The writing program didn’t offer formal courses in creative nonfiction; like I said, it was a fairly new trend at that point. So I applied for a directed study, a solo exploration of the genre under the guidance of a dedicated professor. That proposal was almost as meaty as my grad school application. I analyzed writings by John McPhee, Truman Capote, and Joan Didion, crafted my own creative non-fiction writing samples, and detailed an ambitious list of high-reaching but achievable goals for the semester. I was thrilled when my proposal was accepted.

The Dean had been a professor in my department until that year, when he had moved into administration. So I wasn’t tremendously surprised when he was assigned to be my mentor instead of a current professor. And what a compliment! He was so accomplished, so well-connected, so powerful. I had worked so hard on my proposal, read what seemed like a thousand books, and labored over my writing samples. His personal interest had to be a sign that I was on the right track. I floated into our first meeting high on confidence and ambition.

Then he shut the door behind me.

What started as his analysis of my writing samples — The layers! The verbs! The well-tuned dialog! — quickly devolved into a discussion about me. I was from New England, no? And obviously smart. Very, very smart. Why, in his opinion, the most important part of a woman’s sex appeal was her brain. In fact, no one was more attractive to him than a smart brunette from New England, and heh, heh! Here I was! But never mind – we were here to discuss writing, and I was certainly smart enough to realize the value of his personal time and attention. The assignment for next week: Write something emotional and powerful about war.

Well … alright. I wasn’t stupid. Obviously he was a lech, and I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of being alone with him behind a closed door. But he wasn’t the first dirty old man I had met, and I thought I could navigate it. This directed study was the only way I could explore my obsession with creative nonfiction, and if sitting at the feet of a master meant enduring his lewd commentary, then that was simply the price of doing business. As long as it was just talk.But war? Why did he want me to write about war when we lived in a major city overflowing with great stories? What happened to the old maxim write what you know? But he was the famous writer, after all, the well-connected Dean, the guy who would judge and grade my efforts. Maybe he was testing me. Maybe he was actually teaching me something about ignoring old maxims. So back I went to the bookstore. I spent the next several days dipping into war memoirs, letters, biographies, and essays, and the next few days writing what is still, decades later, the shittiest thing I have ever produced. It’s not that I didn’t work hard or give it my best creative effort. But I didn’t care about the subject, I’d never personally been in a war zone, and I had nothing to say about it. My essay sucked, and I knew it.

Embarrassed, I showed up for our second meeting and handed him the assignment. At least I met the deadline, I thought. That’s something. But I’d read enough and written enough to know good from bad, and this was capital B Bad. I was prepared for humiliation, fully expecting the Dean to dissect and perhaps even burn it in the enormous brick fireplace that anchored one wall of his office. But no. He fawned and exclaimed. Such emotion! Such raw power! From a woman! Why, only a very smart woman could possibly have captured the essence of something she had never personally experienced. Obviously, I was very, very smart, and had only risen in his esteem. In fact, if I would care to meet and discuss writing off campus sometime, perhaps over a glass of wine if I liked that sort of thing … well, just file that away for another time. For now, on to the next.

I don’t remember what the next assignment was, because I never wrote it. I dropped out of the directed study and never went back to his office; in fact, never spoke to him again. But it wasn’t because I was appalled or angry. Instead, I was ashamed. This is the terrible card trick of sexual harassment: It makes you feel so small. It exposes you for what you are: nothing more than a warm female body.

That was me. I was not a writer, not even an aspiring writer. I was just a smart brunette from New England, and obviously NOT very smart for believing that someone like him could possibly think my writing had potential. I was completely, utterly mortified, humiliated by my obvious delusions. I changed my course load away from the MFA program and focused instead on Professional Writing and Publishing — technical writing, copyediting, advertising and public relations. But I stopped writing creatively for nearly fifteen years. It’s only now, after so much shame and lost time that I am beginning to feel angry, and to write in spite of him.

]]> http://wordbones.wordpress.com/2008/01/29/18/feed/ 7 Marjorie http://wordbones.wordpress.com/2008/01/27/17/ http://wordbones.wordpress.com/2008/01/27/17/#comments Mon, 28 Jan 2008 04:04:48 +0000 Marjorie http://wordbones.wordpress.com/?p=17 ]]> My affair with writing began decades ago with a vinyl Girl Scout diary I received for Christmas. That January 1, I embarked on a lifetime of navel-gazing that would rival any lint-picking narcissist.

“Dear Diary,” I wrote, in red pen. “We have 6 inches of snow. In some places it is up to my knees. It’s the worst snowstorm they’ve had in Md: for 5 years!!!

“Tami had a great time with us this morning. We played a few games and had pancakes for breakfast. See you tomorrow.

“P.S. We had a buffet supper tonight!” 

Have I always been that enthusiastic about food? Who the heck was Tami? Were my knees really only six inches from the ground? I do not know.