12.9.04
Memoir
of a Memoir-Writing Class, Week Seven:
My Futuristical Vision
By Harris Bloom
---------------------------------------
Click here to learn what this column is all about.
Addendum:
The Homework Assignment.
“What
are you doing here?” I asked, as I walked into the classroom.
Gunjan peeked up from her notes. “What do you mean?”
“Just that I’m always the first one here.” I plopped down in my chair. “It gives me some alone time to think about why I come back here week after week.”
“You know what I think?” she asked, and then answered, “I think you like it.”
“I like what? This class? You think I like this class?”
“I do,” she replied, “I see you laughing it up with your friends.”
“Well, funny things do happen…it is entertaining at times, but I wouldn’t say I like the class.”
“ I think we can agree it isn’t what we expected – or were looking for - but that doesn’t mean it isn’t fun nevertheless.”
“But for $425 bucks and ten Wednesday evenings, I could have been having a lot more fun.”
“Maybe…maybe not.”
“If nothing else, I could buy about 45 more Snickers bars every week.”
“Would you really?”
“No, I was joking. The funds for this class didn’t come from my chocolate budget.”
“I never know if you’re joking.”
I smiled. “So why are you here early?”
“I didn’t have time to read the manuscripts during the week.”
“Even mine?!” I asked, incredulous.
“Yes, even yours.”
“What? What?! WHAAAT?!?” I responded in rapid succession, imitating Kyle’s mom in South Park.
“Sorry…but I just read it…very funny; you remind me of Nick Hornby.” Oh brother, everyone reminds everyone of someone. “But not quite as good.” Huh?
“I’ve never read his stuff, though I did see High Fidelity. And About A Boy. What do you like about him?”
“Well, not only is his stuff really funny, but I like the way his humor doesn’t get in the way of telling the story. It just sort of adds to the flow without suffocating it.”
“So you’re saying mine suffocates it?” I asked with a half-grin. “Or are you just saying I’m not as funny? Or do I just suck?”
“No, I’m just saying you need to refine your writing. He’s been writing for years. You mentioned you just started, right?”
I nodded.
“I think you’re way ahead of the curve, but you still have a lot to catch up on.”
“I hear ya. In spite of my outward bravado, I don’t expect to get published right now.” Needless to say, in reality, that’s exactly what I hoped for. “Thanks for the encouragement.”
“Sure, and like I said, you’re really funny…you should definitely keep going. As with anything else, the more you do it, the better you’ll get.”
“Thanks…I will.”
“If nothing else, it gives people like us with boring day jobs hope. And I think that’s what it’s all about, no?”
“What do you do?”
“I work in the Treasury Department at Columbia University.”
“I guess we’re birds of a feather.”
“We all are. You, me, Gail, Helen…even Natalie, though I know you’d hate to acknowledge having anything in common with her.” She laughed.
“It’s obvious?”
“Um, yeah. But I doubt she’s cognizant of it.”
“I doubt it, as well.”
“But seriously, the key for all of us, is that we have hope…and in some ways, it’s not even important whether we ever get that book published…or that magazine article in GQ, or even that non-paying series on an up and coming New York-based website [Note – okay, I made that last one up]. The important thing is that we keep trying and have hope, even if it’s slim, that eventually, we will do it.”
We sat in silence.
“Wow, that’s deep,” I finally offered.
She laughed. “I swear, I don’t even know if you’re joking or not.”
I turned to see Skeletor walking in. She had lost another four pounds during the week and was down to about 70. After exchanging greetings, she told both Gunjan and myself how much she loved our stories.
“Though Gunjan’s was more polished, yours was very good…very funny,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t know if I mentioned before, but I do some freelance editing.”
“Yeah, I think you did.”
“I could definitely help make your stories more polished.”
“Um, well, we’ll see.”
“Okay, I really think you have potential, with the right person guiding the way,” she said. Her scoop neck blouse revealed her long, stringy neck. Her collarbone area looked like cobwebs.
I smiled. She smiled. I stared. She stared. I broke the silence.
“We’ll see.”
She turned to Gunjan and explained how she could add humor to her prose. Timmy strolled in and sat in his usual spot, to my right. He was wearing tan leather pants.
“Hiiiiii Harris. How are yoooouuuu?”
“Good…good. I’m curious. How many pairs of leather pants do you own?”
“Oh, I dunno, about six.”
“Six?”
“About. Why? I guess that’s a lot, huh?”
“No, not at all…if you’re in The Village People.”
“Actually, me and some friends used to do a Village People medley at this club we all performed at.”
“You’re probably the only person I know who could say that without me blinking an eye.”
The rest of the class settled in. Everyone took his or her unassigned but familiar seats. Michelle rambled in late and told us right off the bat that she doesn't have comments for prior critiques due to a West Wing Marathon on Bravo. She also mentioned that she wanted to add to her comments about "Transition" (see three weeks ago) but forgot what she wanted to say. It was as if she'd lost interest in the class and wanted us to know.
Though
my attitude could be best described as “poor” ever since I'd
first gotten a load of my peers in the class, I think I it dropped another
level (really poor?) as Michelle seemed to throw in the towel. I think
her attitude rubbed off on me.
When discussing “Writing in the Second Person (Direct Address)”
– our Lesson of the Day – Michelle played “Stay”
by Lisa Loeb on a CD player she’d brought in. After playing it twice,
we went around the class to talk about how the song made us feel.
When my turn came, one word came to mind.
“Apathy.”
“Apathy?”
“Yes, apathy.”
“Any reason why you say 'apathy'?”
“The song was run of the mill pop fare that does nothing for me.”
“I am zorry to eenterrup. Vhat ees zeez verd apathee?”
“It means I felt nothing.”
“How can you veel nuteeng? I velt grade zaadness, teenged vit leetell happinezz.”
Natalie was like a Tim Burton movie. Her comments were usually odd, but rarely disappointing.
When finished discussing the song’s attributes, we moved onto the critiques. First up was Gunjan’s memoir, titled We Are Not Alone, which should’ve been titled, In the Kitchen with Gramma and Aunty.
I had no idea what to say as a “suggestion for revision” – other than naming the chapters – since I couldn’t use my reliable “I would clean up the grammar” with her. So I did what I do best…I made a joke of it.
“…As a suggestion for revision, I thought it read a little dry, what with your dad dying and all, so I’d add a little person.”
“A little person?” Michelle interrupted.
“Yeah, you know, a midget. Everyone loves midgets…just saying midget brings a smile to one’s face.” I turned back to Gunjan. “I’d make one of your aunts a midget.”
“I’ll umm, take it under consideration.”
Predictably, everyone fell over himself or herself praising the writing, but none quite as grandly as Skeletor.
“I’m going to save this,” she said, waving her copy of the manuscript, “So I could tell people that I knew you back when, when you get published.” If I were her, I’d preserve it in formaldehyde. It’ll last longer.
If curious what Natalie said – “I call your viteeng nice and smoot…zat’s egzactly vhat I call eet.”
During the break, while Timmy (Untitled) and Jon (“Hey God! You There?”) handed out manuscripts for next week, Gail and I talked about our upcoming critiques.
“I dunno,” I started, “After the beating I took the first time around, I don’t know what to expect.”
“Oh, I know I’m getting torched.”
“Probably,” I grinned. I couldn’t see her dark intellectual prose playing well to this audience.
“I don’t know why I’m even bothering.”
“Because though you won’t admit it, the class is fun.”
“Fun? This class? It’s like the sloppy, dumpy, blind leading the dumb and blinder.”
“Yeah, but besides that. You can’t tell me we haven’t had some great laughs. You can’t!”
“Maybe, but the class still sucks. I’d have more fun sitting home eating Peanut M & M’s all night.”
“I prefer Snicker’s bars, but I hear ya.”
“I dunno, this may be it for me.”
“You have to come back,” I said.
“Why?”
“For one thing, you’ll get fat if you sit home and eat M & M’s all night.”
“I’ll work out more.”
“Well, next week we get Juanita’s second story. Something tells me you don’t wanna miss that.”
“You can make me a copy.”
“Maybe I won’t.”
“I’ll buy you a Hershey’s Bar.”
“Okay, I will, but before you make any final decisions, let’s see how your critique goes.”
“Whatever.”
“Seriously, how can they rip yours? Your crap is much better than their crap.”
“Thanks.”
My brilliant opus, “Anterior Motives,” was next on our docket.
By and large, the reviews were positive, though still way too restrained
for my taste (i.e. there were neither standing ovations nor roses thrown
my way).
Juanita used her critique to discuss her late lamented career in stand-up comedy. She claimed that the club owners kept requesting that she come back to perform but she couldn’t because she ran out of vibrator jokes. I wondered aloud if any involved nine-year olds.
She also mentioned how much she liked my “futuristical vision.” She was referring to the various fantasy scenes. At least that’s what I think she was talking about.
Even Natalie had nice things to say. “Eez much better zan udder story. I like zee fantazee zenes too. Vor reeveesion, I vuud make shorter. You say too much.”
Most negative comments expressed I wasn’t “vulnerable enough.” I assume they wanted to see me have a mental breakdown.
Michelle liked it, as well. She even tried to think of places I could submit it for possible publication – not surprisingly, she couldn’t think of any, but claimed she would think of it. I’m sure she’ll get back to me when OJ Simpson announces he found the real killers.
Last, and apparently least, was Gail’s "London." I thought Gail would get “It was richly written” and ten synonyms for “richly written” for her positive comments. My prediction was right on the money. I also figured the suggestions for revision would be along the lines of “It was too dark” and ten synonyms for that as well. I was wrong. Dead wrong.
I must say I felt partially to blame. I began my critique of her work with something I'd wanted to say since Week Three, when we started critiquing others.
“I thought it sucked.”
Thankfully, a few people laughed. If no one had laughed, I was prepared to go down in flames, continuing with, “It was incomprehensible, unintelligible, pointless drivel.”
At any rate, a few people must have taken my faux critique as a license to “let it all hang out.”
Ann (the dancer), referring to Gail’s foreshadowing, said, “Your story is like seeing a contemporary opera. The music is pretty and all, but then they wheel out a Big Red Box. The Big Red Box just sits there, with no one interacting with it, and you’re left wondering what the Big Red Box meant.” Pretty funny actually, though Gail didn’t appear amused.
Skeletor didn’t bother voicing her distaste with metaphors. She went straight to her point, well, points.
“I thought it was too choppy, you jumped around to much, and you didn’t develop your characters,” she started. She paused for a breath before continuing, “Several times I couldn’t tell who you were talking to, your language seemed insincere, you seemed to be leaving London every day, I didn’t even understand what your job was. What’s an ‘L L M’? Is that some sort of lawyer ….”
Michelle, apparently feeling left out, interrupted, “More importantly, who cares? I know I don’t. I just saw ‘foreign investment’ something and skipped over it. But please, continue.”
Skeletor continued to bash it for a solid five minutes before ending with, “….but besides those comments, I really liked it.”
Michelle began her critique by mentioning how obvious it is that Gail is very sensitive. She added, “I think you’re manipulating your readers. I mean, you go on and on about how bad things were, but you never tell us what it was. We know he hit you, blah, blah, blah, but you still wanted to be with him so…I mean, I guess I don’t understand why.”
I’m
sure Gail was thrilled that she took an intensely vulnerable, private
moment in her life, put it “out there” for the world to see,
and was mocked for her efforts. Good thing Michelle knew that Gail was
the sensitive sort.
Though I usually walked Gail to her boyfriend’s waiting car after
class, this time, she stormed out before I had a chance to put my coat
on.
This was the last time she'd come to class.
Next Week, Part Eight: In Her Own Words (Sort Of)
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.
---------------------------------------
Harris Bloom lives and works in New York City. When he’s not contemplating whether he could or couldn’t care less, Harris is hard at work on a short story collection. He can be reached at harrisbloom@yahoo.com.
©
2004 Me Three