Mentor: A Memoir (2 page)
Authors: Tom Grimes
I’d sat at the end of a row so I wouldn’t have to say “Excuse me” to anyone as I left the hall. A carpeted stairwell led to the ground floor and I scurried down it, my footsteps muffled. I found the broad, high-ceilinged lobby empty except for a service counter, which sold coffee and pastries. He may have exited through a rear door, or remained backstage to talk with friends. He couldn’t have been avoiding me because he didn’t know I was pursuing him. So I waited and, while waiting, revised the latest draft of what I would say. First, a greeting; then an introductory statement followed by, if permitted, a question I’d honed to the minimum number of words. I decided to say: “Excuse me, Mr. Conroy. I’ve applied for admission to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.
If accepted
at thirty-two, do you think I’m too old to attend?” Settling on this, I felt like I’d made a publication deadline, for three seconds later, out from behind a wall leading backstage stepped Frank Conroy. He wore scuffed running shoes and was slightly pigeon-toed. He reached into one blazer pocket and retrieved a crumpled handkerchief, which placed him in another era. I thought handkerchiefs, like fedoras, had gone out of style. He made his way toward me, which lifted my hopes, but intensified my anxiety. Then I understood the purpose of his direction: he was headed my way because I stood between the coffee counter and him. I judged five feet to be a respectful distance from which to launch a question. Any farther I would have to shout, any closer I would have to whisper. So I said, “Mr. Conroy, I enjoyed your talk and wonder if I could ask you one question?”
If accepted
at thirty-two, do you think I’m too old to attend?” Settling on this, I felt like I’d made a publication deadline, for three seconds later, out from behind a wall leading backstage stepped Frank Conroy. He wore scuffed running shoes and was slightly pigeon-toed. He reached into one blazer pocket and retrieved a crumpled handkerchief, which placed him in another era. I thought handkerchiefs, like fedoras, had gone out of style. He made his way toward me, which lifted my hopes, but intensified my anxiety. Then I understood the purpose of his direction: he was headed my way because I stood between the coffee counter and him. I judged five feet to be a respectful distance from which to launch a question. Any farther I would have to shout, any closer I would have to whisper. So I said, “Mr. Conroy, I enjoyed your talk and wonder if I could ask you one question?”
He wiped the tip of his nose, bunched his handkerchief, and slipped it into his pocket.
“I’ve applied to the Writers’ Workshop.”
“Yeah, you and eight hundred others.”
He didn’t look at me, or stop walking, as he said it. Instead, he cruised by the way an ocean liner steams past a small, deserted island. His quick and impersonal brushback caught me off guard, and I started to ask question two before question one had been answered.
“Just one question, five seconds,” I said, improvising.
“Let me get a cup of tea,” he said.
I watched him stroll to the counter, place his order, search an incredibly long time for a fistful of coins, pay, pour a line of sugar as white and long as an unfiltered cigarette into his cardboard cup, then turn and once again head my way. When he was about five yards away, he ceased stirring his tea, looked up, and smiled. His impatience had been momentary. He had a cold, and now, tea in hand, he would happily answer my question. He arched his eyebrows, elongating his face, which made him seem ten years younger as he shouted, “Hi!” Surprised, I extended my hand when he extended his. Then he walked right past me. He’d spotted an old friend. Shoulder to shoulder, their backs to me, they sauntered off.
Outside, my hands shook as I tried to fit the key into my bike’s lock. I cursed the lock, its chain, my hands, and my stupid fucking bike, which I rode across town, at times standing on the pedals, like a kid, pumping harder in order to move faster. At home, I kicked open the front gate, chained the bike to the front porch, unlocked the front door, slammed it shut behind me, bounded up the uncarpeted stairs I’d painted battleship gray on one of my days off, then slowed at the top of them, where two floor-to-ceiling bookcases made of one-by-six pine wood planks stood. I’d never alphabetized my library. The three hundred or more books I owned had tattered spines. Most were paperbacks. Some were taller than others, making the collection look craggy and disheveled. I spotted
Stop-Time
on a high shelf and reached for it, tipping it forward and grabbing it. Jody had heard me swearing in the hallway as I looked for the book. Alarmed, she’d come to find me.
Stop-Time
on a high shelf and reached for it, tipping it forward and grabbing it. Jody had heard me swearing in the hallway as I looked for the book. Alarmed, she’d come to find me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
I opened the book to its center.
“What are you doing?”
Without answering, I struggled to tear it in half. When I failed, I ripped out pages by the handful until I’d gutted the thing, splitting in two the author’s name and the book’s title. Then I carried the shredded mess into the kitchen and flung it at the trash bin, railing at pages that fluttered away. I collected them, maddest at the ones that insisted on slipping out of my fingers. Once I’d crushed every page by jamming my foot into the trash bin and stomping on the pile with one foot, I turned and said, “Fuck Frank Conroy.”
Gainesville turned me down. The writing program’s director wrote a letter in which he explained that I would thrive in a different environment. Jody interpreted the letter generously.
“He’s saying you belong in a better program.”
“He’s saying I’m rejected.” I closed my fist around the sheet of stationery and dropped the paper ball into the trash.
Our mail arrived at 3:00 PM. By that time, I had laid one of my five pink button-down shirts on our ironing board to press it before doing the same to one of the white aprons I tied around my waist each evening. I owned two pairs of tan, permanently creased, stain-resistant, polyester-blend pants and a pair of brown shoes with leather tops and spongy rubber soles to cushion my feet. Once I began to prep for work, I refused to collect the day’s mail. Even if a tall magazine or an envelope propped open the wooden mailbox’s lid, I ignored it. I closed the gate, swung my right leg over my bike seat, and pedaled to work. I didn’t want to know if another story had been rejected. Being a servant required supreme detachment, a buffer between myself and the nightly anger, frustration, and humiliation guaranteed by the job. To survive psychologically, I practiced “empty mind,” a state in which Zen masters experience the world as simultaneously substantial and empty. It’s there, yet it isn’t. From my shift’s beginning until its end, the world was nothing and I was no one. If I knew that a story had been rejected, maintaining this state was impossible. My ego remained attached to my failure. Then, rather than basking in emptiness, I heard customers’ complaints, resented their demands, and bitched if I received a lousy tip. But if I didn’t open a rejection letter before work, it didn’t exist until I was home, where, after midnight and after I’d had several beers, my reaction to bad news was muted, my pain dulled. Also, the best palliative for rejection was immediately available. I would file the letter, print a fresh copy of the story, and change the heading of my “Dear Editor” cover letter. The next morning, I would mail out the package, along with a stamped, self-addressed envelope in which an editor could place a rejection letter. Fresh hope negated past failure. My story had three to six months to live, and I could forget it, as I had trained myself to do.
Syracuse turned me down next. But rather than simply sending a letter, the program’s staff returned my application manuscript, upon which someone had scrawled and then partially erased the words
B-, boring
. This may have been due to laziness. After all, someone could have used Wite-Out to mask the handwriting, made a copy of the original page, and replaced it with an innocent replica. Not only would this have been kind, it also would have been postmodern: a copy of a copy of a copy, like a Warhol lithograph of soup cans or Marilyn Monroe. Classic rejection letters lie to minimize an author’s pain: “We regret.” “We wish we could.” “We’re sorry but due to space limitations.” But editors never regret, wish, or feel sorry: they simply avoid being cruel, and the staff at Syracuse hadn’t. At best, its response was careless, at worst, mocking and sadistic.
B-, boring
. This may have been due to laziness. After all, someone could have used Wite-Out to mask the handwriting, made a copy of the original page, and replaced it with an innocent replica. Not only would this have been kind, it also would have been postmodern: a copy of a copy of a copy, like a Warhol lithograph of soup cans or Marilyn Monroe. Classic rejection letters lie to minimize an author’s pain: “We regret.” “We wish we could.” “We’re sorry but due to space limitations.” But editors never regret, wish, or feel sorry: they simply avoid being cruel, and the staff at Syracuse hadn’t. At best, its response was careless, at worst, mocking and sadistic.
I recall being furious about the rejection, and so, one frustrated afternoon, I violated every waiter’s cardinal rule: on your day off, never answer your phone an hour before service begins unless you want to listen to a sick or hungover colleague beg you to work his or her shift. But as I was in the mood to punish myself for continuing to be a failure, I picked up the receiver and said, “Hello.”
The man’s voice, slightly hoarse from smoking cigarettes, was several octaves higher that it had been the first time I’d heard it. Now, it sounded confident, coolly eager. And rather than callously avoiding me, the man speaking was searching for me.
“This is Frank Conroy from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop,” the voice said. “I’d like to speak to Tom Grimes.”
My hand trembling as if I’d done something wrong, I answered, “Speaking.”
“I never call anyone,” he said, “but I’ve read your manuscript.”
I don’t remember what Frank said next. I do remember flashing on an image of our kitchen trash can crammed with
Stop-Time
’s torn pages. Nevertheless, my pages had bridged the chasm between “Fuck Frank Conroy” and the fact that Frank Conroy was speaking to me. He praised, in words I can’t articulate, the excerpt of my unfinished novel. Attempting to write the book terrified me. A premonition that I may have been setting myself up for a literary failure from which I’d never recover stalked every word I wrote. Perhaps I’d taken on too large a subject, but within a minute of half hearing Frank’s voice, I trusted his interest in my work and I said, “I don’t know if I can finish the novel without help.”
Stop-Time
’s torn pages. Nevertheless, my pages had bridged the chasm between “Fuck Frank Conroy” and the fact that Frank Conroy was speaking to me. He praised, in words I can’t articulate, the excerpt of my unfinished novel. Attempting to write the book terrified me. A premonition that I may have been setting myself up for a literary failure from which I’d never recover stalked every word I wrote. Perhaps I’d taken on too large a subject, but within a minute of half hearing Frank’s voice, I trusted his interest in my work and I said, “I don’t know if I can finish the novel without help.”
He said, “Well, when you’re here, you’ll get it.”
I muttered, “Thanks.” And then there was a pause before he spoke again.
“Your file says you’re a waiter at Louie’s Backyard in Key West. Is that the place on the water?”
“Yes, it is.”
Instantly forgetting literature and sounding like a boy recounting a day at an amusement park, he said, “They make the best meat-loaf sandwich I’ve ever had!”
Wanting to somehow return his generosity, I said, “I’ll get the recipe for you, if you want it.”
Then Frank did what, as I would later come to understand, Frank always did. He said, “Give it to Connie when she calls you. You’re getting our top scholarship.” In his mind, no misgivings existed; I’d take it. “See you in August.” He hung up before I could say, “Okay.”
I can’t say what happened after I returned the phone to its cradle. In a creative writing workshop, this is when the famous writer overseeing the conversation (I’ll call him Frank) says, “First off, don’t be vague. Don’t just have the character wander around the apartment, dazed. Give the reader concrete details. You have five senses at your disposal: touch, sight, sound, taste, and hearing. Use them. As in, ‘I heard the front door close. The loud crackle of a brown paper grocery bag drifted up the stairwell.’ (Is
drifted
the best verb?) ‘My wife was home, and the ceiling fan whirred as I stood in the living room, waiting for her.’ We know she’s going to walk through the living room doorway moments later, so don’t write, ‘moments later.’ It’s redundant and stupid. These characters have cats. Have one cat stroll toward the staircase. Or the other one raise its head from the seat cushion it’s lounging on. Don’t just have the narrator say—and why is the author using first person, anyway? Third would distance the writer from the main character. That way the author doesn’t risk self-indulgence. Follow? The character’s life has suddenly—never use the word
suddenly
—the character’s life has been altered in a manner he doesn’t yet fully comprehend. But, in addition to excitement, the situation requires a touch of gravitas. I’m not saying describe a funeral. Just don’t have the main character leap up and yell, ‘Yippee!’ Above all, avoid melodrama. Understate the narrator’s emotional reaction. What the author withholds, the reader supplies. Establish and maintain the story’s cocreation; it’s essential. Have the character do something he’d normally do. Open a beer. Put the can in a rubber holder so the can doesn’t sweat. And if you risk having him recall the shredded pages of
Stop-Time
as he drops the flip top into the trash, don’t linger on it. One sentence. At that point, his wife walks into the kitchen, carrying groceries. It’s probably best if she doesn’t say anything. And when he speaks, leaving out ‘he said’ depersonalizes his statement. Remember, the reader knows what’s coming. Nothing in the narrator’s life will ever be the same. So capture his astonishment in unadorned dialogue. ‘Frank Conroy called. I got into Iowa.’ End of scene. End of chapter. Any questions?”
drifted
the best verb?) ‘My wife was home, and the ceiling fan whirred as I stood in the living room, waiting for her.’ We know she’s going to walk through the living room doorway moments later, so don’t write, ‘moments later.’ It’s redundant and stupid. These characters have cats. Have one cat stroll toward the staircase. Or the other one raise its head from the seat cushion it’s lounging on. Don’t just have the narrator say—and why is the author using first person, anyway? Third would distance the writer from the main character. That way the author doesn’t risk self-indulgence. Follow? The character’s life has suddenly—never use the word
suddenly
—the character’s life has been altered in a manner he doesn’t yet fully comprehend. But, in addition to excitement, the situation requires a touch of gravitas. I’m not saying describe a funeral. Just don’t have the main character leap up and yell, ‘Yippee!’ Above all, avoid melodrama. Understate the narrator’s emotional reaction. What the author withholds, the reader supplies. Establish and maintain the story’s cocreation; it’s essential. Have the character do something he’d normally do. Open a beer. Put the can in a rubber holder so the can doesn’t sweat. And if you risk having him recall the shredded pages of
Stop-Time
as he drops the flip top into the trash, don’t linger on it. One sentence. At that point, his wife walks into the kitchen, carrying groceries. It’s probably best if she doesn’t say anything. And when he speaks, leaving out ‘he said’ depersonalizes his statement. Remember, the reader knows what’s coming. Nothing in the narrator’s life will ever be the same. So capture his astonishment in unadorned dialogue. ‘Frank Conroy called. I got into Iowa.’ End of scene. End of chapter. Any questions?”
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