We cannot go any further in the story of “How I Became R. A. Nelson” without talking about C. Writ. 101.
In high school and at the beginning of college, I had a fantastic summer (and winter break) job at a small bookstore called Annie’s Book Stop. (Deep and lasting blessings on the owner and on my one co-worker, both fascinating ladies in their 70s, who made my time there educational and enjoyable!) One morning during the summer before my sophomore year at King College, I awoke with one of the most vivid dreams I had ever had still pressing on my mind, the feeling of it encasing my heart in a warm glow. I wrote it down, of course (I firmly believe that all writers should write down any dreams they remember), and continued to muse on it as I got ready for work. I didn’t have a car at that point; I often walked to the store, but that particular day, my mom was kind enough to drive me. During the ten-minute journey, I told her about the dream.
“This sounds like a good story,” she said after the first few minutes.
Then:
“Sweetie, this sounds like a good play.”
That was surprising to me. I loved plays – I had been in a few at that point, read all the plays my brilliant brother had written, and even remembered writing little scenes to perform with my friends as a child. I had never really thought about writing a full-length play. Still, the dream was vibrating in my imagination; so, at work that day, in between organizing the shelves and watching the desk and helping customers, I pulled out a spiral-bound notebook and wrote the first two pages:
I’ve wanted to be a writer ever since I could remember…
The dream, you see, had been about a writing class. (Yes, I’m a geek. I *literally* dream about school – and they’re usually good dreams, too.) Specifically, the dream was the last night of a class that had been incredibly meaningful for all involved. The AP history teacher I’d had for two years in high school was the teacher, and neither he nor any of the small group of students wanted to leave. They were all lingering, savoring the warmth of this strange intimacy, long after the class was supposed to be over. And there was another figure in the dream: an outsider, who hadn’t been in the class and didn’t understand, and who was trying to bring everything to an end.
That was it. But, somehow, over the next few months, it became a story: C. Writ. 101. (That’s Creative Writing 101 for all you folks not familiar with my invented academic lingo.)
I decided to write it in book-form first, and then turn it into a play later if I felt like it. I didn’t finish until halfway through the fall semester; and, by the time I was done, I had a nice little novella on my hands, filling the spiral-bound notebook and pulsing with the warmth of the dream.
There were six chapters – the class was a six-week class, you see – and each began and ended with the narrator’s response to a “free-writing” prompt left on the board. I based the teacher shamelessly on that quirky, crotchety, brilliant, unforgettable AP teacher; I didn’t even change the name. (Sorry, Mr. Stewart. It’s a tribute.) The students were a hodgepodge of personalities from my school years – a sort of “Breakfast Club” meets “Overachievers Anonymous”. The class was structured entirely around the free-writing prompts, and the story was structured around how experiencing this class – writing, reading each other’s writing, and sharing the uncomfortable journey of growth with a group of strangers – slowly and indelibly changed the lives of everyone involved, Mr. Stewart notwithstanding.
The fun part was getting to write EVERYONE’s free-writing prompt responses, which meant inventing six different characters with six distinct writing styles. Then there was the narrator’s ongoing inner monologue, which had a comment or comeback or lament or celebration for just about everything that was said or done. I named him Evan Cooper, and I liked him immensely. I liked the whole thing immensely – and, what’s more, I decided my mom was right.
This was a play.
My brother had already blazed the trail: during his senior year at King, he chose a play he had written for his final directing project. So, knowing that this was to be my plan also, I took the summer before my senior year and transformed the novella into a script. I cut out one student to make the cast size slightly more manageable, cut down the full free-writing prompt responses to blurbs wherever possible, and turned all of Evan’s inner commentary into monologues and snarky “asides” to the audience.
And, to my lasting wonder, it worked.
Mind you, it’s a wordy play. I’m a wordy person, and the whole thing was about words anyway. (Everything I write is about words, really. When am I going to analyze that? I already did, friends. Right here.) But, it worked. I have had the incredible joy of directing this play twice, with a brilliant cast each time, and the response – of both actors and audience – has been humbling, encouraging, and inspiring. My father still says it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. (Any interest in seeing it published, dear reader-friends? Comment below, and I’ll muse on it!)
My brother, who gave a definitive performance as Mr. Stewart in the first production, made this comment to his castmates one day:
“You do realize, right, that this play is a romp through Ruth’s personality?”
I hadn’t noticed it before, nor had I done it intentionally; but, the more I reflect on it, the more I realize how insightful my brother was. I put a healthy dose of ME into each character. There was Elyse, the oh-so-preppy perfectionist who has to be the best at everything; Jackie, the outgoing bundle of energy who knows no strangers and is blissfully unaware of how overwhelming – and annoying – her enthusiasm can be; Annie, the quiet poet who just wants to be left alone in the corner with Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë and the transcendent beauty of language; Derek, the self-made outcast, tormented equally by the desire to break through “normal” into new heights of being and by his own inability to communicate that longing to anyone else effectively.
And, of course, there was Evan, the one I most wanted to be but am probably least like (though I did give him my affinity for F. Scott Fitzgerald, stream-of-consciousness literature, and grammatical self-correction): quiet, brilliant, hilarious, compassionate, and effortlessly the best writer in the room, simply because he doesn’t have to be. He learns and grows and changes, of course – they all do – but he starts from a place of humility and honesty that I think I will spend my whole life trying unsuccessfully to reach.
Nevertheless, writing C. Writ. 101 opened the gate for me to a new kind and new level of writing. Before that dream, I assumed that my first full-length work would be somehow fantastical in nature. Never would I have guessed that I would write a novella and then a play about . . . school, and writing, and friendship, set firmly in the everyday “real” world with nary a unicorn in sight. Never would I have thought such a task could be so much fun, and so full of its own transformative whimsy.
It was only a year or so after that dream that I went to England and had my first glimpse of Gatekeeper – my first full novel, set firmly in the everyday “real” world, with – again – a notable absence of unicorns. So, in a way, Evan Cooper led directly to Anna Merritt.
Furthermore, C. Writ was lastingly beneficial, both as a training exercise and a confidence booster. Long before the first draft of Gatekeeper was even halfway finished, I had a novella and a play to my credit. That felt good. Furthermore, the exercise of writing it – creating those different characters, striving to craft distinct writing voices, and laboring to convey the elusive warmth of an inspiring dream-glow – shaped my writing muscles better than reading any book on the subject could do. In a way, I took Mr. Stewart’s class by chronicling it – and, at the end, I was a much better writer than I was when I began.
I incuded this quote from C. S. Lewis in an earlier post, but it bears repeating:
“It doesn’t matter what we write (at least this is my view) at our age, so long as we write continually as well as we can. I feel that every time I write a page either of prose or of verse, with real effort, even if it’s thrown into the fire next minute, I am so much further on.”
If you, like me, aspire to grow as a writer, the best advice I can give you is simply: WRITE.
Speaking of, I’d better get back to my new novel. I finally finished the research stage and am on to the outlining stage, which is arduous, but with surprising moments of rewarding illumination. It involves listening to a lot of Gregorian chant and alternating between staring off into space and scribbling furiously. (I am happy to report that at least one unicorn will make an appearance.)
In the meantime, I leave you with a tiny tidbit of C. Writ. 101. Each scene ended with Evan alone in the classroom, the last to finish the second free-writing prompt of the evening – but, in scene 3, Mr. Stewart shows up. Enjoy, dear readers – and fellow writers.
[MR. STEWART enters]
MR. STEWART: Still here, Mr. Cooper?
EVAN: Yes, sir. You too?
MR. STEWART: I forgot my hat. So, how’s it going?
EVAN: The paper, or my life?
MR. STEWART: The paper. I care very little about your life, Mr. Cooper.
EVAN: It’s going pretty good, I guess.
MR. STEWART: Pretty well, Mr. Cooper.
EVAN: Right. Pretty well. I like the prompt, but I can’t really judge whether or not my story’s any good.
MR. STEWART: Do you think it’s good?
EVAN: I didn’t think my vote counted.
MR. STEWART: Writers should always be able to discern the strengths and weaknesses of their own work, even just at the conceptual stage. Being brutally honest with themselves saves them from wasting valuable time on futile projects. If you think your work is good, it probably has a chance.
EVAN: Thanks, Mr. Stewart. I’ll remember that.
MR. STEWART: [hesitates] One more thing. Your second response from last week – you were trying too hard. Don’t forget to stay true to your own voice, or people will be too busy thinking of which author you remind them of to take any notice of your message. You’ve got a good voice, Mr. Cooper; don’t waste it. [goes to door quickly] Don’t forget to shut off the lights when you leave. [exits]
EVAN: [pounding head on desk] Evan, you dingbat. Last week you were trying to write like Annie Reynolds, and not only did you fail miserably, but it was blatantly obvious what you were miserably failing to do. What were you thinking, you idiot! [pause] I need to stop talking to myself; somehow I always end up insulted. But at least I know now what I did wrong, and I’m not going to do it again. I guess I’m going to try my hardest not to try too hard.
Nailed it again!!! A lovely visit to a busy and challenging time . . . I love CWrit101!!!
I loved reading and watching C. Writ! I remember enjoying how many times the audience laughed out loud; they got it! Yes, publish this work!
I would love to read C.Writ101! Ron, your daughter appears to be as smart as her father was
in school! Jonda, I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing you all those years ago, but I’m sure that you had a hand in developing that smart daughter of yours! She is a very good writer!
Awww.. C.writ… What a fun play, inspiring and thought provoking. I wanted to find a class like that in college and I spent many years searching for it. I would love to see it published!!
I would absolutely LOVE it if you published C. Writ 101. (And I am also insanely excited for that unicorn.)