Writing Class

“Another reason I’ve taken to so much journal and pad writing and so few mss might be simple boredom,” Elise said, polishing her nails. “Writing gives my mind something to do. To be honest, I’m bored a lot. My work isn’t just one task one after the other; it’s scheduled events. And I’ve got a lot of time between classes that I have to stay at school. There’s not much to do. If there’s anyone to talk to, I’ll do that, but often I just sit. Writing’s a great timekiller. Office time, waiting time, etc. And it’s perfect because I can do it anywhere on campus at anytime and look busy.

Bill chimed in. “Well, I know what you mean. Sometimes I write out of boredom. But I write for other reasons, too. I’m a Ph.D. Writing is as natural to me as breathing. I’m a philosopher and a humanist. Of course I’m going to write. It’s not just to kill time. I never seem to have enough time for writing. That’s why I love long vacations like this one, and why I resent it that I have to use so much of it for other things like gift buying and family time, movies and so on, when I want to write instead.”

“Not me. I just love to write!” Doris joined. “Life’s so big and glorious, the human heart so deep and multifarious, the mind so various and surprising. It’s too thrilling being alive and aware of it all. I have to respond. Writing’s one way. Music’s another. Had I the talent, I would paint, as well. I must express and record and reflect and comment on it. How can one claim to live fully and not write? I wonder, or express herself some way creatively. It’s like singing. How can anyone not sing?”

Bill thought about that. “Yet still,” he said, “ it comes down at last to what to say. And it can’t be just left up to chance. I have to have some notion of what I’m trying to develop in my writing.”

Miss Penny sensed a pause. “Anyone else?” she asked.

At length a short, dark-haired man raised his hand from the back of the room.

“Mr. Carter?” Miss Penny acknowledged.

“I’m afraid my reasons for writing are not so simple, Miss Penny. For some time now I have been convinced that there are at least three--possibly four--narrator personnae vying for expression in me. The “professor,” the “jazz player” and the “cynic.” The professor’s the usual journal writer, the cynic creeps in when things degenerate to whining and self-pity, and the jazz musician’s the whimsical, lyrical, usually irresponsible one. To me these correspond, perhaps, to my superego, my ego, and my id, respectively.”

“Interesting. “

“I lined these up pretty closely with types of writings I’ve tried over the years also, and it seems to work. The professor tends to write analytically, the cynic autobiographically, and the jazz player lyric poetry and fantasy. Yet none writes any sustained works or consistent works of publishable length. At that realization I thought maybe the idea of story would help, would cut through the arguments and conflicts I have about fiction vs. nonfiction, analysis/reflection vs. dramatic action, etc. Story always turns on dramatic conflict. So I tried to focus on dramatic conflict and decided (sort of news to me, I thought, a possible step forward!) that my stories would need to turn on character flaws: some unusual hangup, some hidden neurosis, phobia, delusion or other abnormality. And in that abnormality the seed of the conflict would easily come to mind, and the plot, setting, and other elements probably reveal themselves.”

“Very interesting, Mr. Carter. Please go on.”

“Well, at first I was happy with that understanding. But it didn’t generate any ideas for specific stories. To me, taking a new or clearer understanding is tantamount to publishing a best-seller!”

The class laughed.

“I thought I was making splendid progress. At least until I realized the necessity still existed to create characters with flaws and plot them some stories. It was a road to fiiction I could relate to, but somehow I knew I probably wouldn’t take it. At least not until I had exhanusted other possibilities.

"Things bogged down then. Reality returned. Something was still missing. I guess I thought it too artificial to deliberately set out to ridicule and scorn human foibles, I don’t know, or to deliberately promote the irrational and outrageous aspects of some behaviors, even though they make me titter,with my sophomoric sense of humor. Maybe the “professor” in me just resists fantasy and dadaism, or expressionism or surrealism or anything not resembling stark reality as not worthy, as fluff, as a waste of time, if one is capable of making more solid stuff.

The professor is stodgy, you see, not much fun, and always rational. But the voice that began to emerge as I thought about the 'foible fictions' I courld write was surprising in its passion and style! Young and alive, passionate and energetic, romantic and colorful!--a voice I remembered from my younger, single days--the “jazz musician” of the old Chicago art school/beatnik days. I am sad to report, however, that no sooner formed than squelched that voice was. Why? It may have been too dissolute, too immoral or irresponsible for today perhaps, not fit to my present responsibilities and needs.

I realized that at 58 I don’t belong in Rush Street’s clubs and bohemian cafes anymore. I’m afraid the passion of that younger personna is too much excitement for my blood. So I must, unfortunately, turn down the gifts my own imagination offers me. I say no, thanks, it’s not what I want anymore.

So the Professor voice wins again, the spontaneuous phrase is forced to wait in line till it’s gone, till the passion and freshness get analyzed and criticized to meaningless pap and dissolve unuttered, unrecognized. No one is allowed to scream in the ordered mind of the intellect; we must look at things calmly and critically, must we not?

Harrumph. There’s a comfort in reason, but not a passion. It’s a Phyrric victory to achieve; that is certain. I must be the professor. It isn’t something I can disown or disavow, once titled and vested. Unlike the gifts of my jazz musician which came without much effort on my part, I earned my doctorate honestly and take it seriously. It says I’m committed to analysis, truth, honesty, reason and the intellectual life. That’s not something one can retire from. It’s a perspective on life. I can’t abandon it in favor of irrationalism and badinage, fancy, or lyricism, no matter how interesting or entertaining, and I’ll be damned if I’d join the bleating nonsense of popular tastes or tabliod drivel.

Actually I don’t think I’ll have to. I have a good style and a serviceable vocabulary. I may be selling myself short in thinking no one would be interested in what I think. My thoughts aren’t always so uninteresting. Perhaps I do have things to say and don’t have to make up stories to justity my writer’s keep. I’m 58, a full professor, widely experienced in many things. I ought to have learned something to say worth reading. How about this:

Two men walk down a street. When they turn and walk back, some of the buildings have become reversed and now occupy different positions. Can I imagine it? Yes. Is it something I want to say? No.

See, that’s what’s changed in thirty-five-plus years. As a single, college man, I would want to write that and share that vision. Now it just seems stupid and “kooky.” All it does is answer a challenge I made to myself: namely, if fictions are generated from the real, then take something simple like walking down the street at school, and see what you can do to make a fictional story out of it.

Well guess what. I did make a story of it, and it was easy. Just switch the buildings! But the problem is that this kind of “teased imaging” is no longer interesting to me. It was once, but no more, not even to get the mss stack built up. I’m not interested anymore because it doesn’t tell me anything new about myself, about life, about others, about anything. It doesn’t generate feeling in me, and I think maybe that’s a key ingredient for any future writing I do. I’m interested in things that get to me in a significant way. If it doesn’t reach me, I won’t write just any vision because it’s odd or outrageous. It has to move me to laughter, tears, wonder, joy, or some depth of my soul, or I just won’t bother.

Let's try something else: We'll call it, 'A Visit from Boogidy.'

The flowrs doth bloom in the spring, tra-la,
The flowers doth bloom in the spring.
The flowers doth bloom in the spring, tra-la,
Boogidy boogidy boogidy.

There will be other days as rich and rare;
There will be other days, but I don’t care.
Friendship ends where money begins.
Friendship ends where love begins.

There. Do you like that?

I could describe my front porch, the crickets, the cicadas, Archie comic books and Katy Keene. I could describe Patty Upheil and Silver Screen magazine, basketball and Mitzi Gaynor. I could describe Central School’s gym, musicales and fudge, Lola Plumley and her embezzling of the candy sale cash. I suppose when push came to shove, these were very formative.

Maybe I ought to write what I know until something better comes along. I’ve really got to get back to something I can show others.

Misha mosha moesha muck.
Drive a little urtle truck.
Do not run it off a cliff.
That would be your folks to miff.

My rhythm’s up tonight but not my narrator. But I do kind of like pad-writing. This one’s okay, I guess. I would have preferred narrow rule, but it costs two to three times more. These pads are fourteen for three bucks. Hard to beat that. I do expect to get some manuscripts going before too much longer. It has begun. I’ve written a little satirical piece called “the Tidy Writer” of a couple of paragraphs only, and printed it out.!

“The whole thing’s making me very nervous,” Rose Parker complained. “This writing thing’s a lot harder than I thought. Didn’t used to be, but it sure is lately--like the last thirty years.”

“Now please, don’t be discouraged. I’m sure others have experienced the same thing,” Miss Penny consoled.

“Aye, there’s where things break down for me every time.” Jack Simmons said. I have memories. I have faces and characters aplenty. I have settings and actions I remember. But they don’t inspire me to imagine something else. In fact, they seem to do just the opposite. They inspire me to try to remember them more accurately. I’m well aware that fiction springs from the real, but in thinking of the real, I get no springing, merely more real. I seem to have to work from total fiction from the beginning.”