Three Meetings

My creative writing teacher’s office lies on the fourth floor of the language building. As you exit the stairway and look right, there’s a selection of free books that are on shelves next to the entrance. The books are all unheard of titles representing incomprehensible topics. Most are bogus non-fiction, clinging to what looks like their final home had they not been free. Having visited my teacher several times I can tell you those books are there to stay. To me, it’s some foreshadowing of something horrendous I don’t care to name.
    “Hey Colton.” my teacher said as I come in for the final time that semester. “Have a seat.”
    I come in and sit down, with ideas in my mind that are not quite fleshed out. “I’m not going to lie, after working on this story for this long I think it’s total crap. I think it’s goofy that this character makes telescopes in such a modern time. I feel the characters I’ve made are so cliché, fake, or something. I don’t know. It’s like I can’t get in touch with anything, and the project feels so impossible to surmount.”
    My creative writing teacher instantly smiles and says, “That’s normal.”
    We both laugh, and he continues. “It is perfectly fine to feel these things. I sent in a story to be published, and I felt there were errors in it. That’s just the way it works. To be honest, I would be more scared if you felt fine about the story. I would be skeptical if you told me you were comfortable with anything in your story. A writer should always be critical of his own work; not to be pessimistic, but to understand what the flaws are and not respond negatively to outside criticism.”
    There are few moments in life that lead to the overwhelming feeling of satisfaction and fulfillment, and while I don’t feel that with the short story, I feel that in his office. There’s wisdom in older people, and sometimes I feel they are there for us. While that’s not necessarily true, it’s almost as if he’s begging for listeners. And I’ve always loved to listen. While his room seems very briefly decorated, his very demeanor spurs on excitement, and passion. There are no pictures, no memorable artifacts. There lies only a desk, essential English books, and his computer. A writer until the end, he is confident living in his own world, but also pulling from others in a focused way. What does it mean to surround oneself in total isolation? In these days, it has become nearly impossible. But for my creative writing teacher it has been realized enough as an early 20th century man.
    A week later, I will see a box in front of his door with writing that says, “PLACE SHORT STORIES HERE.” I pull out my 15 page short story and look at it, then look down. It feels so far away, and I look at my revision and how unclean it looks. I know that paper cannot have leprosy, but as I hold it I hear it scream, “outcast, unclean.” Out of anger, fright, and disgust, I drop the paper into the bin. It plops on top of the rest. It is a bittersweet feeling: finishing the class, but realizing that my story is not even closed to being finished.

“I called this meeting because I wanted to talk to you about your post-reflection paper in your teaching presentation. I also wanted to talk about your overall grade in the class…I feel like you do not really understand the theories we’ve discussed in class.”
    That’s probably correct.
    “You’re right. I don’t understand the theories.”
    “The theories are important. Wouldn’t you agree?”
    No.
    “Yes, absolutely.”
She looks at me and starts talking about the details of each theory. My observation forms of other students in their presentations have been anything but fantastic. Honestly I don’t give a damn. But of course that isn’t the problem. I now realize that I am so resilient in doing things that I do not want to do that it will ruin me if I continue. But I can’t stop. As I looked at my education teacher I realized that despite my opinion of the crap theories that were before me, I became a mirror with which to reflect everything she wants to hear. I suppose in the end that’s all people want us to be is just a mirror for their own view of life.
    “You did not fail.” she said as her mask of compassion was placed and she was trying out the look on me. “You could not fail this part. This is a learning experience.”
    “I know. But it’s not up to you. My self-esteem has always been…not what it should be. It’s not you fault. That’s just the way I feel.” She looks at me like a failed experiment, but I look at her like she’s making all the difference in the world. I’m trying I really am. She puts on the statistics mask.
    “Looking at your grades, you’ll probably walk out with a C in this class. But your teaching philosophy needs to be…well…you’d better show me these theories in there. This paper is as close to a cumulative final as I can get. Think about it like that.”
    As I leave, I’m imploding from the inside. It’s a beautiful day, and inside all hell is breaking loose. I wanted to throw myself back into that dressing room and throw her masks all over the room and scream, “Jesus woman, I don’t care.” But I kept walking. We all keep walking I guess. Editing my teaching philosophy paper was for me like taking a well sculpted woman and cutting off the arms. Metaphors aside. I hate butchering what I feel good about. I hate doing things that I don’t want to do. This either makes me a child, a politician, or a man. No one has really told me which one yet.

I’m sitting in front of a man at Chase Bank, and he tells me he wants to review my contact information. His desk is made of straight laced wonder. It contains no pictures, no love letters, no valentine’s day projects from daughters. It contains no interesting pieces of art. It is purely work, and while it looks nice for an Ayn Rand novel, it has me worried more about him than him of me and my contact information. The truth is I want to grab his suit, pull him forward and make him grip with his child soft hands and say, “good God man, don’t you know what you’re missing?” But I can’t. Instead I hold my sunglasses because I have nothing else to hold on to. I’m running away in my mind, but in the physical I’m saying “yes sir” and “no sir.” To be honest I didn’t know why he called the meeting. I suppose it was to prove that I actually existed.
    “Well we appreciate you coming down here,” he said, “And you can email me if you have any questions.”

I thought about emailing the man. I thought about saying something like this: “Hello sir. I had one quick thing to ask. I have this problem with my short story, but I think you solved it. You see my main character is a man not tied to anything, kind of like you. He has no real physical ties, but he makes telescopes for a living. He works hard and makes good money, like you, but I’m not so sure about the ending. He’s told to build this telescope for this woman who has emotional weight to her custom telescope request. So I wanted to ask you: ‘Would you build a telescope for a woman who seeks to get over her husband by watching the stars?’ Again I appreciate your time.”
And I’m laughing at the thought of walking in to the same educational teacher’s classroom for summer school. I scoff at authority, and I know it could destroy me. I love the idea, of countering every argument, refuting every theory, and simply slapping her teaching back in her face. While it seems to be a moment of conquest for me, the reality is I will walk in holding a giant mirror in front of me while I text my friends how boring the class is.
    And in the fall I will literally cry with joy as I see my creative writing teaching again, this time for non-fiction. He’ll tell me that we think our life is crap and not worth writing and that’s okay, because in the end it’s that feeling that encourages better writing.