(The beginning of this memoir dates back to 1949 for those scrolling back)

                                                    

                                                      CREATIVE WRITING 102

1963

     “Well?” Mr. Edwards said, as he scanned the faces of those fellow students who were obviously embarrassed at the idiocy of my story and hesitant to even lower themselves and comment on its debasement of the writing society. “Let’s hear your comments.”

     A man around 50 with the old military buzz-cut, not far from me, stood. “This story…it did have some humor.” There was consternation on his face. “But it went nowhere. It was just description. It was a…hodge-podge. I have no idea what he was trying to get across.”

     He sat down and a big, barrel-chested, bushy-bearded guy called J. Hampton Mills, who sat in the front row, stood. He published, edited, and was chief writer of a revolutionary weekly of about 4 pages that attacked the status quo with salacious and outrageous articles hoping to upset or arouse dull, impervious Cerritos commuter students who didn’t give a crap about anything except a diploma that would lead them to middleclass comfort, something J. Hampton Mills in his class tirades despised venally. He was ferocious, mid-twenties, and his voice boomed with authority; an imposing leader of the meager enclave of malcontents against the bomb, war, the gas chamber, America’s inherent racism, and everything else that was wrong with the country.

     “If this piece was a drawing it would be a cartoon for kindergartners…uh, excuse me, pre school kiddies just out of diapers. The scope was microscopic.”

     I tried to block out what came at me next like a barrage of sucker punches to my very existence. Nobody defended me. It was decided that the writer of my supposedly anonymous piece did not possess the depth of a tapeworm, nor the knowledge and experience of an adolescent. But Mr. Edwards held up his hand like a stop sign.

     “Humor,” he said. “This is the only piece by this class with humor, that actually caused a ripple. So I see promise.”

     Groans. Snickers. I was devastated. What the fuck was I DOING here? I should go back and kiss Don Buford’s ass and Doc Bennett’s ass, and Wally Kincaid’s ass! I was a baseball player, an athlete, not a dork! When the class mercifully ended, I waited until everybody was gone so I didn’t have to face any of them in the hallway. I was dropping the class. Shuffling out the door, head down, Edwards called to me. He sat behind his desk, grinning at me. He asked me to sit down, and in a trance I complied, in the front row.

     “Don’t get discouraged,” he said. “I liked your story.”

     “Bullshit. It wasn’t a story. It was garbage. I had no idea how bad I was, how stupid I was, what a disillusioned idiot I was until I heard that asinine gibberish. My crucifixion was justified.”

     He laughed; then sat forward. “Look, the purpose of this class is to expose the truth. You can’t really write until you know yourself, and the best way to know yourself is to listen to your own words and see how they are accepted. It’s painful, but writing is a painful business that calls for deep introspection. Life is painful. Some people never consider writing until the pain in their life becomes unbearable and they have no alternative left but to write.” He smiled at me, a big kid smile; eyes full of humor. “Let me tell you this, Dell: YOU are a writer. Most of the people in this class are aspiring writers who have been at it since they were young and they’re pretty good at a certain level, but you are the only writer with an original voice. The first sentence I read, I KNEW you were a writer. Your words bounce off the page. Now don’t make that sour face. Don’t be so damn hard on yourself! Listen, I would never, ever misguide a student of mine. Dell, I don’t know your background, don’t know why you’ve chosen to write, or what made you want to write, but it seems to me this is your first effort, and there’s a reason for that, and I’m here to make sure you pursue and develop this gift, because if you don’t I would consider that a great waste.
 

     I was dumbstruck. “What makes you think I can actually be a writer, Mr. Edwards?”

     “Dave.”

     “Dave.”

     “Arrogance. I don’t know where it came from, but my God, you possess splendid arrogance. I’d pay to have it. You’ve got a fresh approach and a fearless verbal masculinity. It’s inspiring for me as a teacher of writing to have a student like you in my class. Now you go home and get started on your next assignment, and think about the criticisms, and don’t let them discourage you. I look forward to your next piece.”

     I was speechless. I found myself thanking him. He handed me a paperback copy of “Catch-22.” by Joseph Heller. He informed me my first big steps should be to start my own library of classics, European and Russian masters and obscure underground books by modern writers. From them I would gain inspiration, joy, education, philosophy, understanding of the world and humanity, and the study of style. He said it was necessary I read “the bad stuff as well as the good stuff” so I knew what to do and what not to do. He didn’t want any thanks. His gratification was from teaching and inspiring. Mr. Edwards.

     Out in the hallway, striding past fellow students, I went from hating myself to considering I was special in some way, with a leg up on these pedestrian plodders with their narrow and limited ambitions.

     (Next Sunday installment: A New and Different Mentor.)