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Memoir of a Memoir-Writing Class, Part Five
Burning Down the House

By Harris Bloom

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Click here to learn what this column is all about.

Addendum: The Homework Assignment.

Usually first to arrive, I opened the door to the classroom with my velvety fingers (see Homework addendum) to find such was not the case this week. Roger (Ultra Serious Man) was already seated at his usual perch, next to the door. We exchanged greetings. When I passed him I noticed he was concentrating on The New York Times crossword puzzle. He was using a pen.

After sitting I asked, “So when do you get critiqued?” Though some in the class wrote down the entire Critique Calendar when we created it in Week One, I’d felt no such need. It’s not like we were going to be tested on it. I knew when I was going to get critiqued; the rest, I would take as they came.

“I don’t know,” Roger replied, looking up.

“What do you mean? Didn’t you sign up?”

“No.”

“Have you written anything?”

“No.”

I nodded my head. He met my stare for about ten seconds before returning to his puzzle. I continued to stare at him, puzzled myself.

The Russian woman, Natalie, entered and took her normal seat on the other side of the classroom.

“I haf manuscreep vor creetteeq nex veek,” she offered, “You vant see now?”

I leaped up before “vant” left her mouth. I valked, I mean walked over to her desk to get my copy.

Before handing it to me she pleaded, “You vill be kind, yes?”

“Um, yeah, sure, kind, of course.” My hands trembled in anticipation.

I leafed through it after I got back to my seat. Holy Shit. Feeling her eyes, I had to put it away before I started laughing. I nodded encouragingly in her direction.

“Looks good,” I said. I glanced at it again. Holy Friekin’ Shit. I couldn’t wait to get home.

Michelle (the teacher) shuffled in. Her wardrobe, which had been getting progressively worse, bordered on “I Give Up.” She wore a purple sweatshirt with a long black wool-knit dress. Though long, her dress wasn’t long enough to cover up her white tube socks or black clogs.

Timmy made his entrance.

“Hey Timmy,” I smiled as I welcomed one half of my clique.

Timmy mouthed hello and waved to the other people there before sitting next to me.
With his hand covering his mouth he asked in a low voice, “Oh my God…can you believe what she’s wearing?”

I replied negatively as he took off his purple hued sunglasses, fire engine-red leather jacket and canary yellow cashmere scarf.

Eventually all made it in - except for Gail - and Michelle launched into her lesson about author reliability.

“In a memoir,” she started, “The reader must believe that the story is true.” Fair enough.

She continued, “Some very popular memoirs violate this basic rule.” Really?

“For instance, I consider Elizabeth Wurtzel, the author of Prozac Nation, my arch-nemesis.” Huh? I wondered if Elizabeth knew.

“She has a chapter titled “The Accidental Blow Job.” Give me a break! Yeah, and I accidentally got it published due to my accidental blond hair, accidental blue eyes and accidental big tits.”

The class laughed nervously while I jotted down a note to check out the book jacket. Gail walked in – apologized for her lateness – and sat to my left. She motioned to my notebook, which I handed to her.

“WHAT THE HELL IS SHE WEARING?” she wrote.

I smiled and shrugged as Michelle continued with her lesson. “I don’t trust narrators who recall events from when they were less than a year old.”

”I definitely remember stuff that went on when I was six months old,” Helen interrupted, “In fact, one of those memories is contained in the chapter being critiqued today.”

“I know, I read it,” Michelle countered dismissively. “Speaking of which, let’s start with the critiques.”

Since Helen brought up her story, we started with the chapters from her memoir, “Just Another Day.”

As everyone took out his or her copies, Roger’s cell phone rang. He answered, talked for a second as we watched, and left the room.

Just after I gave my usual insipid assessment of Helen’s tome, Roger rejoined the class. Without saying a word he packed his things and left. We all looked at each other after his sudden silent departure. It was the last time we’d see him.

Back to the critiques, Natalie regaled us with, “Guud vriteeng. When zee houz burned down…it vus guud.”

I think if she reviewed Moby Dick she would say, “Zees ees guud. Ven you keel vale…it vus guud.”

In discussing her own story, Helen described an epiphany she had when she realized that what she thought was the beginning was now the ending, and what she thought was going to be the ending was now the beginning.

Agreeing, Michelle said, “Isn’t it wonderful when you make a realization like that?”

Everyone nodded. Some wrote furiously in their notebooks. What could they possibly have written?  Did they write that it’s good to have epiphanies? Did they write that they should flip flop the beginning and end of their stories as Helen did? Most likely, they wrote to remind themselves to look up “epiphany” when they got home.

Michelle’s critique included a ten-minute back and forth discussion about whether an infant can remember events (“No you can’t!” ”Yes you can!”). She concluded her thoughts by comparing Helen’s story with yet another best-selling and critically acclaimed work.

“It kind of reminds me of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.”

“That sounds about right,” I said to Gail as we took our break.

* * *

While Natalie, Timmy and Lucy (a 55-year old woman writing about her brother’s brain cancer) handed out their manuscripts, Helen continued to discuss her story with Michelle.

“I’ve had trouble, believe it or not, writing my character.”

Michelle replied, “I can definitely believe that. In fact, you may not even know who your character is yet!”

Helen slowly nodded.

Noting her unease, Michelle added, “Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“I think so,” Helen stated, still nodding thoughtfully before walking to her desk.

I turned to Gail and asked, “You know what she’s talking about?”

“Not a clue.”

I turned to Timmy, “You?”

“Nope…you?”

“No.”

* * *

Back from break, we dove into Rhonda’s “An Italian Love Affair."

Bizarrely enough, everyone loved it. My favorite reviewer, Natalie, predictably first mentioned how much she enjoyed the story.

“I reedy velt I vus een Eetalee. Veddy vedy guud at zee decreeptions. You get publeesh soon.”

Unpredictably, she questioned Rhonda’s reason for her trip.

“You say you verked vorteen hours per day…vat eggactly ver you selleeng?” Natalie was officially the William Hung of this class.

I used my critique to question her over-the-top descriptions, but I went too far….
“…. As far as suggestions for revisions go, I think you went a little crazy with the adjectives. I don’t think I know anyone with ‘velvety-skinned’ arms and I don’t think I want to.”

Some students and the teacher laughed. Good enough…quit while you’re ahead. Don’t be a hero…she’s not going to listen to your stupid comments anyway. She must realize you’re not her target audience…you’ve never read a romance novel in your life. Smile, nod at her, and just say “But overall, I really liked it”, just like the others.

But no, I couldn’t leave well enough alone….

“…. Also, ‘I gladly sucked in the wine from his mouth when we kissed’?” I made a face like President Bush during the first debate. The class was quick to disagree…

“Actually, I liked that.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Eez guud riding.”

“Sounded right to me.”

I slunk into my chair, vowing that from then on, I’m sticking to: 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. But overall I really liked it.

Michelle was just as effusive with her praise as the rest of the class had been.

“I loved the descriptions of the town and the people. You have a real knack for those kinds of details. It reminds me a little bit of Susan Orlean’s essays. Maybe you can even do some travel writing.”

I can see her first story – "Land of the Velvet-Skinned People."

* * *

We finished class with Ann’s chapters about life as a Broadway chorus girl. On the bright side, it was short and relatively well written (faint praise if I’ve ever heard it). On the other hand, if any manuscript screamed for a porn scene, this was it – or at the very least, a backstage tickle fight.

I made the mistake during my comments of mentioning that I thought it was ridiculous that her boyfriend dumped her the day after he told her “I love you” for the first time. Everyone, even the alternatively lifestyled men, made it clear that I was wrong.

“Really?” I said, astonished, “I swear I thought I was stuck with someone for a month after saying that. Guess I’m a romantic, huh?”

Natalie, whom if you forgot, said my story was “Vedy boring”, said, “Zees ees guud riding. Vedy guud riding. Zee story vus most interesteeng.”

Timmy was in his usual exuberant mood.

“I could just see you auditioning…. And I could totally see your anger at being dumped like that…. I just loved, loved, loved it. I have no suggestions for revision. It was all quite remarkable.” Ben Affleck should pull some strings to get Timmy a gig reviewing movies for a living.

Michelle supplied the unintentional humor of the evening when she asked Ann where the story was heading.

“Well, the finale will have me leaving the business,” Ann stated. “The whole point is how at the end of the day, being a chorus girl is just like being a lawyer or an accountant or a banker. It’s just a grind, not nearly as glamorous as you’d think.”

Michelle thought for a second, then said, “Well, if that’s your conclusion, then I don’t think you have a story there. I mean, that’s a pretty drab outcome.” Everyone looked sympathetically at Ann, who turned ashen.

What she might as well have said was, Well, if that’s your conclusion, then you’ve just wasted $425 and 30 prime-time hours of your life in this class…not to mention the hours upon hours thinking about and writing your memoir. Oh, and as far as your hopes and dreams of ever getting published go…GONE!

As we left the classroom, Ann made a beeline to Michelle’s desk to plead her case. Though I didn’t stick around to hear the conclusion, I’d bet that by the time she left, Ann was convinced that not only was her story publishable, but that her story reminded Michelle of War and Peace.

Next Week, Part Six: Her Life Ended in Death
Click here to read Part One.
Click here to read Part Two.
Click here to read Part Three.
Click here to read Part Four.

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Harris Bloom lives and works in New York City. When he’s not wrapping himself in aluminum foil and pretending he’s a robot, Harris is hard at work on a short story collection. He can be reached here.

© 2004 Me Three