ask him.'"
Devin grinned again, and I continued, " The Simpsons writers, the writers for the classic Bugs Bunny cartoons, all confessed to writing for themselves. That's why they're so damn funny. In such cases, you can tell when a writer stops writing for him or herself and starts trying to meet the expectations of an audience, especially when some executive asshole claims to know better. The show tanks as a result."
"So did McCartney," he added.
"But what if Lennon wrote songs that he didn't play for anyone or put on tape? What about the scripts that went into the fire without anyone's viewing? That's what Elbow means by private discourse. In those cases, you ignore all conventions of audience awareness, including the audience of self."
"Cool."
We then moved on to the other memoirs. "Why these two?" he asked. "What do they have in common?"
I responded, "Annie Dillard and Stephen King couldn't be more far apart in terms of genre and style. In those aspects, it's as if they come from different worlds. And yet, they speak the same language--that is to say, they know language so well, and use it the way a good painter uses light and color and form."
His eyes brightened at my art analogy. As we analyzed each memoir's content and language, we talked about ways Devin could use language to convey his meaning in his own memoir.
"I could use words that keep a reader interested. Not just for the sake of being smart or literary, but to make them feel like they're in that museum gallery with me."
"Very good," I said. "Make them feel what you want them to feel. You have absolute power, Devin. Other writers or teachers or readers can guide you, give you feedback, tell you what they like or don't like; but ultimately, it's your story and your truth."
"Wow," he said. "I had no idea."
"No idea what?"
"That I could do such a thing. I mean, I know writing has power. I guess I never thought of myself having access to it."
"Why wouldn't you?" I asked. He pondered this.
"I don't know." He grinned. "But I'm glad that I do."
Devin closed his laptop. Time was up.
"So," he began, "tell me about your weekend. I see you went shopping. Nice espadrilles, by the way." He winked.
I stuck out my ankle and proudly showed off my shoe, my toenails painted a deep red. He then switched the conversation. "Now it's your turn to do some freewriting."
I looked at him and raised my eyebrows.
"Make a list of what gets you in the mood," he instructed.
My back stiffened and my stomach tightened. He noticed this and rolled his eyes. "Here we go again," he said.
"Didn't we already cover this?" I said.
"When?"
"That day at Junior's."
"Andi, if you can't talk about good sex, how can you have good sex?"
I could've debated this point, but I kept my mouth shut and stared at my notepad instead. Like Devin, I struggled with what should have been a relatively easy assignment. After about five minutes, I only had three things on my list:
* having my neck (and pulse points) kissed
* having my feet rubbed
* Nat King Cole ballads
He made me read the list aloud and I felt the spark of his eyes burning through the page and stinging my skin.
"Cute," he said.
" Cute? " I asked, insulted.
"Yeah. That's it?"
I looked at him sheepishly. "Actually Devin, I never gave it much thought."
"How come?"
"I don't know. I guess I was always so self-conscious about whether I was doing it right or wrong that I never considered what I liked or disliked."
"Okay. Then tell me what you do to get the guy in the mood."
Again, I paused. "I don't know," I said after some thought.
He stood up and took off his shirt and, like last time, a flash of heat ran up my spine. "Pretend I'm your lover," he said.
Pretend? Woof.
"Touch me the way you'd touch him. Come on to me the way you'd come on to him. Do everything but kiss me."
"But what if kissing is one of the things I do?"
"I just don't want you to get carried away."
I looked at the floor in an attempt to hide my
Devin grinned again, and I continued, " The Simpsons writers, the writers for the classic Bugs Bunny cartoons, all confessed to writing for themselves. That's why they're so damn funny. In such cases, you can tell when a writer stops writing for him or herself and starts trying to meet the expectations of an audience, especially when some executive asshole claims to know better. The show tanks as a result."
"So did McCartney," he added.
"But what if Lennon wrote songs that he didn't play for anyone or put on tape? What about the scripts that went into the fire without anyone's viewing? That's what Elbow means by private discourse. In those cases, you ignore all conventions of audience awareness, including the audience of self."
"Cool."
We then moved on to the other memoirs. "Why these two?" he asked. "What do they have in common?"
I responded, "Annie Dillard and Stephen King couldn't be more far apart in terms of genre and style. In those aspects, it's as if they come from different worlds. And yet, they speak the same language--that is to say, they know language so well, and use it the way a good painter uses light and color and form."
His eyes brightened at my art analogy. As we analyzed each memoir's content and language, we talked about ways Devin could use language to convey his meaning in his own memoir.
"I could use words that keep a reader interested. Not just for the sake of being smart or literary, but to make them feel like they're in that museum gallery with me."
"Very good," I said. "Make them feel what you want them to feel. You have absolute power, Devin. Other writers or teachers or readers can guide you, give you feedback, tell you what they like or don't like; but ultimately, it's your story and your truth."
"Wow," he said. "I had no idea."
"No idea what?"
"That I could do such a thing. I mean, I know writing has power. I guess I never thought of myself having access to it."
"Why wouldn't you?" I asked. He pondered this.
"I don't know." He grinned. "But I'm glad that I do."
Devin closed his laptop. Time was up.
"So," he began, "tell me about your weekend. I see you went shopping. Nice espadrilles, by the way." He winked.
I stuck out my ankle and proudly showed off my shoe, my toenails painted a deep red. He then switched the conversation. "Now it's your turn to do some freewriting."
I looked at him and raised my eyebrows.
"Make a list of what gets you in the mood," he instructed.
My back stiffened and my stomach tightened. He noticed this and rolled his eyes. "Here we go again," he said.
"Didn't we already cover this?" I said.
"When?"
"That day at Junior's."
"Andi, if you can't talk about good sex, how can you have good sex?"
I could've debated this point, but I kept my mouth shut and stared at my notepad instead. Like Devin, I struggled with what should have been a relatively easy assignment. After about five minutes, I only had three things on my list:
* having my neck (and pulse points) kissed
* having my feet rubbed
* Nat King Cole ballads
He made me read the list aloud and I felt the spark of his eyes burning through the page and stinging my skin.
"Cute," he said.
" Cute? " I asked, insulted.
"Yeah. That's it?"
I looked at him sheepishly. "Actually Devin, I never gave it much thought."
"How come?"
"I don't know. I guess I was always so self-conscious about whether I was doing it right or wrong that I never considered what I liked or disliked."
"Okay. Then tell me what you do to get the guy in the mood."
Again, I paused. "I don't know," I said after some thought.
He stood up and took off his shirt and, like last time, a flash of heat ran up my spine. "Pretend I'm your lover," he said.
Pretend? Woof.
"Touch me the way you'd touch him. Come on to me the way you'd come on to him. Do everything but kiss me."
"But what if kissing is one of the things I do?"
"I just don't want you to get carried away."
I looked at the floor in an attempt to hide my
Similar Books
