Memoir of a Memoir-Writing Class, Week 9: My Cup Runneth Over
By Harris Bloom
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Addendum:
The Homework Assignment.
“Hey,”
I greeted Ann (the Broadway dancer) as she entered the classroom.
“Hi,” she replied, and after a pause,” When do you get here?”
“I dunno, usually around 6:15…why?”
“Just that I’m always early…and you’re always already here.”
“Well, I guess I’d prefer to sit here by myself than sit at work next to my co-workers.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Let’s just say that one is forty-eight, lives with his mom, never talks, only leaves the office once a week – on Friday’s at exactly 3:00 - and for some reason he is allowed to wear jeans to the office even though everyone else wears a suit. And my other co-worker is weirder.”
“You should write about them.”
“Don’t worry, I plan on it. So how’s your memoir coming along?”
“Slowly. I thought I knew what I was going to write about but this class has given me a lot to think about.”
“Like?”
“Well, you heard Michelle when I told her my storyline…” She mimicked Michelle, “’If that’s your conclusion, then I don’t think you have a story.’”
“Oh yeah, I do remember.” I couldn’t help but smile at my recollection. It was one of the unintentionally funniest moments in the class.
“Since she told me that, I haven’t been able to write anything.”
“Are you serious?” I asked incredulously. After Ann nodded, I continued, “How can you listen to what she says? She told some people in the class who can barely write in English how great their stuff is while she tore into those who write somewhat coherently. Hell, she told one person, who shall remain nameless, that her writing was ‘very clear.’ If I had to come up with one word to describe that person’s writing, it would be ‘very unclear.’ Okay, that’s two words and maybe not even the two words I would use, but you get the idea.”
“That’s all true, but I don’t know... “
“Look, I’m sure Mark Twain, Stephen King and Paris Hilton got dozens of rejection letters before they became best sellers. Not everyone’s gonna like your stuff.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“And even if there were some validity to her comments, she’s just one opinion. Besides, if you stop writing now, haven’t the terrorists won?”
“Huh?”
“I don’t know. It kinda makes sense, no?”
“No, not at all.”
“Oh…then nevermind.”
“Wait, did you say Paris Hilton had a best seller?”
“Not yet. But she will before this column gets published.”
“Oh.” Ann nodded her head in an Edith Bunker sort of way before sharply turning to me. “Really?”
“Yup.”
After contemplating for a bit, Anne replied, “Wow.”
“I know.”
* * *
The rest of the class started tricking in. Skeletor, who'd lost another five pounds since last week, walked in with Natalie.
“…And eet looked vedy heart to vite.”
“Oh are you kidding? Sure, in fact, I was bawling my eyes out as I was writing it.” I was rolling my eyes as I was reading it.
“Mine
deefeecult too. I no cry but I veel great zadness in hard.”.
After most in the class were present and settled in, Michelle informed
us that for our next and last class, since only Juanita was scheduled
to be critiqued, we would all bring something in and read it aloud to
the class. I noticed Juanita wasn’t there. Please come, I thought.
Hey, if I wasn’t going to learn much, I may as well be entertained
for my $425.
“Zhood eet be zomezing we wrote?”
“I’d prefer it to be but if you don’t have anything, it can be something you like. I think it would be good to read aloud because as authors, you will have to read from your work at book signings.” Book signings? This class? The only books I see them signing are guest books at motels.
“How long zshood eet be?”
“I don’t know…500 to 1000 words?”
“Can it be a rap song?” Skeletor asked. Excuse me? I turned to gauge her expression. She wasn’t kidding. She also was still wearing the huge fur hat she wore walking in.
“A rap song?”
“Yes, I’ve written several rap songs,” explained the twig-like fifty-something year old white woman. Please let her do this.
“Sure,
I suppose so.” Yes!
I assume there was a Lesson of the Day but I was too busy at a Book Signing
for my newly-released-already-number-one-on-the-NY Times-Non-Fiction-Best-Seller-list
supplanting-Sedaris’s-latest collection of short stories called
A Blooming Idiot...
“Next!” I bellowed from behind the desk, as my posse and bodyguards flank me on both sides.
Armed with my pen and without looking up I asked, “Name?”
“Skala.”
While starting to write his name I further inquired, “Skala what?”
“Mister…Skala.”
“That’s funny, I had a teacher in high school named Mister…” I looked up. “Holy shit!”
“Hello Harris.” It was him.
“Hi.”
“As
part of step nine of a program I’m in, I wanted to come down to
apologize for something I said to you in 1983. Though I’m sure you’ve
long forgotten it, I should never have called you an idiot in front of
the class. I hope you can forgive me.”
I leaned back in my chair and said, “Of course I can. To paraphrase
Ferris Bueller, it’s forgiveness that allows a person like myself
to tolerate a person like yourself.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I signed his copy and roared, “Next!”
Another person stepped forward. “Name?”
“Helen.”
“Helen what?”
“Thomas.”
“That’s funny, I had a crush on a girl in junior high named Helen Thomas who wouldn’t give me the time of…” I looked up. “Holy shit!”
* * *
After the break - during which I signed books for Mike Piazza, Jaclyn
Smith during her Charlie’s Angels years, and a dead former
bully - we tackled Skeletor’s “Family Issues.”
Gunjan thought it was “poignant.” Helen stated it was “moving.”
Timmy found it “touching.”
Jon considered it “heartrending.” By the time we got to me, all the positive adjectives I had written from the thesaurus were used, so I went with “interesting.”
“What made it interesting for you?” Michelle asked.
“Well, I, uh, just thought the whole, mother slash daughter slash other daughter um, dynamic, if you will, was, um, interesting.”
“Go on,” Michelle encouraged.
“Well, I have a brother, so I guess we have a mother slash brother slash other brother dynamic in my family so it was interesting just to hear, or, you know, read in this case, how, um, the dynamic changes with female siblings rather than male. And in fact, interesting is probably the best compliment really one can give about someone’s writing. I mean, isn’t that really what we really strive for? That our stories are interesting? Right?”
“I meant for you to just go on to your suggestions for revision, but I’m sure Sarah (Skeletor) appreciates your additional comments.”
“Oh, um, I guess then my answer is to clean up some of the grammar and typo’s. Thanks.”
Though everyone was vociferous -as usual - with their praise, none were as enthusiastic as Skeletor was when she had a chance to speak on her own behalf.
“I really gave it my all, and I think it showed,” she beamed, still wearing her big fur hat. She continued, “It was really as if I was able to channel something I didn’t even know I had inside of me, and put it to paper.”
Instead of nipping her in the bud and moving on to Natalie’s instant classic, Michelle encouraged her to continue. “I think that’s one of the great things about writing…the feeling you get when you write something so good you even surprise yourself.” Huh?
“Oh, I was so totally there. It was almost an out of body experience. I actually cried while writing it, and then again when editing it.” Good grief. “It also gives me a lot of satisfaction that the class felt a lot of the same feelings I was feeling when writing it. It was quite theraputic, in fact…”
“Sorry, but we have to move on to Natalie’s,” Michelle interrupted while looking at her watch…thankfully.
Since Juanita no-showed Weeks Nine and Ten, Natalie’s “A Mail Order Bride” turned out to be the last manuscript we ever reviewed. As I mentioned in the homework addendum, the storyline was enthralling. The narration was so bad it was awesome.
Here were some of the comments people made…
“Epic”
“This has six hundred page novel written all over it.” (Though I did like reading the 12 pages, I think I’d rather be tied down in a six by eight room, slathered in honey and jelly, and then have red army ants and wasps released rather than read 500 pages of this.)
“The reader wants to hear more.” (Not this reader.)
“It reminds me of Dr. Zhivago.” (Timmy…please.)
I said, “Once I was finished, I just had to put it down.” As I expected, no one remembered that Jon had said the exact same thing when he critiqued her first manuscript. Certainly not Natalie, who said, “Sank you.”
If
Juanita were in class, I’m sure her review would’ve gone something
like, “I really liked the short, easily comprehendible sentences.
As for suggestions for revision, I’d add a porn scene during World
War 2…or maybe a vibrator…it would break the tension.”
A point everyone made was about how humorous the story was. The funny
part was how everyone prefaced their comment with, “I don’t
know if you trying to be funny but…” Even Michelle stated,
“Several people mentioned expanding it, but I’d hate to see
you lose the humor…assuming that’s what you were aiming for.”
For her part, Natalie claimed the humor was intentional. As a reminder, here is typical passage…
Louis attached a few pictures of himself. A close up of his chubby face, brown eyes and total baldness. The other was a friendlier picture from distance where he smiled. The one from a distance was a better picture.
You be the judge.
Natalie also responded to some who mentioned they thought it unrealistic
that the character went to the movies just after World War 2 started.
“I dunt understand zees creeteceesm. Eet vus Verld Var Du –
gans ver shooteeng, vemen ver being raped – people never see movie
bevore und eet game vor vurst dime!”
I was going to ask whether she was joking but decided to hold my tongue
as class ended.
Next
Week, Part Ten – Something to Hang Our Hats On
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.
Click here to read Part
Eight.
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Harris Bloom lives and works in New York City. When he’s not wondering whether his girlfriend really reads his stuff, which he doubts, or just claims to, as he thinks (I guess he’ll find out now), Harris is hard at work on a short story collection. He can be reached at harrisbloom@yahoo.com.