Master Class
One summer not long ago, I decided to spend some time doing something just for myself and expand my perspectives as well. I enrolled in a four-week writing class in the Berkshires in Massachusetts, deciding that it would be a nice break from the stressful life that I had endured over the prior twelve months. Getting the time off from my job was only slightly problematic but this exercise only confirmed why I needed the break in the first place.
The course was not focused so much on the art of putting words on paper but more on the art of exploring the different perspectives from which any given subject could be viewed, like Akira Kurosawa's "Rashomon". The goal of the course was to give each student the intellectual tools necessary to produce a story concerning any subject that they were inclined to explore. Participants would attend lectures and workshops, and work in teams of two with each person serving as editor for their teammate's work as well as adding whatever creative insight that the two participants agreed was advantageous. It seemed like an interesting challenge and offered an opportunity for creative and emotional growth in addition to the added complexity of navigating the relationship between two people trying to produce unrelated works of fiction. These four weeks could prove to be an exceptionally stimulating time for me or four weeks of boring arguments with someone with differing interests and opinions whom I had never met before. Only time would tell.
The program took place on a college campus that was essentially closed for the summer although some selective courses and seminars were being offered, and the cafeteria, dining hall, and library still functioned to serve the people attending classes and in writing and theater programs. We stayed in the vacant student dorm rooms or suites, depending on what price level you selected, and could wander the grounds and use the gym and pool. It was comfortable in a rustic sort of way, almost a summer camp for adults.
Day One was orientation and introductions, meeting our teammates, and general discussions about the nature of the work that we would be doing and our expectations. The organization sponsoring the program took time and great care trying to match teammates who would offer different perspectives based on careers, backgrounds, age, ethnicity, and intellectual data gleaned from the survey that everyone completed as part of the application process. My teammate was a friendly, Hispanic, 28-year-old female elementary school teacher from rural New Jersey named Gabriella, Gabby for short, with a Master's degree in psychology, who was currently working on her doctorate. She seemed reasonably satisfied to be paired with a 31-year-old Caucasian male attorney from New York City, who no longer believed in Santa Claus. This was shaping up to be a unique pairing of extremely different personalities who could enjoy diversity in learning or endure four weeks of contentious arguing.
At the end of the first day's classes, Gabby and I, along with several of the other participants, had a light supper in the cafeteria and talked about the work that lay ahead. Strangely enough, there were fewer differences in the assembled group than might be envisioned by the diversity of the participants. It was almost like this program was a study on the effects of communal living in the first Mars colony. Will this experiment be a success or will it be a remake of "Lord of the Flies"?
Day Two found Gabby and me working in the library, separately but in the same space. We were intent on what we were doing and it was only during our lunch break that we actually discussed our progress, and this seemed to be typical for the other groups as well. "I hate to ask," I said breaking the ice, "but how is it going for you?"
"I would like to say fine, but that would be a big stretch of the truth," she replied. "And you?"
"I'm almost done, just putting the finishing touches on the final paragraphs of a ground-breaking short story. I am thinking of catching the next flight to Cancun for some real R&R," I lied.
"Changing your career to journalism, are you? You seem to have the right qualifications," she said with a smile and a laugh.
"To be honest, I am trying to get my head around the subject matter and figure out the best approach to take before I try to put my thoughts into the context of a story," I confided.
"Do you want to talk about it? Kick a few ideas around?" she responded, looking at me intently.
"It would be helpful but I hardly know you and feel a little self-conscious talking about something as personal as the thoughts that form the basis of a narrative. I am sure that you can understand that so maybe it's better to give it a few days," I said.
"Don't take this the wrong way," she said looking me directly in the eyes, "but you sound like one of my students. A 12-year-old boy wants to find out if a 12-year-old girl like-likes him before asking her to go see a movie. The days drag on in torment for him and while she probably would have said yes had he asked her, she now changes focus to something else, and the moment is lost. He is deflated and her self-esteem takes a hit, and the two ships have passed in the night. I don't know if I can provide insight into the subject matter of your writing, but I might. All you have to do is ask the question. Plus, after a few weeks, we will probably move on with our lives and you will never have to feel uncomfortable about discussing hypothetical topics for a story with a stranger ever again."
"I would feel better if your analogy involved high school kids, but I get your point," I replied. "Okay, let's see where this takes us but if you get uncomfortable, please be honest and tell me, and if you get the urge to laugh, please don't because I am extremely sensitive to ridicule," I confessed half-jokingly.
"It's a deal," she responded and held out her hand to me.
And so it began. I started telling a complete stranger my innermost thoughts and concerns, something that I had never done before, even with my closest friends. Somehow it seemed safer to do so in this setting, and she was right; we would probably never run into each other once our month together is finished and we got back to our lives.
"I like romance novels, novellas, and romance stories in general," I said. "I like reading about desire, dreams, and forbidden pleasures contemplated but not yet brought to fruition. I enjoy looking at the characters and imagining what they want, and what they long for. I need to know if I am capturing the mood correctly. I understand that I can write how I would feel in a similar situation but would another person be reacting differently and, if so, why and how? I can switch places with the characters but would that produce an honest portrayal of the emotions being experienced by a specific character or would it be another person's view of a given scenario? How do you switch personalities?"
I continued, "I have read quite a few love stories, lesbian love stories, and they appeal to me for a myriad of reasons but specifically the depth of honest emotion on both sides. They are tender, more in tune with how I envision individuals reacting to a set of circumstances, more intense, and cover a range of feelings. I would like to capture this same emotional intensity in a male love story, but I believe that most of those types of stories simply involve different positions, different settings, and a lot of ejaculation. Males are supposed to act and react, differently. The problem as I see it, is two-fold: the translation of one language into another, female to male, male to female, and since I am not a female, how do I know what a woman would experience under the given circumstances if she were a male, something akin to a Caucasian trying to write about the feelings of a black person. In my opinion, it is impossible to capture."
Gabby was staring at me and I felt like she was either sleeping with her eyes open or politely trying to figure out the best way of excusing herself to head back to New Jersey. Eventually, she spoke and, surprisingly, she appeared to have paid attention to my ramblings. "Okay, Marc, the way I see it you are overthinking the whole thing. People are not as different as you think they are. Women rationalize situations differently for sure but deep-down people have similar feelings and have similar desires whether they admit it or not. In the lesbian love stories you referenced, when one woman develops an interest in another and the courtship ritual begins, the writer shows how the protagonist tries to make her feelings understood in subtle ways, like the way she looks at the other woman, the tone of her voice, the occasional touch, a small, almost inconsequential present, something that touches the heart. Is it that much different if you were writing for a man?"
"From my point of view, I believe so," I replied. "Almost all the men I have encountered want one thing. Sex. They look to find ways to strike up a conversation and within 15 minutes want you on your knees or in bed. Feelings are rarely, if ever discussed. Friendship and companionship would come next, with love and tenderness developing over time, almost the opposite of a female love story. If I write for myself I would write with one voice, the one I want to hear. But if I write for a reader it invariably comes out differently.
"I'm sorry but perhaps I should have explained my personal situation sooner. I am gay but I do not flaunt it and I am trying to find a unique voice to tell romantic stories for a gay male readership."
"I know, about you I mean," Gabby responded matter-of-factly, "I could tell as soon as I met you."
