The Silken Tent
My Letter to the World
October 2000
October 18, 2000
Wednesday
Changes in attitude, changes in latitude,
Nothing remains quite the same...
--Jimmy BuffetLast night was the seventh weekly meeting of the creative writing class I take. When I wrote about it back in September, I praised it extravagantly, especially the effect that the instructor's notes and encouragement were having on the progress of my own work. I must confess now that I was newly arrived at that attitude. During the first two classes especially I was impatient with the painstaking introduction to literary form, manuscript preparation, and course requirements. I was arrogant in my command of these matters, smug about my advanced level of literary prowess, doubtful even that I would actually gain from this experience.
It's not often that I see my own error early enough in a process to change course. By the time I wrote the September 29 piece (just after the fourth meeting) I had come to understand how valuable the class, in all its aspects, would be for me. I turned down an invitation by the city newspaper to watch the presidential debates in their offices and then be interviewed about my reaction because it would have meant missing two sessions. I spent a lot of time reworking the pieces I'd submitted, incorporating Mr. Wallace's suggestions and feeling gratified at the results. In essence, I got serious (again) about my novel.
When I arrived last night I knew as I walked down the hall that something was different. I am always one of the last to arrive, sliding into my seat just minutes before we come to order. The classroom is down a poorly lit curving hallway, and though I can't see the light streaming from the door until I'm almost there, I can usually hear the laughter and the chattering of the others.
Last night there was silence, and I wondered for a moment if perhaps class had been canceled and I didn't know it. At the doorway I saw a strange woman sitting at the the spot usually occupied by Mr. Wallace. I took two uncertain steps into the room. "This is the right place," said the young man who sits across from me.
This was the class where we were to begin prose workshops. While it is often effective to conduct a critique session for poems only minutes after they've been read for the first time, prose usually needs a longer time for reading, processing, and responding. (This is because of length, not necessarily complexity.) I was carrying a box containing seventeen copies of my 15-page manuscript for distribution, in anticipation of my work being on the table next week.
"You have to carry your stuff in a box? Well geez!" The young woman who cackled this at me had told me a few weeks ago that I just didn't appreciate "Generation Next" writing. (I had been trying to follow the syntax in a poem. Evidently, "Generation Next" writers ignore syntax while fuddy-duddy English teachers don't.) I was annoyed then. I was more annoyed now.
Presently, the woman at the head of the circle determined that all who were coming were there, and she introduced herself. She is Geraldine Gutwein, the instructor who leads the daytime section of English 107. She would be taking over our class for the rest of the semester because Mr. Wallace was about to undergo extensive cardiac surgery, the need for which had been determined just that morning.
I felt as if someone had pulled a support out from under me. I had gotten comfortable with Mr. Wallace's style and approach, become enthusiastic about my work again, and now here was the need to regroup and begin again. I looked at my box of manuscripts. The note I had attached to Mr. Wallace's copy was chatty and fairly personal, the result of the rapport that had sprung up between us. I'd made references to his suggestions in a way that assumed a certain familiarity with my work and my goals.
And I looked at Ms. Gutwein. She was projecting an air of calm confidence, although she acknowledged that the challenge before her was great. In taking on an extra class, especially one so reading intensive, she is opening herself to enormous demands on her time and her attention. (She now teaches seven classes. That is a staggering load.) She is primarily a poet, but she assured us that she responds well and effectively to prose. She asked us to introduce ourselves, help her get her bearings about what we have done, and be prepared next week to study the story slated for that night as well as my manuscript and another piece (written by the Generation Next advocate who seemed so daunted by my box). She dismissed us after about an hour.
I went through a lot of emotions rather quickly. Any loss, even something as minor as not getting to a ringing phone in time, can trigger the Five Stages of Grief. I felt Denial ("I know that woman is a substitute -- maybe it's only for this one night."), Anger ("How could he DO this to me!!! Why do the things I count on always DISAPPEAR???"), Bargaining ("Maybe I can just turn in little fluff pieces and begin again when he comes back in the spring."), Depression ("This is a disaster. How can I demand of her what I would have of Mr. Wallace when she is so overburdened? I'll never get this novel on course now."), and, finally, Acceptance.
In the end, Acceptance serves both me and my new teacher. Something I had counted on has taken an unexpected turn, but I am more than willing to work to make this successful for all of us. I've been in this position, having to take up an established enterprise to the consternation of the long-time members. I will give this woman what I wish I had gotten -- cooperation, support, a belief that circumstances are unfolding as they should.
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