense these things. I should probably mention that I have a girlfriend. I’ll slip it somewhere in the conversation so she won’t feel embarrassed.

"And my boyfriend loved it too," she added. "By the way, he wants to meet you."

"Your boyfriend?"

"Yeah, Ross...we live together in Bronxville."

"Together? In Bronxville?"

"Yeah, Bronxville, you know, Westchester?”

“Oh right, sorry, I just thought you lived in Brooklyn.”

“I used to actually. Why did you think that?”

“Never mind…Wait, he wants to meet me? Why…what for?”

“He wants to tell you how much he liked your story.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I know, he’s a bit of a dork. Anyway, he picks me up after class…if you have time…”

“Umm, yeah, sure, I guess so,” I said, grinning.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I quickly answered.

After halftime, we went around the room and critiqued Skeletor’s composition: “Nobody Told Me There’s Be Days Like These.” Everyone kept it very positive.

Timmy raved, “I loved the way you use humor to make light of a potentially dangerous situation. I have no suggestions for revision. I thought it was great as is.”

Natalie, who to refresh your memory said my story was “vedy booring” (no, I’m not bitter), said, “Zees ees good. Zees ees vedy good.” I turned towards Gail but quickly looked away when we both broke into smiles.

As for my idea for revision, I told Skeletor I would change the title from “Days” to “Dates.” I only mention this because my suggestion to change one word was probably the best advice I gave anyone throughout the course. The vast majority of my comments went something like this:

On the positive side, umm, your story was very, umm, very descriptive. On the nega- I mean, as for, umm, suggestions for revision, I thought the, umm, grammar could use some cleaning up. Umm, that’s about it.

Later on, when the phrase “richly written” became trendy in our class after Michelle used it twice, I substituted that for “very descriptive.”

We finished Week Four by reviewing an excerpt from Jon’s coming-of-age memoir, “My Wacky Urban Life.” As mentioned in the Homework Addendum, it wasn’t anything to write home about, but at least the grammar and spelling were accurate (well, as far as I could tell).

Juanita liked it but didn’t like the ending. “It didn’t make sense. It just ended like it was missing something.” I assume she meant a porn scene. It was pointed out to her that this was just an excerpt and the story continues.

“Oh.”

Naturally, Natalie loved the story. “Great viting…the viting vus reedy great…zee humor vus vunderful.” Zis, I mean this was wonderful, mine…vedy boring. That’s it, she will not be invited to my book release party.

Michelle was reminded of Augusten Burrough’s memoir, Running With Scissors. I was beginning to wonder if the elders at Gotham advised the teachers to compare their students with a best-selling author. Either that or we’re the 21st century version of The Algonquin Round Table. My money’s on the former.

Next Time – Part Five: Burning Down the House
Click here to read Part One.
Click here to read Part Two.
Click here to read Part Three.

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Harris Bloom lives and works in New York City. When he's not sitting within his cubicle wondering where it all went so horribly wrong, he's hard at work on a short story collection. He can be reached here.

© 2004 Me Three