The Writing Lesson
The teacher was seated at his desk when the student burst into the room, clutching the pages of her story. She was distraught, on the point of tears, as she burst out, “I have just gotten back my story. This is terrible. How could you do this?”
The teacher put on as mild a face as he could and asked, “What is wrong?”
“I read through it. You make no comments on how I could improve my language use or plot or anything. There is just this comment you wrote at the end.”
“And what does the comment say?”
“It says,’You have a diseased mentality. You are stupid. You should not write stories.’ What kind of a comment is that?”
“And this is not clear? What is your problem?”
“You should know that any time you have criticism you always begin by finding something positive to say. This is a rule. Also I don’t think mentality is a word.”
“Very well. I am sure you have many adorable traits. Your mother must love you. But you must reconstruct yourself.”
“What does that mean?”
“Since about the age of, say, seven nothing productive has happened to you. You must go back to that point and reconstruct yourself from there. That is the only way you can become a writer.”
“That is venomous. You should be attempting to encourage my creative juices, not telling me to reconstruct myself.”
“I do not want to encourage your creative juices. Your creative juices are poison. When I was reading your story an innocent fly happened to buzz past above me. The fly dropped dead. Pfft, it fell out of the air, dead, onto the page. This is the effect your writing has.”
“That is not true. My writing is not so bad that it actually kills living things. Sometimes flies just die, for no reason. I see many dead flies.”
“Because when you walk into the room, they all drop dead. They are afraid you will write another story. So am I. I could sit for ten minutes and write nothing but gibberish and the gibberish I wrote would be more entertaining than your story. Anything would be more entertaining than your story.”
“That is so hurtful. My story was filled with gaiety and joy. These were scenes from my happy childhood, some of my most cherished memories.”
“I would rather get mugged on the subway than read any more of your cherished memories. At least the mugger would say something more interesting than is in your story.”
“You are a vile, wicked person. Someone as evil as you should not be allowed to teach.”
“I will not teach you. Go.”
“I will not go. I will be writing many more stories. I will be pouring my heart out onto the page. I have already written another story and I’ve brought it with me, and you will have to read it. Here.” She held the manuscript out to the teacher.
“I will not read it.”
“You must. You are my teacher.”
“I will not touch those pages. They might contaminate my fingers.”
She did not move. She stood there, refusing to withdraw her story. She said, “I have poured all the heartbreak I have ever experienced into this story. In this story I have exposed the human condition in all its pointlessness and vanity. You will read this story and you will be filled with hopelessness and despair, just as I was when I wrote it. This story is powerful and profound beyond anything you can imagine.”
“Very well,” he said. “If you will place the pages on my desk in front of me I will take the risk of running my eyes over them. I hope I will not be struck blind.”
She placed the pages in front of him and he began to read. Gradually a smile came to his face. Then he burst into laughter.
“What are you laughing at?” she asked.
“This passage is very funny.”
“This is the part where the poor blind orphan boy is lost in the swamp and a crocodile bites off his foot. He writhes in agony.”
“Yes, quite humorous. Turn the page. I cannot touch it.”
She turned the page for him and he read on. Now he could hardly contain his laughter.
“What are you laughing at? This is the part where the beautiful young nun becomes convinced of God’s malignant nature and shoots herself in the head.”
“Yes, it’s hilarious.” He turned the page and continued reading. Finally he fell out of his chair bellowing with laughter and sat convulsed on the floor.
The student stood in dismay. “In this part a poisonous fog descends on the village and all the inhabitants fall to their knees cursing existence and then they die.”
“Yes, yes, I love it. It’s the funniest thing I ever read. You have a flair for the comedic; such a light touch.” He rose, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “You show more promise than I would ever have thought possible. I see you have benefited from my instruction.”
“What instruction? First you called me stupid and then you laughed at my most heartfelt anguish. The only thing I have learned is that you are a completely worthless human being.”
He sat back in his chair. “As I said, you show much promise. Let me give you the exercise for the next class. Pretend you come from the planet Mars and you have just landed on Earth and are completely ignorant of our lives and habits. You come upon a family picnic in the countryside. Let me see this through the Martian’s eyes. Take this trite and trivial scene and make it new for me. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes. I think so. Should I write the story in Martian? It would be more authentic.”
“Do you know Martian?”
“Of course not. There is no such thing.”
“Then how could you write it in Martian?”
“I would be writing the story in Martian, but since I don’t understand Martian, I would not understand what I was writing.”
“In that case you should stick to English.”
“I will do so. I can picture the happy family gathered round the picnic basket. They laugh and joke with one another, as they eat their fried chicken and potato salad.”
“Potato salad is a nice touch.”
“Then one of them brings out a guitar and they join in folk songs, and melodies that recall the many memorable occasions they have shared together.”
“I can almost hear their cheerful voices.”
“Then the Martian kills them and eats them.”
“How very poignant.”
“I am inspired. I will begin immediately.” She took out her pen and prepared to write. “What’s that?”
“What?”
“All those little plopping sounds. Did you hear them?”
“That’s just the flies dying.”
The teacher put on as mild a face as he could and asked, “What is wrong?”
“I read through it. You make no comments on how I could improve my language use or plot or anything. There is just this comment you wrote at the end.”
“And what does the comment say?”
“It says,’You have a diseased mentality. You are stupid. You should not write stories.’ What kind of a comment is that?”
“And this is not clear? What is your problem?”
“You should know that any time you have criticism you always begin by finding something positive to say. This is a rule. Also I don’t think mentality is a word.”
“Very well. I am sure you have many adorable traits. Your mother must love you. But you must reconstruct yourself.”
“What does that mean?”
“Since about the age of, say, seven nothing productive has happened to you. You must go back to that point and reconstruct yourself from there. That is the only way you can become a writer.”
“That is venomous. You should be attempting to encourage my creative juices, not telling me to reconstruct myself.”
“I do not want to encourage your creative juices. Your creative juices are poison. When I was reading your story an innocent fly happened to buzz past above me. The fly dropped dead. Pfft, it fell out of the air, dead, onto the page. This is the effect your writing has.”
“That is not true. My writing is not so bad that it actually kills living things. Sometimes flies just die, for no reason. I see many dead flies.”
“Because when you walk into the room, they all drop dead. They are afraid you will write another story. So am I. I could sit for ten minutes and write nothing but gibberish and the gibberish I wrote would be more entertaining than your story. Anything would be more entertaining than your story.”
“That is so hurtful. My story was filled with gaiety and joy. These were scenes from my happy childhood, some of my most cherished memories.”
“I would rather get mugged on the subway than read any more of your cherished memories. At least the mugger would say something more interesting than is in your story.”
“You are a vile, wicked person. Someone as evil as you should not be allowed to teach.”
“I will not teach you. Go.”
“I will not go. I will be writing many more stories. I will be pouring my heart out onto the page. I have already written another story and I’ve brought it with me, and you will have to read it. Here.” She held the manuscript out to the teacher.
“I will not read it.”
“You must. You are my teacher.”
“I will not touch those pages. They might contaminate my fingers.”
She did not move. She stood there, refusing to withdraw her story. She said, “I have poured all the heartbreak I have ever experienced into this story. In this story I have exposed the human condition in all its pointlessness and vanity. You will read this story and you will be filled with hopelessness and despair, just as I was when I wrote it. This story is powerful and profound beyond anything you can imagine.”
“Very well,” he said. “If you will place the pages on my desk in front of me I will take the risk of running my eyes over them. I hope I will not be struck blind.”
She placed the pages in front of him and he began to read. Gradually a smile came to his face. Then he burst into laughter.
“What are you laughing at?” she asked.
“This passage is very funny.”
“This is the part where the poor blind orphan boy is lost in the swamp and a crocodile bites off his foot. He writhes in agony.”
“Yes, quite humorous. Turn the page. I cannot touch it.”
She turned the page for him and he read on. Now he could hardly contain his laughter.
“What are you laughing at? This is the part where the beautiful young nun becomes convinced of God’s malignant nature and shoots herself in the head.”
“Yes, it’s hilarious.” He turned the page and continued reading. Finally he fell out of his chair bellowing with laughter and sat convulsed on the floor.
The student stood in dismay. “In this part a poisonous fog descends on the village and all the inhabitants fall to their knees cursing existence and then they die.”
“Yes, yes, I love it. It’s the funniest thing I ever read. You have a flair for the comedic; such a light touch.” He rose, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “You show more promise than I would ever have thought possible. I see you have benefited from my instruction.”
“What instruction? First you called me stupid and then you laughed at my most heartfelt anguish. The only thing I have learned is that you are a completely worthless human being.”
He sat back in his chair. “As I said, you show much promise. Let me give you the exercise for the next class. Pretend you come from the planet Mars and you have just landed on Earth and are completely ignorant of our lives and habits. You come upon a family picnic in the countryside. Let me see this through the Martian’s eyes. Take this trite and trivial scene and make it new for me. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes. I think so. Should I write the story in Martian? It would be more authentic.”
“Do you know Martian?”
“Of course not. There is no such thing.”
“Then how could you write it in Martian?”
“I would be writing the story in Martian, but since I don’t understand Martian, I would not understand what I was writing.”
“In that case you should stick to English.”
“I will do so. I can picture the happy family gathered round the picnic basket. They laugh and joke with one another, as they eat their fried chicken and potato salad.”
“Potato salad is a nice touch.”
“Then one of them brings out a guitar and they join in folk songs, and melodies that recall the many memorable occasions they have shared together.”
“I can almost hear their cheerful voices.”
“Then the Martian kills them and eats them.”
“How very poignant.”
“I am inspired. I will begin immediately.” She took out her pen and prepared to write. “What’s that?”
“What?”
“All those little plopping sounds. Did you hear them?”
“That’s just the flies dying.”
