May '03

by JoAnne Henderson


This is me with my granddaughter Jaclyn, five months old. I volunteered to be her Friday babysitter while my daughter worked, and what a blessing that turned out to be. No matter how pressured I got with my college classes, I could count on those Friday hours with Jaclyn to take me away from the grind. Those little hands, that precious smile. I'll stop now; the first-time grandmother in me is leaking.

I took an advanced fiction writing workshop this semester, taught by a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, Stephen Dunn, --not the least bit intimidating. Each week we read two short stories by noted authors, and then to flex our writing muscles we wrote a single page in the style of one of them. It was fun, while looking for our own style, to "try on" the styles of other writers. Here's an excerpt from a piece I wrote after reading "The Lesson" by Toni Cade Bambera.

Back in my high school years in the fiery late-60s, in the days of short skirts, pale lipstick and ratted hair, when nobody over thirty could be trusted, I had a French teacher named Madame Moak. Not Mrs. Moak, but Madame, en francais, s'il vous plait, and the same thing in class, no English. Nobody dared. Now the funny thing was that she was hard as nails for sure, but she looked entirely different. Her hair was some bottled shade of red, but you just knew hers came from a beauty salon and not a Clairol box from Drug Fair like your mother's. She was a short woman, a bit pudgy, but her nails and makeup were perfect. She wore skirts and dresses, as did all the lady teachers back then, but she wore them with color-coordinated three-inch heels that made her face look like her feet hurt. The way her body tilted forward and she used her forearms for balance, hands dangling, and the way she lifted each foot and put it down just so, she looked like a flamingo walking.

Imagine the challenge, as a new writer, of imitating John Updike, Raymond Carver, Pam Houston, Susan Minot, even Poe and Chekhov. I think it's a great technique to encourage new writers to try different styles and play around with their imaginations.

One of my favorite assignments was the first one, an ice-breaker that gave us a peek at each other's writing in a way that was playful. We were simply told to go home and write a two-page fictitious scene that included a famous person, a breakfast cereal, a composer, a venereal disease, and the word "metatarsus." The next class was a blast, reading those scenes outloud and laughing. The exercise not only helped us get to know each other, but it got us over the hump of reading our first piece aloud in class. We knew we were in a safe place.

Hey, Hazel Street is a safe place for me, too, and I feel like reliving that moment. Let me share with you the piece I wrote.

Billy rubbed his short-cropped head, stroked his salt-and-pepper beard, and then crumpled up another sheet of paper and tossed it. Rejected ideas were piled up on the floor like a child's stash of snowballs. The Grammy awards that rested on chrome and glass shelves to his left annoyed him.

"Billy Fucking Joel, hot shot songwriter, awards up the yin-yang, and I can't write a goddamn verse," Billy said.

"Now, Bill, calm down. You'll come up with something. You're a genius and you know it," said his agent, who lay sprawled on the black leather sofa.

"Jack, you don't know jack-shit. You don't know what I go through to write this crap, and you don't care, as long as I can sign my name on your check."

Jack sat up. "I think your blood sugar is out of whack, Billy. What say I bring you a bowl of cereal? Shredded wheat with skim milk, right?"

Billy nodded and played absent-mindedly with the keys, thinking about "Piano Man." It had been easy to write, but it was boring pap; and he got a migraine thinking about all the times he'd been asked, "What is a real estate novelist anyway?"

Billy had watched his career spiral downward, and now he was trying to come up with songs commissioned by special interest groups. He detested the work. How could a man respect himself when he was reduced to writing for a chain of large-size shoe stores? The refrain on that one made him groan: "Charlie was a big man on campus, as the old saying goes, with feel so long that his metatarsus couldn't reach his toes." His old buddy Elton John was now refusing to be seen with him on stage.

Thinking about that frustrated Billy further. He knew Elton had written "The Last Song" about a young man whose body was deteriorating from AIDS.

I can't believe you love me,
I never thought you'd come,
I guess I misjudged love
between a father and his son.

Billy thought the lyrics were stunning, that the story was told clearly without the syndrome being mentioned. And what did you write for Pfizer Drugs, you jerk? Billy asked himself.

Do you remember syphilis
when it was ubiquitous?
They counted deaths on an abacus
until penicillin saved the day.

No wonder your fans have abandoned you.

When Jack returned to the room with breakfast on a tray, looking like a has-been butler, Billy was playing Mozart and considering a career change.

In case you're wondering, I am very serious about taking these courses and improving my writing. Who says a writing student can't have a little fun along the way?