Jassy Melson
11-08-2012, 03:00 PM
It happened at Austin Peay University in Tennessee. I had been invited by a friend of mine who was an English professor at the university to conduct a seminar on creative writing and then to give a reading of certain of my writings in the evening.
Around noon I went into the student lounge and got me a cup of coffee and sat at a small table next to a booth which was occupied by four students.
I couldn't help but overhear when my name was mentioned by one of the students. It seems they were having a discussion about me!
I felt weird sitting there, unrecognized by the students as they discussed my writing.
One young man with shoulder-length hair and a goatee seemed to be attacking my writing. I heard him say, “Have you read his story The Happy Demise of Hidy the Clown?”
Two of the students answered no, but a third—a tall thin girl with waist-length hair—answered “Yes. I think it's one of his best stories.”
The young man with the goatee replied in a disdainful manner: “How can you think it's a good story? He gives away what's going to happen halfway through the story.”
“That's just the point,” the girl replied. “He knew what he was doing when he more or less fired the cannon halfway through the story. What he did was work out the characters' reactions to the firing of the cannon.”
“I don't see that at all,” the student answered. “I think it was a major gaffe in the story. In general, I think he is overrated as a short story writer—and as a poet. He tends to give away everything halfway through the stories he writes. And his poetry is too didactic. The discerning reader is left with nothing, because he or she knows what the result will be—and as far as poetry goes, preaching is a cardinal sin”
“I disagree about his poetry,” the girl said. “It is true that he is somewhat didactic, but the didacticism in his poetry lends itself to the message he's trying to convey.”
I listened for a little while longer as the students dissected my fiction and poetry. I felt a strange sense of gloating as well as a tinge of what I can only describe as shame. Somehow it seemed shameful to me to listen to the students discussing my writing without their knowledge that I was right there next to them, listening to them without their knowing who I was. Mixed with this was a feeling of pride. If someone discusses your writing, it at least means you are somewhat famous—at least to a few.
I left the student center and walked to the Humanities building where I was due to conduct a seminar on creative writing.
I must admit I felt a sense of ironic humor when I noticed the four students whom I had sat next to in the student lounge walk into the room and their looks of recognition when they saw me. All four of them probably had noticed me sitting next to them in the student lounge. Their looks ranged from embarrassment to sardonic humor to a frown on the face of the young man with the goatee.
I began the creative writing seminar with a cheery “I'm sure I've seen some of you before. And at least one of you think I'm overrated as a writer.”
The audience chuckled. The young man with the goatee sank down in his seat.
So that's how and when I realized I was famous—at least to four people.
Around noon I went into the student lounge and got me a cup of coffee and sat at a small table next to a booth which was occupied by four students.
I couldn't help but overhear when my name was mentioned by one of the students. It seems they were having a discussion about me!
I felt weird sitting there, unrecognized by the students as they discussed my writing.
One young man with shoulder-length hair and a goatee seemed to be attacking my writing. I heard him say, “Have you read his story The Happy Demise of Hidy the Clown?”
Two of the students answered no, but a third—a tall thin girl with waist-length hair—answered “Yes. I think it's one of his best stories.”
The young man with the goatee replied in a disdainful manner: “How can you think it's a good story? He gives away what's going to happen halfway through the story.”
“That's just the point,” the girl replied. “He knew what he was doing when he more or less fired the cannon halfway through the story. What he did was work out the characters' reactions to the firing of the cannon.”
“I don't see that at all,” the student answered. “I think it was a major gaffe in the story. In general, I think he is overrated as a short story writer—and as a poet. He tends to give away everything halfway through the stories he writes. And his poetry is too didactic. The discerning reader is left with nothing, because he or she knows what the result will be—and as far as poetry goes, preaching is a cardinal sin”
“I disagree about his poetry,” the girl said. “It is true that he is somewhat didactic, but the didacticism in his poetry lends itself to the message he's trying to convey.”
I listened for a little while longer as the students dissected my fiction and poetry. I felt a strange sense of gloating as well as a tinge of what I can only describe as shame. Somehow it seemed shameful to me to listen to the students discussing my writing without their knowledge that I was right there next to them, listening to them without their knowing who I was. Mixed with this was a feeling of pride. If someone discusses your writing, it at least means you are somewhat famous—at least to a few.
I left the student center and walked to the Humanities building where I was due to conduct a seminar on creative writing.
I must admit I felt a sense of ironic humor when I noticed the four students whom I had sat next to in the student lounge walk into the room and their looks of recognition when they saw me. All four of them probably had noticed me sitting next to them in the student lounge. Their looks ranged from embarrassment to sardonic humor to a frown on the face of the young man with the goatee.
I began the creative writing seminar with a cheery “I'm sure I've seen some of you before. And at least one of you think I'm overrated as a writer.”
The audience chuckled. The young man with the goatee sank down in his seat.
So that's how and when I realized I was famous—at least to four people.