Hello, Dear Readers (with apologies to Miss Manners, I have appropriated this nomenclature). Ah, the world of Grace and... what do we call him? That sensitive, New Age literary red-head with the best of intentions. Enjoy, and keep a journal.
Chapter 16: Acting Lessons
In class, the focus was character. We read excerpts from classic novels to observe the development of famous characters, both lead and supporting, from a variety of literary traditions: Anna Karenina, Raskolnikov, Madame Bovary, Pere Goriot, Becky Thatcher, Frankie Adams. We also read excerpts from authors' journals, to see how their personal observations were reflected in their writing.
Thursday I began with a short lecture. "Part of what writing is all about is examining truth. I realize this is an ambiguous concept, and seemingly contradictory to the nature of fiction, which by definition is not true, is made up. But, at the risk of sounding lofty, through writing fiction – whether it be short stories, novels, plays, poetry – you're investigating people, how people interact, how they behave with one another, or other creatures, or nature, or God. It's all about behavior. And by truth, I mean, all good writing should show some insight into humanity. Why are you writing about what you're writing? It should be apparent, it should be obvious, yet subtle at the same time, hidden. When you create characters, you should know them, and keep them in character, which is part of being truthful." Then I announced the next assignment. "With that in mind, I want you to devote five to seven pages to describing a character – real or imagined. Get into who this person is. I want to know and understand them by the end of those pages. Due a week from tomorrow."
Hands shot up. "Does it have to be a real person?" No. "Can we make up the character?" Yes. "Can it be someone we've already written about?" No. This is a new assignment, new writing.
I added, "Look at the characters we've been reading about this week. How, in one sentence, Flaubert can give you a feel for who Emma Bovary is, the way McCullers lets us sense Frankie's age and dreams sometimes ambiguously, sometimes specifically spelling them out. And how both characters represent more than just themselves, but capture an essence of the times – both in society and personally."
"But those are classic writers!" someone complained.
"And Madame Bovary is so annoying," Grace said.
"Annoying does not mean poor character development," I responded.
She thought for a moment. "True. I guess he develops her, you know, personality well, so you see both how she looks at things from inside, and how she appears, from outside."
"Exactly. And yes, these are classic writers. I'm not going to give you examples of poor writing as models. These authors should inspire. Just let yourselves go and enjoy your assignment."
The bell rang.
*****
Got extra time again with Grace on Friday; Lisa was still working on a story and wanted to wait a week, and the time with Russell went quickly, and there we were.
"So, did you do your assignments?" I began.
She opened her folder, handed me a new copy of "What You Need to Know," said, "Well, mostly."
"Mostly? Meaning…?"
"Okay. I revised it, like you said. And here – " she handed me a single sheet, the cover letter for TriQuarterly – "I sent this off. But. I haven't left the story lying around yet."
"Any definitive plans to do that?" I asked.
Instead of answering, Grace handed me a new story. "I didn't finish this one till really late, so I couldn't get it to you before."
I glanced through the pages. "Instruments of Change," it was called. I started to read while she watched me, aware of her eyes upon me as I read her words. The violin lay untouched in its case for 37 years, preserved yet hollow, merely a shell of cherry wood and catgut without the owner's touch, waiting perhaps to be discovered once again, or perhaps not, content to sit encased indefinitely; it was, after all, merely a man-made instrument. As with all Grace's stories, I continued, mesmerized, until the end.
When I looked up, I realized there were only a few minutes left. "I wrote comments as I went along," I said. "I like the indirect action."
"What do you mean?"
"Indirect action is where you hear about significant events important to the story through characters describing those events or actions. We, as readers, don't see the actual event, we hear about it, filtered through the eyes of the character. Chekhov was a pioneer of this literary technique. 'Instruments,' and, really, many of your other stories, remind me of Chekhov's short stories."
"Short stories?" she said. "I thought Chekhov just, like, wrote plays."
"That's what he's most famous for. You know, I think Act Two Theatre is doing The Cherry Orchard, which we should definitely see." I said we. Not you. "But he also wrote many incredible short stories, and some of your work is written in that tradition. Maybe you were Russian in a past life." I smiled at the image. "I have some of Chekhov's short-story collections. Some first editions in Russian."
"You can read Russian?" she asked.
"Another thing you didn't know about me," I said. "Studied it in college. I also have an early English translation, from 1901. There's something about reading a book published around the time the author wrote it that's really inspiring."
"Oh yes," she enthused. "I love old books. There's this awesome used book store down by University of Chicago I go to sometimes."
"Powell's – I used to live there when I was in graduate school at the U of C." The warning bell rang, startling me even though I had anticipated it. "I think you'd enjoy Chekhov's stories. Anyway – you never answered my question. Any definitive plans on letting other people read your story?"
"Okay, okay. This week. I will."
"Good." I handed her the new story and put the revised "What You Need to Know" in my valise. "I'll get this one back to you soon." I walked to the door with Grace and opened it for her. Alexa was standing next to the door, in the hall. Grace looked surprised, but took off down the hall, saying, "See you tomorrow."
"Alexa?" I said. "Were you waiting to see me? Did we have an appointment?"
"Yes. I mean, no," she said. "No appointment, I mean. I just thought, if you had a free minute, maybe we could talk about this character assignment."
Five minutes until the next class, but I went back into the classroom with her, tried to give her pointers. She kept repeating, "But, I just don't get how to do that!"
Finally I said, "Alexa. Don't try so hard, don't worry about getting it right or not. Just, write without thinking too much about what I might think. Look, try this exercise. Describe – someone in your family. Just sit down and write whatever comes into your head. Don't reread it as you write – just let words flow onto paper, even if they don't make sense."
"But that's so, you know, disorganized," she complained. "No one will want to read that."
Some people have a gift for writing, some don't, but I still believe in the power of writing, regardless if you're going to be the next Shakespeare or Danielle Steele – putting words on paper can help you think, and poetry can come from unexpected places. I felt for Alexa, because she was not a talented or creative writer, and she so wanted to be. However, she was industrious, and I admired her tenacity regardless.
The final bell rang, and my next class began to filter into the room. "But that's what you need to let go, Alexa," I said. "Look. Do a draft the way I described. Do not read over what you wrote, and hand it in before the assignment is due. I'll comment on what you've written to help for the final copy. I bet you'll surprise yourself." She looked dubious, but gathered her papers together.
"Thanks, I guess," she said.
*****
Another weekend, two Graceless days. Friday I had dinner with my sister April and her family, enjoying the distraction of my niece and nephews and conversations that jumped all over the place. Saturday I started to go through the class journals.
I can't believe the play is done already, Alexa wrote. I love stage managing. Actors worry all the time about costumes and sets and stuff, when I know I can take care of everything. I tried to observe more, to try to get more ideas for extra stories, but it seems like I can barely have the ideas we actually get assigned turn into stories. The year is almost done, and still I haven't written those extra stories. I only wrote those ones we've done for class. You said I should step out of myself more, and into a totally different narrator, to try to imagine that, but when I did that you said it was wooden.
I'm trying to be more observant now, to notice the little things that you said might seem to be insignificant but write them down anyway. Like how when I was stage-managing for both plays, and managed to keep track of where everyone needed to be when and with who and in what costume. Trying to take those details I make in lists and turn them into details for a story. Trying to see the interactions going all around before me. When Jerry's wife started coming to rehearsals bringing him sandwiches, I could see he didn't really like the sandwiches that much, but he liked that she brought them. I thought that was an interesting detail and observation. And like it was smart who Jerry picked for the leads, because there was tension there off stage that worked on stage. Maybe I'll want to do directing some time. I noticed the girl Sara who did costumes for the last play didn't do them this time. All these things I'm trying to notice, but it's hard to know which unimportant details are actually important, or at least are interesting enough to use. It's hard to just make things up and have it be a story.
*****
Saturday night I went out with Jerry and Rene, and a friend of Rene's from work. I had thought it would be just the three of us, would have said no, had I known I was being set up. The odd loyalty of two people who cannot date. They insisted it was not a blind date, was just a chance to go out with two friends, though I don't know why they pretended. We had dinner, Spanish with pitchers of sangria. Talk turned to work, inevitably – Rene and Nina discussed sales issues at the software company where they programmed, and Jerry regaled us with tales of his recent production.
"Meant to tell you," I said. "Great interpretation of The Crucible, Jer."
Nina looked around the table. "We're talking high-school play here?"
"Yep," I said. "Jerry and I direct the productions at Upton Sinclair."
"I love The Crucible," she said. "Sorry I missed it."
I said, "You missed a great show. I went each night, and it kept getting better." Wouldn't dream of missing any of Grace's performances.
"Thank you, thank you," Jerry said. "Those stepsisters are quite the actresses. I don't know what you did with Grace Manning when you directed her in As You Like It, but she has really come into her own as an actress. I mean, she was good before, but now…"
"She really was incredible," Rene interjected. "Not the typical high-school performance. She has such presence on the stage. And the other one, who played Abigail Williams?"
"Jessie Sammler," Jerry supplied.
"Yes – she was very good too. But Elizabeth Proctor – scary to have a teenager act that convincingly!"
"And Grace writes well, too," I said, glad for the excuse to say her name. "One of those all-around brilliant students."
After dinner, we went to a jazz club, drank too much beer, and debated the merits of Chicago versus New Orleans jazz, a topic I knew little about, but was happy to express uninformed, drunken opinions about nonetheless. Nina laughed and debated, and was harmless, certainly better than the bizarre Jazmynne, but I felt nothing. And if I felt nothing, I would be loyal to Grace, in my heart, as I wished it could be Grace sitting and staying up too late, listening to jazz and forming uninformed opinions about it together with me. I wondered what she was doing this weekend, if Tad had approached her again, or others, but didn't want to think about that.
I bowed out of giving Nina a ride home, pleading drunkenness, and told Jerry I'd pick up my car from his house the next day; they dropped me off. Home, late, past 2 in the morning, and I went for the box of journals I read each weekend, fishing out Grace's, read her words, looked for signs.
Things that are surprising to me now: That I actually like someone named after a jewelry company. The difference between first impressions and lasting impressions. Changing impressions. Like with the Musician, who seemed so mysterious once, so captivating, but as I got to know the person the mystery dissipated when I saw the boy that was there, neither good nor bad, but not the depth I had imagined, because when we don't know, profundity can be there if we want to think it is, as I thought with him. Or we can imagine there is no depth, that the waters are shallow only, as with she I called Bimbo for so long, really, until I experienced birth and realized there is no greater depth than that. And discovered that a name that seemed superficial and trite actually means "manifestation of God." That intelligence can be where you least expect it, in ways that are unfamiliar. It is the unfamiliar that intrigues me now, that I want to uncover and understand. That there can be great complexity in simplicity, in trying to understand it. In everyone, really, there must be more than meets the eye, and with some we are lucky enough to learn that, even if the more is less than we expected. Better, of course, when it is much more, and I am finding more now than I had thought or hoped I might learn. Other lives. That a challenge can be an act of love.
I fell asleep with the journal by my side in bed.