HOW MY STUDENTS KEPT ME FROM TEACHING

HOW MY STUDENTS KEPT ME FROM TEACHING

            The semester started off bad and never got any better. 

Each evening as they piled into class, one student, then another, dropped a ten-page manuscript on my desk and turned to write his name and submission title on the board. In dismay, I’d see the names and manuscripts pile up.  Two or three at first, but by the time we were underway, there’d be eight to ten. And one day—eleven! I kept stealing looks at the board, knowing I’d been committed to tons of work at home.  More than a hundred pages of line-by-line editing.   

I pretended to like it, but I didn’t. Eleven manuscripts to read on my stationary bike. But worse, another class session coming up with no time to teach. 

In prior years I’d known our absolute limit was five or six manuscripts—leaving most of an hour for concentrated, hard-core lecturing. Hey, I’d be thinking, I’ve been at this for years, and there’s so much I need to tell them.  When my sessions threatened to spill over with too many manuscripts, I limited the number they could bring to class. I imagined I was doing a terrific job.

But this year I got careless, let the students write all they wanted. And now I was paying the price. 

Funny thing, though—I began noticing a few students were writing better. And soon, without letting the thought filter through and become  “Geronimo!” I began seeing they were ALL writing better. Every darn one of them. In class each week, we discussed what they’d created, and I had the fun of pointing out some unique, amazing, or even great lines. And then great scenes. Or I found mistakes, and instead of offering all the corrections myself, I made them suggest changes.    

We discussed what they’d once done wrong . . . and how the “wrongs” were now going away.      

I never felt I was “teaching.”  I was always just “going over manuscripts.”  And while in prior years, the manuscripts diminished in number as the semester progressed, this year there was no letup. My students, darn their eyes, simply wouldn’t stop writing!  

On the last day I mentioned my regrets to a favorite student. “You know,” I said, “this semester I never found time to teach.” 

She looked at me in surprise.  “Well, you didn’t lecture much.  But those were just words—and I’m not sure they all sank in.”  She paused. “We learned more by studying other manuscripts and figuring out what was wrong. And then hearing your comments and the changes you offered—or let us offer.”  She paused again. “Haven’t you noticed we all got better?”

“Well, actually, I did. But . . . there weren’t any lessons.  No real lessons at all.”

“What do you think ‘getting better’ means?”  She looked at me, letting it percolate. “This was one of the best semesters we’ve ever had.” 

“Really?” 

“Oh, yes,” she said.

I walked away with one of those cartoon light bulbs floating over my head. Before I got to the car I was thinking, Well, hot damn, how did this happen without my noticing?  All these students improving and me fussing about no time to teach.

My husband had come this last night, and now the car was moving, but I was hardly aware of it.  While he drove, I began smiling to myself.

I must have been teaching after all. 


"DAMN THE REJECTIONS, FULL SPEED AHEAD: THE BUMPY ROAD TO GETTING PUBLISHED."    Available on Amazon--or Maralys.com 

HOW TO KILL YOUR CREATIVITY

HOW TO KILL YOUR CREATIVITY

I just did it again--rushed into the family room with a great new idea. Couldn’t wait to tell my husband the core message for a new story—meaning something I meant to write immediately, starting in a few minutes. Unfortunately, I got the wrong response. He said “EEEYOOOGH!” exactly the way a teenager says it when you suggest he trim his father’s ear hairs, or put on that new shirt from Aunt Helen . . . or worse, stop showing his plumber’s crack.    

I don’t know how to spell the sound, but you’ve all heard it. It’s the world’s briefest auditory conveyance of No Way, You’ve Got to be Kidding, or That’s a Rotten Idea If I’ve Ever Heard One.

My idea for the new story fizzled like a party balloon with a pin prick. The creative air seeped out, faster and faster, and I just stood there, dismayed. And finally I said it. “Well, I’ve just broken the first rule of creativity.” 

Rob simply looked at me. He doesn’t know the rule, and he wouldn’t care about it if he knew. But he’ll gladly give me his first reaction to anything he considers even slightly ludicrous.

Have you caught on to the rule? 

In case you haven’t, the rule is, Never share the first blush of a creative idea with ANYONE.  Not until you’ve got it down on paper, not until the thing is mostly written and you can’t easily unwrite it.  

If it was a dumb idea in the first place, you’ll soon know. If it wasn’t, you risk letting someone kill your baby while it’s still in the womb.

Everyone who writes knows this rule, and no one better than I. My inner voice invariably says, Don’t share this, and I should have listened, but I didn’t; instead I rushed out to expose my great new vision to toxic fumes. Not too smart. 

I finally said, “Nora Ephron’s book is called, ‘I Remember Nothing.’ Do you think that’s a good title?” And he said No. 

Well, that was some comfort, anyway. I’m sure Ephron has sold a million copies of this very funny book with the mediocre title. Except I happen to love it, bad title and all.  

I’m also willing to bet she wrote the book first and asked for opinions last. Which means, among all her other talents, Ephron knew enough not to stifle her creativity.