Classroom Antics: Day 3
I’m sharpening my defensiveness.
Getting ready to pounce.
My selected pages are going to be reviewed in roughly 45 minutes and I find myself a little freaked out.
These are strangers who are forced to read my writing because that’s what you do during the Advanced Novel Workshop: read and critique. I haven’t really *connected* with a single person in the room. Had some decent conversation at a ‘Writer’s Reception’ the other night, but then again, we were all drinking free wine and a little buzzed. (On the plus side, I can cross off ‘Get Drunk in Iowa’s Formal State Capitol’ from my Life List.)
These strangers actually already read my work last night; we’re discussing it today.
I’ve already projected all over them: they’ll be uncomfortable with the gay references. Four of them will boldly announce, “For moral reasons, I could not read these pages.’
The instructor will nod sympathetically, and say, “Understandable.”
The 60-ish, Canadian Superior Court judge attending the class will silently get up and walk out of the room.
Yesterday, a very intelligent woman explained she has her gay character commit suicide because he’s so miserable. I think today she will blankly ask me ‘why is this story so upbeat? Aren’t gay people, you know, miserable all the time?’
I have rehearsed a couple Outraged Fag scenes in my head: YOU PEOPLE DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE A GAY MAN IN THIS STRAIGHT CULTURE! I SHOULD HAVE NEVER SHARED MY WRITING WITH A GROUP OF PEOPLE WHO WOULD REFUSE TO STEP OUTSIDE OF THEIR SURBURBAN MINDSETS TO …
(The rant continues. There are several striking variations. One includes a dramatic storming out of the room.)
The truth is, I’m just scared.
I didn’t pull punches with this work I submitted, I didn’t edit my words to make it ’straight-person-friendly.’ There aren’t raunchy sex scene in this, but I did use the word ‘cocksucking’ and not in a derogatory way.
And if I dig a deeper (which is what a warrior commits to do: dig deeper to more fecund layers of truth beneath the topsoil), this projected fear that ‘they can’t handle it,’ is just another dirt layer of defensiveness.
What if none of them have a problem with a man-to-man love story…what if they just hate it because it’s bad writing?
Ouch.
It’s easier to prepare my Outraged Fag scenes in my head than admit this simple truth: I am afraid. I don’t like feeling judged (who does?) and I’m about to willingly go into this classroom where I am going to be judged.
Ironically, each of the 5 class participants who we’ve already critiqued had to go through the exact same experience that I am now: fear, anticipation, wondering about judgments. Which means we probably have a lot more in common than I want to admit. And yet, I’m so ready to say, ‘Wow, you’re WAY different than me…’ because it’s easier to be judged, perhaps, by people who don’t understand the Real Me, than it is by people who call me on my shit.
Ugh - this feels like such a high-school revelation that I expect the food court where I’m typing right now to start playing music from the Sixteen Candles genre. Cue Molly Ringwald to show up with her pouty lips whining, “It’s not fair.”
And maybe this is an age-appropriate revelation. The part where this fear comes from might just be part of me that’s not much older that high school, the age in my life where I hid being gay. During those four years, my ‘best friend’ sprinkled the word ‘faggot’ so regularly into his conversation that it felt like table salt for his vocabulary. And he loooooved salt.
For four years of high school, I tried not to mind.
***
Class is over.
The world did not explode, although I thought my heart might. And I never got to use my Outraged Fag speech. True, there were comments from classroom colleagues that indicated they did NOT get it, nor did they try. One (straight) man said bitterly, “if you’re trying to reach me as your intended audience, this isn’t going to do it.” Yeah, I can see how writing about two men in love might not attract the straight male reader. Kinda figured that.
But then again, weeks ago my friend John (also straight) read some of my work and was exuberantly gushy about what he read, so much so that he has since adopted vocabulary from the story which made me blush with pleasure.
Most of the class had fantastic insights, gripped my writing with their teeth and shook it like a dog enjoying a bone. And weirdly, you want that in a writing class: for the participants to gnaw on it, wrestle with it, growl over interpretations, bark at each other a little.
“I think you’ll see on page 4, the author meant this…”
“Oh no he didn’t. Why would he have that character’s relationship take this turn if he intended…”
I listened in silence, taking notes, marveling at how wonderfully forthright and genuine their perceptions were. Were some of them uncomfortable with the subject matter? Maybe. But they slobbered over the bone, discussing lines that pleased them, analyzing confusing narration, making smart suggestions on how to improve the writing.
Fantastic.
At the end of the experience the class took a break, ten minutes to stretch.
Before I could leave my seat, the Canadian judge came to me and said, “Good work. The only time I’ve experienced writing this (gay-themed) was a child pornography case brought to me a few years ago.”
“This isn’t child pornography.” I explained to him. “It has NOTHING to do with child pornography.”
“Yeah.” He said vaguely. “It’s just the closest I’ve come to subject material like this is child porn.”
I repeated my statement but could see that it wasn’t really going to change his mind.
“You would not believe how much porn he had on his computer.” continued the judge, pretty much ignoring me at that point. “What’s the word…downlobed? He downlobed it.”
Hmmm.
Perhaps some of the judgments - the shit I made up - were on target. But at the same time, I’m glad I chose vulnerability. And the judgments were bearable, I am not the kid I was in high school.
I’m a man.