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Mentor
by Earl Coleman
Dear David:
You’re way cool, raving at workshop about my story "Fuck the Moon." So different from at school, my teachers, well, what can I say about them? I like the way you put it to us about the Teaching System, "they know only what they know." Still, they’re so hypocritical, aren’t they? So many things they won’t go near. Even the Holocaust, except to give it a name. No way they don’t know what they pretend they don’t know, especially when kids are smoking right in front of their noses, just go into the john.
I’ve finished Franny and Zoey. You’ve read everything. What do you think of it? I can’t understand what all the fuss is about. I don’t think it “informed me” as you say. Is it true they’ve tried to ban it? Why? Speaking of X-rated stuff -- you see everything -- did you see Eyes Wide Shut? I don’t know how they let me in, even though I was with my mom, but they did. Maybe because I put on a grown-up dress and makeup. What did you think? Do you think the movie was about sex? My mom did. I didn’t.
Well I’ve got a big test in bio coming up. That’s about sex. So long for now.
-- Me
So fine a line, he thought, between knowing something and knowing, what he could say to her that she would understand and what he couldn’t, and where lines were crossed that shouldn’t be. The scene where Tom Cruise is seduced came to him. He tried to see it with her eyes, the impact it would have on her, what she would understand of it.
March 5, 2001
Dear "Me":
You’re right. Eyes Wide Shut is about identity, not sex. It’s called metaphor, but I know you know that already. I agree also with your reaction to Salinger, whom I read a long time ago when I was, Good Lord, about your age. It’s always remarkable to me that I was born in 1936 and you in what -- 1986? Amazing we can have this correspondence. A testament to your maturity. You tell me I’ve read everything -- not quite. There won’t be years enough for any of us to do that.
Did you watch the other kids as you read your story in workshop? Their mouths dropped open. They were riveted. Me too. As you read I was put in mind of Mailer’s story, "The Happiest Day of My Life," written when he was eighteen. It won a national competition run by Story Magazine, if I’m remembering correctly. I thought also of Doris Lessing, with whom I was briefly acquainted when she’d first come from Rhodesia, reading one of her stories to a group of students, written at about eighteen, one that had been published in her first book of short stories, The Grass is Singing. If you don’t know either of these writers you should. But I digress as usual -- to your work. The raw power, the grip of forces unable to be contained, the deep sorrow at the human condition and the compassion for your characters, (like Mailer and Lessing) -- it blew me away. When I’m in the presence of a young writer who does that to me I wonder always -- how do they know? Where does it come from? What reservoir of knowledge, or reading, or living, or simply watching, does it come from? If I raved over your story at workshop, I didn’t rave enough.
There’s a particular literary journal that’s published a lot of my work. It has a kid’s section (not many do). I was so impressed with "Fuck the Moon" that I’ve sent it to them as an example of the best work coming out of our workshop and wrote a little about what we do, how we’ve organized ourselves. The circumstances of our workshop are indeed unique -- Saturday mornings, community support, parents willing to pay, gifted kids. Still, info about our workshop may act as a spur, something someone else might find interesting, build on. I always look for that, what we can use of that which went before, like finding artifacts, sometimes layers down, of city after city built upon the one before. Did you know that there were slave quarters recently dug up on Wall Street, perhaps, if I remember right, in the Trinity Church graveyard? We’re all of us borrowing, building on what’s gone before. Some writer, I’ve forgotten who, said there are only a few plots, and a million variations. On the other hand I’m also always looking for the wonder of the unique voice in a writer. That we create. Unduplicatable. Never heard before. Bursts upon us with an impact that informs our lives.
More to the point, I fear I’m running out of things to teach you. You’re going past me, even as we speak. You know stuff I’m learning still -- for example, the sheer humanity that I recognized in your writing when you first came to my class four years ago. And now you blossom beautifully before my eyes. I confess it’s overwhelming. I see you in my mind’s eye (Shakespeare’s locution, not mine) often.
-- David
Dear David:
Neat! They might even accept "Fuck the Moon" for their kids’ section, mightn’t they? Then we’d be published in the same place. Cool! I read all the journals published for kids, you know, Cricket, Turtle Soup, like that. None of them would publish "Fuck the Moon," for sure. I wonder sometimes who they publish for -- kids on farms? Alaska? None of my friends anyway is naïve enough to like what they print.
I read your letters over and over, your words just casual, like everybody knows those words and uses them all the time. How could you run out of things to teach me? You make me feel important, writing those words to me, like you’re sure I know them. Did you mean in your letter that you think I’m beautiful? I don’t know about that. Maybe pretty, but I think that’s a stretch. “Pretty” is such a nothing word anyway. Men can be beautiful. Tom Cruise is. Some boys are beautiful. I’ve known a few. They suck. Stuck on themselves.
I hate it when you talk about your age, like you’re falling apart and going to die tomorrow or something, or like you have to hobble around. What has your age got to do with anything, anyway? I mean -- I walk out of our class and I’m floating. That’s not what I get during the week, that feeling like I’m flying or something, that I’m weightless, even though I’ve got all these heavy words I carry around with me and need to say. Outside of Saturday mornings the rest of the week is blech. School is a textbook, a flat, ugly, dull textbook. Even my English teacher doesn’t have a clue what I’m about. The difference has to do with you. It doesn’t matter that you’re older than we are. When you teach us I’m there! Most, even family, don’t give a shit. I like it that you let your hair go white, that you don’t give a fuck about fashion, all the other bullshit.
Anyway -- I’m working on a new short story now, so I’ll get back to it.
-- Me
Well. He read her letter several times, sitting at his desk, adjusting his glasses with his index finger, noting the emotion he was experiencing, some cross between pride and what, some recognition of the person that she was, would be. She was before him. She was beautiful. Mentoring was indeed a challenge.
March 26, 2001
Dear "Me":
I like the authority you have in the way you write, speak, think of life. It’s a great pleasure to have a correspondence with you. Have you ever read volumes of correspondence between (usually famous) people? Fascinating stuff, sometimes literary on the face of it, where you can say, I’d know this person was a writer without reading any of their poetry or prose. There are hundreds of such volumes to choose among. Get the librarian to lead you to the racks if you haven’t come upon that kind of writing yet.
I’m always digressing -- not a good trait in a writer. To the point. I have good news. The journal I spoke of, Estuary, published in San Francisco (distributed throughout the country by the way), was not only excited about our workshop and wants me to write a piece about it for them, but they do want to publish your story! You’ll be getting some correspondence from them soon, formally accepting you. They’re connected to San Diego State U so they pay the author nothing for what they accept, but they’re quite prestigious. Just maybe the piece I’ll write about our workshop will in fact appear in the same issue as your story. As you say -- that would be quite cool.
I’m thrilled for you and thrilled for our workshop, delighted with whatever role I’ve played. The work of course is yours, unique, distinct, original, personal, your own. Congratulations!
The draft of the new short story that you read at workshop deserves more comment than the critiquing that it got on Saturday, where we didn’t spend enough time on it, especially on its depth of feeling. Hemingway said that we must go out beyond the ropes, where no one’s been before. That’s what you’ve done in your story. A breathtaking achievement. Yet -- as you develop a second draft from the notes you took during the critiquing, are you confident you simply know enough about life backstage? I voiced that concern at workshop, but it bears reiterating. Is that the reason that the ending isn’t the zinger that you need right there? What you do know of life, sex, relationships between men and women is always astonishing to me, so that I find myself writing to you as a peer, a peer who has a "voice," a priceless gift in the lit biz. It’s a commanding voice too, wise, knowing, a voice that connects us with ourselves, and all of us with you. I feel that direct relationship with you as a writer, person, peer.
My bet’s on you. I’m sure you’ll figure out the way to pull it off.
-- David
Dear David:
You’re a fine one to talk about what I know. What is that exactly? I’m a kid. I’ve been nowhere. I’ve read almost nothing. You’ve read everything no matter what you say, seen everything, been everywhere. When you were only a little older than me you were a Red when it was dangerous to be one. You hitch-hiked cross-country. You’ve been everything, even a businessman. What I know you’ve taught me. How would I have had the balls to send my story to Estuary? (I did hear from them like you said. They want a bio. What am I to say? I hate it I’m a blank page, still stuck in fifteen, waiting on the edges of some life I write about but haven’t really lived).
And what about your voice? The poetry of yours in all those great journals? The stories? They "resonate" for me, a word you like to use. I hear them every time I write, even in my diary where I write an entry every night before I hit the sheets.
I’m confident that I can "pull it off," as you say. I’ve been around. I’ve been a stagehand, working for my mom who runs a little theatre. I handle props, build sets. And listen (as you’ve taught me). Sure I can pull it off. The critiques were good, Kristina, Ashley, they always are. I like the way you gather all the critiques together, summing it all up, so they make sense to us, show us where the strengths and weaknesses are. Never bullshit.
-- Me
It was unnerving, her constant personal references, as though he was a friend of hers and she was on the phone to him with girl talk he could hear sometimes while walking down the hall at school. She had only been a child when she’d read at her first session with him. And not much more than a child even now. He wasn’t reassured.
April 16, 2001
Dear Samantha:
Time I think to drop the "me." Of course you’re you, unique as all of us are, even the lowliest who don’t yet know they are. Unifying them, bringing them to their consciousness that they are in fact unique, is us, writers, marrying them to themselves, going against the grain of the ads which tell them they’re "consumers." Writers tell them they exist, they’re real, they’re human, they’re unique.
We’ve come to a crossroads here. Why Estuary got in touch with me, not you, I don’t know, but there it is. The editor called me. His typesetter balked at the title, "Fuck the Moon" for the kid’s section. More than balked, had a shit fit. Now it’s true the entire story is full of "language" and that the typesetter (a midwest lady) is willing to typeset. But the title was more than she could handle, maybe because it’s in bold type. As you know I’ve opposed all censorship my life long, especially when I was a publisher, frequently taking my chances with a great deal on the line. But here is a very real problem for you to face. Please think it through for how or if you want to proceed. The decision is all yours to make.
You were right about your ability to get to the guts of the material in your new short story. Yes, the second draft is getting there, but the resolution still doesn’t work for me. Would Lauren really do that? Would Steve? I think you’re almost on top of it, almost force me to suspend my disbelief, but not quite. I guess I no longer question whether you can pull it off. I only wait for how with great anticipation.
You bowl me over, I confess, by the way you deal with adult relationships and sex in your writing. I wouldn’t have expected you to be blasé as if you’ve been there, done that. (I continually need to separate you, the person I know from our correspondence and in class, from the writer whose words I’m reading on the page). But what you do bring to your writing about the characters you breathe so vividly into life is a sense of the wonder they both feel, the adventure they know they’re having, even innocence, eyes wide open even when besotted, erotic when they haven’t even touched and it’s only chemistry at play. You carry me there, to the very scene, which I can visualize, the heat of the moment, even the heavy breathing (which is just a tad purple). Masterful! Effective! Emotional!
-- David
Dear David:
That is a kick in the ass, isn’t it? I tried to think about the title with your head, as you say, as well as my own. But you’ve given me confidence to feel that I do know something, so here goes. It’s their journal. It’s not like they want to, what’s the word you use, "Bowdlerize" the story. My words will stay intact. The title flipped her out. So what? It did the same for my mom.
So what I suggest is "Trailer Fantasy" as the title. (I won’t bore you with the fifty titles I discarded). Maybe it’s even a better title than "Fuck the Moon" (which I might have stuck in there just for the shock of it). "Trailer Fantasy" is more descriptive anyway. Am I giving in too easily? Should I fight? Should I say fuck you? What would you do?
You’re right. The whole end of the new story needs to be reworked, climax, denouement, the closing paragraph. Think, Samantha, think!
-- Sam
It was a poser, wasn’t it? Of course she was mature, or how could she have written "Fuck the Moon"? How could she have made this tough decision? That narrow line, dichotomy, knowing and not knowing, kept clouding his vision of her, as real to him now as if she was sitting across the table from him at workshop, a unique, jewel-like person as he’d taught her everybody is.
May 7, 2001
Dear Sam:
I can’t applaud your decision enough. My son Doug would have ranted, cursed, slammed doors, said keep your fucking jack (the old joke, which I’ll tell you some time if you haven’t heard it). I’m not sure that I would have had the maturity even in my twenties to get directly to the solution as you did. I’m in awe, and tremendously proud of you. You found the color gray all by yourself, a terrific discovery. For most of us, especially politicos like me, there’s only black and white, quite foolish, when for thousands of the choices that we face there are other colors we may opt for.
You’re right on target with the new title. It’s much more to the point, although I like it that you’ve considered your purposefulness in planting shock; "Fuck the Moon" as a title sure caught my attention. I see you know already that you have to be professional, objective about your work, about where each situation is at (it’s called the logos, from the Greek). All writers search for that, the understanding of self. We are the characters we write about, invent. We’re all of them. You are your characters, though how you know to be them I don’t know.
I’ll miss you this summer and look forward to Labor Day when we resume. And to seeing you again.
This last draft is a knockout, except for the occasional lapses in grammar and spelling. I’m hardly a stickler for that stuff, as you know, but take another gander at it and clean it up if you have time. Submitting to lit journals as you plan to do is tricky business. Some editors like everything just so.
-- David
May 26, 2001
Dear David:
My mom got me a gig from Memorial Day to Labor Day as an assistant on an archeological site in New Mexico, near Albuquerque. I won’t be hitch-hiking there, like you did (just a dreary Greyhound), but I’ll be thinking of you, taking that trip cross-country, your thumb stuck out, having your adventure. I’ll write you when I get there.
-- Sam
June 5, 2001
Dear David:
Did you know Georgia O’Keeffe worked out here? Well of course you do. You know everything. I had a chance to see an exhibit of some of her work. Talk about sex! Way past Eyes Wide Shut. You can just feel it pulsing through the canvas. Wow! What a woman! I read a tiny bio of her at the exhibit but I intend to read more. What we can do with art! It’s like a high without ever coming down. It’s all day long. All night. It’s how can you ever get to bed and sleep (not that it’s great to sleep in my shitty sleeping bag on the rocks, too hot even at night to wear my PJ’s.)
There’s an older guy (well older, I mean nineteen), kind of cute, looks a little like you, big dreamy eyes and all, in charge of our small section of this project. But I’m not into that, in love with the clean air, the sun, the joy of dirty hands, the thrill of finding potsherds in the earth and dreaming of Native Americans and people before them, entire civilizations that they built, but most of all the sun, the sun the artist uses to inform her work.
I got so carried away yesterday I took a break and biked out by myself into the desert far from everything, a blanket, a flute of French bread I got in a gourmet shop in town, and a bottle of wine I lifted from the commissary. I’m sure you’ve been here in the sheer immensity of it, the mesquite and the cacti and the occasional animals and the sun and sky. And hot! I took off all my clothes and lay there on my blanket with a whole slather of sunscreen on, soaking up the sun, my face lifted to it like Aztecs to their God, my back arched as though to bring me closer to the sky. And then it hit me, an idea, as I was wolfing down my chunks of bread and swigging my Medoc. An idea, loosely based on fossils, age and youth, and beauty, sun informing life. Then I biked back, eager to get at it.
I miss our classes, miss you. Write to you soon. See you in the Fall.
-- Sam
June 14
Dear David:
I thought should I?
Can I?
Will I?
Well sure I can, I thought.
I will, I thought.
I did!
Far out. Beyond the ropes.
I know!!
I owe a lot of what I know to you.
-- Sam
He laid the letter on his desk. What could he do with it, this piece of paper, warm, as if it just came from her hand, her slender fingers sunburned, fresh with earth? Although the notion of it as it hit him, Sam and wine and blanket in the desert sun and someone nineteen with big dreamy eyes, was quite ridiculous. He wept.
This story was published in The Distillery (November, 2002).
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