Writing Class
If someone honks at you on the highway, they’re a jerk. But if three or four people honk at you, you’re the jerk.
— Anonymous
It was Thursday evening again. A creative writing class was in session in room 24b in the east annex building of Bellevue Community College. The class was taught by a sardonic, middle-aged female science fiction/fantasy author who had written many bestselling books, none of which anyone in the class had read or even heard of.
The evening routine was like this: each week, a portion of the class would bring in a portion of their latest “undying prose,” as she called it, have it read to the class, and then receive feedback. The feedback was handwritten on scraps of paper and handed to the authors for later, private review, but anyone was free to share their reactions with the class right after the reading had taken place. The only rule that authors had to follow was to keep silent during the critiquing process. “Lawyering” the merits of one’s work in the face of criticism was strictly forbidden to avoid wasting valuable class time on pointless debates and to promote an atmosphere of geniality in which all could give constructive criticism without fear of verbal retaliation from the author.
“Bad writing,” Shirley began in the authoritative tone of a literary master, “is like taking a dump. You don’t mind your own stink while you’re in there. You might even be proud of it. But once you open the door and others get a whiff, you realize how bad it is.”
“Well, I get some of my best ideas while I’m sitting on the toilet,” Linda said. “In fact, I keep a notepad in the bathroom so I can jot down my ideas while I’m there.”
A few of the attendees laughed.
Shirley cleared her throat. “I’m speaking figuratively, of course. The moral of this is to proofread, proofread, proofread that undying prose. And once you’re done proofreading, let it mellow in the toilet for a while, and then proofread it again.”
“And watch those adverbs,” someone in the back added.
“That’s right. Adverbs are the bane of writers,” she said succinctly. “Even Steven King doesn’t like them.” She looked up at the clock. “Okay. We have time for one more reading.” She looked at the author. “Didn’t you bring another chapter of your novel with you today? Yes? Okay. Good. Would anybody like to read another chapter from his novel? Karina, would you like to read? All right. Pass that over to Karina—there you go. Thank you. Okay. Everybody get ready to take notes. We’re going to hear another chapter from the science fiction novel in progress—what was it called? Oh, yes. Henderson’s Camel.”
…Dinner was as hot as it was brief. Thirty minutes later, Sean and Cosine were scowling at each other in the elevator as it rose to the floor of Sean’s apartment. Everyone had agreed to call it an early night.
“Damn it, Cosine! Why were you such a snob to them?”
“Sean, he works in the trash mining centers, for God’s sake. She’s just a clerk at the BUE. And did you see all that old junk lying around their apartment?”
“They’re still my friends.”
“They don’t have to be mine.”
They exited the elevator. Cosine walked briskly toward Sean’s apartment, her gold bracelets jangling. Sean had to trot to keep up with her.
“Maybe it doesn’t matter to you, but I like them anyway, regardless of what they do for a living or how clean they keep their apartment.”
“But they’re Betas, and you’re an Alpha. What do they have to offer you?”
“Is that how you choose your friends?” Sean put his keycard into the door slot. “And just for the record, I’m not an Alpha. I’m Sean Weber.”
“No, you’re an Alpha.”
“I’m Sean Weber.”
“Okay. You’re Sean Weber the Alpha.”
“Nobody’s going to assign me a class. Not you, not Isaac, nobody.”
“Whatever. Give me my coat. I’m going home.”
Sean took her coat from the closet and held it out to her. She snatched it out of his hands. He spoke to her as she put it on by the doorway.
“What do you think friendship is, Cosine? A class alliance?”
“No.”
“Don’t you care about anyone outside your class?”
“Sean, I don’t tell you who to care about, so don’t tell me.”
“All of you in this society are orphans. Do you realize that? The least you could do is not isolate yourselves from each other.”
“We’re fine with the way things are.”
“Of course you are. That’s because you have no idea what you’re missing.”
She glared at him. “So what’s missing, Sean, if you’re such an expert?”
“Well, just for starters, love, family, commitment.”
“Love? Family? Commitment? Ha! A lot of good they did you. Your society failed.”
“Yes, but it didn’t fail because we had them—it failed because we lost them.”
“So what are you going to do now that they’re gone?” she asked, slipping on her gloves.
“I’ll recover them somehow, even if it means hanging around with Betas, which really doesn’t bother me in the least. In fact, I find Betas a lot warmer and more congenial so far than a certain Alpha I’ve met.”
“If you really feel that way, Sean, then you can find yourself a nice Beta to show you around New Eden. I’ll talk to Isaac about it tomorrow.”
He ran his hand through his hair. “God, why are relationships so hard in this society?”
“Maybe you should consider letting go of your obsolete values.” She turned to leave. “Thank you for the memorable evening.”
“Obsolete values? What makes you so sure my values are so obsolete?”
“Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve lived in this society all my life.”
Sean detected a trace of sadness in her voice as she said this. “Can I ask you a personal question, Cosine?”
“What?”
“Why are you so lonely?”
She turned to face him again. “What makes you ask that? Am I carrying a sign over my head that says, ‘I’m lonely?’”
“I asked you first. Tell me why.”
“I’m not lonely,” she said, wiping her eyes.
Sean gazed into her eyes. She stared back defiantly, but then her gaze faltered. Her slightly parted lips seemed to beckon him. Without thinking, he took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly. For a fleeting moment, her body melted against his, but then she quickly stiffened and pulled away. She stared at him with a haunted expression.
“What did you just do?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that.” He held out his hand to her. “Come back into the apartment. Let’s talk this out.”
“No. Stay away from me,” she said, retreating down the hallway. “I don’t have to tolerate this. I’m getting off this project.”
“Cosine!”
“Leave me alone!” she shouted as she disappeared around the corner.
“Thank you for reading, Karina,” Shirley said. “We now have about five minutes for comments.” She looked at the author. “Remember, the authors are not allowed to comment or lawyer on the critiques. This is not a trial. We are all here to help each other. Okay. Would anybody like to start?” Shirley scanned the room. “Anybody?”
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
Alice cleared her throat. “I guess I can start.”
“Go ahead, Alice.”
“I guess I don’t have that much to say, but it flowed really well, and the dialog is good. I really liked it. I want to hear more.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, I guess so.”
“All right. Anyone else?”
“I can say a few words,” Joanne said. “I really don’t like science fiction, so I don’t know if I can give you any good advice today. But I agree with Alice in that it flowed well. I also find the characters very likable. I feel sorry for poor Sean, waking up in this strange world and having Cosine show him around. It reminds me of the time when I moved to this city from Chicago five years ago. I didn’t know anyone here, and it was great that the guy who lived in the apartment next to me knocked on my door and offered to hang out with me. He even showed me around that strange city, just like Cosine did for Sean. Eventually, we became friends, and then he became my husband. Yes, it’s true. That’s Stan. But I’ve already told you about him. I noticed that Sean and Cosine argued again. Stan and me argue sometimes too, so I know it’s part of every relationship. We’re having an argument right now, but I’m sure we’ll work it out. We always do. I hope Sean and Cosine will fall in love and get married like Stan and I did. I'll be disappointed if they don’t.”
“Thank you for your insight, Joanne. Ellen? You’re raising your hand. Do you have a comment?”
“Yes. I just want to say that it flowed really well, and I really liked it. That’s all.”
“Great. Anybody else?”
“I can comment,” George in the middle row said. He put down the gold Parker pen he’d been holding and sighed. “I’ll be upfront. The dialogue is a little stilted. There are a lot of unnecessary speech tags, and I heard a couple of adverbs and filter words in there. Also, you ought to check your punctuation. I could tell by the way Karina was reading it that you might have some issues with it. There might even be some comma splices and misplaced quotation marks in there. It sounds like a first draft, so I’m trying not to be too picky here. Then there’s that name, ‘Cosine.’ Will the people of the future really be named after mathematical terminology? And why does she act so fickle with him? Why doesn’t she just sleep with him? This is the 22nd century, after all. Even women today might sleep with a man on the first date. And don’t take this personally, but Sean comes off as whiny and pedantic. Let me see, now. I think that’s all. I’d like to say that despite all this, I really like the storyline. Keep up the good work!”
“Thank you for your thorough comments, George,” Shirley said. “Anyone else?”
“I can say a few words,” Beverly said. “I don’t read science fiction. I’m more into historical romances, so I can’t comment on the plot. But I’ll go out on a limb here and say it’s strange that they still use elevators in the 22nd century. Seems to me that they would have come up with something different by that time. Don’t you think? And these two went on a dinner date together. I think that going on dinner dates will be kind of old-fashioned in the future. Maybe people will just hook up after being auto-selected by computers. What I want to know is how anyone can write authentically about the 22nd century unless they’ve actually been there. I mean, you’re supposed to have knowledge about what you write. So, I’m sorry, but this story does not feel authentic to me.”
Maria spoke up. “As for me, I was really liking it until the part where Sean kissed Cosine in the hallway. Basically, he forced himself on her. This is supposed to be the protagonist of the novel. Do you really expect the reader to root for this character after he has just sexually assaulted his supposed love interest? And won’t there be surveillance cameras everywhere in the 22nd century? This should have been recorded. So, if this is really supposed to be a progressive society, I would expect in the next chapter for your main character to be arrested and possibly tried for sexually assaulting Cosine. Don’t you all agree?”
Some in the group nodded in agreement.
“I guess Sean is kind of a creep,” Alice added.
Leticia spoke up. “I have something to say. I’ve been listening to this story for four weeks now, and I don’t hear anything about social justice. Okay. So this story is supposed to take place 90 years in the future, but everyone seems white to me. Where are all the black people? And everybody in this story sounds straight. Nobody’s gay, bi, or trans. Maybe our author believes that our society will backslide in the future and diversity will cease to exist.” She turned to the author. “I don’t mean to offend you, but sweetie, you’d better include a trigger warning for this book if it ever gets published.”
“All right. Very insightful commentary,” Shirley said. “I hope you wrote all that down for him. Okay. Anybody else want to comment?”
Claudia raised her hand. “Can I add something? Stories say a lot about the author, so I wonder when I listen to this story: Where is the author? Everyone in this soap opera seems lonely to me. Sean pines for his wife, who died 100 years before; Cosine feels empty and isolated in her marriage; Isaac misses his departed wife; and so on. Whenever I read something like this, I wonder if the author is going through the same thing in his own life. It sounds to me like the author is lonely. If you are, that’s your business. I don’t want to pry. So maybe Beverly, who commented earlier, is wrong; maybe you are writing what you know. This isn’t about some 22nd-century dystopian society where nobody believes in love anymore; it’s about you and your loneliness. I wrote some more of my thoughts on my feedback form. You can read about it later. Just ask me if you don’t understand any of it.”
“Very insightful, Claudia. Thank you for your commentary. James in the back row: I saw you had your hand up. You have something to add?”
“Yes. While I was listening, only one thought came to mind: derivative plagiarism. It’s a phrase that I came up with myself. Derivative plagiarism applies to your manuscript. Now, as I see it, you’ve based your work upon Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. Here we’ve got the alphas, betas and all that; the markers are there. But how do you think scholars would compare your derivative work against the modern classic? Now, I’m not saying that you’re actually, ahem, pardon the expression, ‘ripping off’ Mr. Huxley’s work by setting it in the same world that he created. But whether you are or not, you must ask yourself whether your work actually contributes to or says anything different about the original text. If not, you need to consider whether your work can stand on its own. If it cannot, it may be considered by scholarly readers as insipid or intellectually bankrupt.”
Beverly turned to the author. “Don’t listen to him. It’s obvious you’ve put a lot of work into your novel,” she said. “Write for yourself. And if you don’t think you’re good enough, keep writing anyway.”
“That’s right,” Alice said, addressing the group for the first time that evening. “Writing a poorly-conceived story is like giving birth to a deformed child. Sometimes you just have to love the child as she is, imperfections and all. As I myself have found, writing prose is difficult, so don’t be upset if you write badly. My husband reads all my work and gives me feedback. I don’t always like what he says, but I have to admit he’s usually right.”
The class nodded solemnly.
“Insightful comments, all.” Shirley said, putting down her phone. “Make sure you’ve written them all down for the author to review later.” She glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Well, that’s a wrap for today. Don’t forget your creative writing exercise for next week. Write a story in 333 words. The theme is ‘movies.’ Now get those pens a’moving and those keys a’clicking, and watch out for those adverbs!”
* * *
The author walked through the door without a word. His wife walked up to him and kissed him.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said.
“That’s good.” She helped him remove his coat. “How was it tonight?”
“Babe, I don’t know why I write. I think it’s a worthless way to spend time.”
“Didn’t they read your chapter?”
“Yes, they read it.”
“And?”
“And what? Let’s just say that it was a slightly soul-withering experience.”
“Oh, I’m sure they loved it. You’re just being modest.”
“No, I’m not.”
They moved into the living room. The aroma of Ragu pasta sauce with mushrooms hung in the air.
“Well, I can’t believe they didn’t like it,” she said. “I, for one, love what you write.”
“Being that you’re my wife, I can count on you to be partial.”
“Your grandma likes it, too. She really liked the last story you sent her. Did she tell you that?”
“Well, grandmothers always like what their grandsons write. She loves me. I can do no wrong in her eyes.”
His wife moved back into the kitchen, where she resumed chopping up some vegetables for the salad. He went into the living room and plopped down on the couch. He took the written feedback slips from his satchel and looked through them. After he was done, he tossed them onto the table.
“I had no idea I was such a bad writer,” he said.
She stopped chopping. “What did you say? I couldn’t hear you.”
“I said, dinner smells delicious!”
“Just hang in there. It’ll be done soon.” She resumed chopping.
He went to the kitchen doorway and leaned against the threshold. She looked back at him and winked.
“Don’t look so glum.”
“You know, I think of all the great science fiction writers out there. Ray Bradbury, Harry Harrison, Robert Zelazny, Robert Heinlein, Arthur C. Clark, and a lot of others. And then there’s the eminent Isaac Asimov. With all those great sci-fi authors out there, why would anyone want to read anything that I write?”
“But you said you wrote with your soul, didn’t you?”
“Yes, and probably so did they with their more interesting souls.”
“I’m sure there are people out there who have read all of those authors and are looking for someone fresh.”
“Yeah, as fresh as a derivative plagiarist.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“Don’t worry about what anybody thinks of your writing,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Just write for yourself.”
“Writing only for yourself is just mental masturbation. It’s what you call being a ‘legend in your own mind.’ I want people to read what I write.”
“Then you need to get a thicker skin, because not everybody is going to like what you write. People have different tastes,” she said. “Now go wash your hands. Dinner’s about ready.”
He went upstairs to his private study where he did his writing. The computer was already on. The screen saver was showing a parade of flying toasters. He sat down in his comfy leather chair and wiggled the mouse. The desktop blinked onto the screen. He took a deep breath. A writer is a person who writes. If a person doesn’t write, he is not a writer, he thought, gazing fixedly at the screen. Therefore, a person who doesn’t write cannot be a bad writer any more than a person who doesn’t play basketball can be a bad basketball player.
He knew what he had to do. He opened the file manager with a click. Within it, he navigated to the directory, where he kept the master copy of his stories and some works in progress. With little hesitation, he deleted the directory. Next, he deleted the directory with the dozens of short stories he had written over the years. “What were you thinking, trying to be a writer like that?” he asked himself aloud, deleting more directories. After his desktop system had been purged of his creative work, he logged into his cloud storage and deleted all the story files there, including the unfinished Henderson’s Camel. “Bye-bye, Sean. Bye-bye, Cosine, and everyone else. It was nice knowing you,” he said as he did this. After that, he reached into the drawer, pulled out the flash drives with backup copies, and deleted them too. Then, taking a deep breath, he emptied the trashcan. He had printed copies of a few stories in a folder on the bookshelf. He tore them up and tossed them into the wastepaper basket. Done.
At once, the pointless anxiety he had felt gave way to a new sense of calm and liberation. There. Ten years of work—gone, he thought. The “undying prose” is now dead, and so is the bad writer. He smiled. I am free.
He leaned back in the chair and stared at the screen. He wondered what would be on Netflix that evening. Watching Netflix was certainly a more productive way to pass the time than writing stories that would offend people. He waited for his wife to call him for dinner. He realized that at least five minutes had already passed, but she had not called him. It’s just as well, he thought. I’m not that hungry anymore. But after another ten minutes passed, he began to wonder.
He was about to get up when his wife appeared at the doorway. Clutched in her hands were the feedback slips from the evening’s lesson. She looked at him with a forlorn expression, her face wet with tears.
“Oh, Sweetheart. I hope you don’t take them seriously,” she said.