Chapter 3 The Writing Class #5
“Now that we’ve all gotten to know each other a bit better, I’d like for each of you to pair up with another writer who will be your critique partner.
” Dr. Travis smiles, taking in our surprised expressions.
Some students were expecting this. Others were not.
I belong to the latter category. “Don’t worry about your partner’s reading preferences.
Even if you write in very different genres, you’ll still be able to help each other and provide valuable feedback.
I find this one-on-one approach to be much more effective than a group workshop setting, although we will be doing some workshopping next month.
For now, I just want you all to work with one other writer and swap pages—however much you’re comfortable sharing with each other.
Don’t choose the person sitting next to you. ”
This last caveat comes just as Shoshanna turns to me and I turn to her, our fingers poised to choose each other as partners.
Busted. We both freeze, then dissolve into laughter.
Shoshanna thumps her forehead on her laptop and reluctantly stands to go seek out a different partner.
Is that what I’m supposed to do now? My heart lurches into my throat at the prospect of roaming around this classroom asking some random stranger to be my critique partner.
What if everyone I ask says no? My confidence wilts like a flower in the sun as I stare down at my sweaty palms.
“Tessa?”
My gaze jolts upward at the sound of Grayson’s smooth voice. He’s standing right in front of my desk, with a crooked but hopeful smile on his face.
“Would you want to be my critique partner?”
Relief washes over me, and I nod—perhaps too quickly. “That… would be great.”
His eyes light up, and he pulls over a vacant chair, straddling it backwards and leaning on his elbows. “I know my work in progress isn’t really your thing, but I can tell you have a real talent for coming up with original ideas—and I could use some of that talent.”
A self-conscious blush pinks my cheeks. “Well, I don’t think my work in progress is your cup of tea, so I guess we’re even.”
He straightens up, surprised at my allegation. “What makes you think I don’t like romance?”
“Well, given your obsession with mortality and the darker parts of human nature, you probably aren’t a fan of happily-ever-afters.” I raise my eyebrows, dipping my chin to study him. “Am I right?”
Grayson smiles, slow and soft like a summer rain—his dark eyes scanning my face as though he’s taking in details he wants to write about. “I think anything that came out of your head would be brilliant.”
The compliment makes my stomach dip. But I tell myself, It’s something he would’ve said to anyone. He’s just being friendly.
“You might change your mind once you actually read my story,” I warn him, returning my gaze to my laptop.
I send him my first chapter that night, and he emails me the prologue of his story, whose document is titled simply: the_suicidal_psychiatrist.docx
I fire back a quick response to let him know I received it.
Got it. Can’t wait to jump in. Critique #1: think of a better title.
-Tessa
He responds to my email within minutes.
Got yours too. Thank you for trusting me with it. I’m open to title suggestions anytime. ;)
-Gray
I stare at the computer for a full three minutes, overthinking that semicolon and parenthesis. A winking smiley face. Is it meant to be friendly? Or flirtatious?
I decide to file it under friendly and move on—because if I even consider the possibility of Grayson flirting with me, I’ll start psychoanalyzing every interaction we’ve had thus far and wind up feeling extremely weird about reading his book at all.
It’s nothing, I tell myself. He’s probably just trying to make me more comfortable about sharing my story with him.
But a squirmy little voice in the back of my mind keeps haunting me with unfounded fears, like what if he steals my ideas?
But those suspicions are baseless and ridiculous.
Grayson writes in a completely different genre—and if he wants to be friends, he won’t do something as sly and underhanded as plagiarizing me.
In truth, I’m hesitant to open up Grayson’s document and start reading his story—not because the subject matter is darker than my usual literary fare, but because I’m afraid I might hate it.
What if he’s a terrible writer? What if I can’t find anything to praise?
What if he puts me on the spot and tells me to be honest with him, and I end up hurting his feelings?
Worst-case scenarios crowd my mind until I decide it won’t hurt to put off reading his first chapter. I’m sure he’s not going to read mine straight away.
Clicking back to my inbox, I find a new email from Shoshanna titled Inklings meeting!!!! When I open it up, I discover she has copied all the members of her writing group, including Grayson. Including me.
Apparently, we are all invited to the Trolley Station Café for a brainstorm session on Wednesday afternoon. Her requirements are to “bring your book and your brain and some capacity to buy yourself a coffee because I will NOT be buying a round for everyone.”
A mixture of excitement and dread twists in my chest. I fight the urge to reply to Shoshanna privately and ask her if she’s sure she wants me to join this brainstorming session.
I don’t know if I’m at the level of group meetings with writers at cafés, swapping ideas over coffee and being… well… brilliant.
Sitting in class and receiving information is one thing. Being part of Shoshanna’s effervescent tribe of creative geniuses is quite another.
But when I tell Weston of my dilemma the following morning, he puts to death all my doubts.
“What do these other writers have that you don’t?” he asks, looking impossibly cute as he leans on the porch railing, wind tousling his hair as the fiery maple tree sheds its red leaves behind him.
I shrug from where I’m sitting on the swing. “I don’t know. They’re just more… academic than I am.”
“So that means they have more boring ideas,” Weston fires back. “Whereas you were homeschooled, so you still have your genius creativity intact. It hasn’t been beaten out of you by dumb shit like trigonometry.”
I smile and blush, looking down at the paper-clipped pages in my lap: Grayson’s prologue. I haven’t begun reading yet, but I can already tell by the opening line it’s going to take all my concentration to focus on this story.
“Is that the next chapter of your book?” Weston asks, jerking his chin toward the pages.
“This? No, this is Grayson’s book, actually.”
“Grayson?” His raised eyebrow says it all. “Why are you reading his story?”
“We’re critique partners. Dr. Travis had everyone in the class pair up with someone else. I was going to choose Shoshanna, but we couldn’t pick the person sitting next to us, so… Grayson asked me if I’d be his partner. And I said that I would.”
A muscle in Weston’s jaw twitches, but he only nods.
“Don’t look at me like that. Grayson’s a nice guy—he’s just trying to be friendly.”
This makes Weston choke back a laugh. “Friendly, huh?”
I tip my chin up defiantly. “I told him I’d read his prologue and give him feedback. He’s going to read my first chapter and give me feedback. That’s how this writing class works. We’re just trying to help each other.”
Weston takes a long, deep breath, like he has a thousand protests but can’t bring himself to verbalize any of them. Instead, he crosses the porch and sits down on the swing beside me, reading over my shoulder.
I let him, because it’s no skin off my nose—and I enjoy having him close by whenever I can, even if we’re just sitting in companionable silence together.
I dip my gaze to the page and begin reading.
You can learn a lot about a man by watching the way he attempts to kill himself.
For some, the cool press of the pistol against the temple is a rattle of redemption’s gates.
For others, the silent choke of poison brings more ease and comfort through the dark cavern into death.
For others still, a rope and a high place will beckon like the cursed song of Persephone, calling a new miserable soul to the underworld.
For Peter Hunsecker, it was a bridge.
“Well, this is depressing.” Weston speaks up beside me.
I drop the pages into my lap. “I know. It’s not… my cup of tea, but it’s what he writes. The story is about a suicidal guy going to a psychiatrist.”
“Sounds boring as all hell,” Weston says, yawning for emphasis. “Plus, his writing is horrible. I mean, ‘the cursed song of Persephone, calling a new miserable soul to the underworld’?” He underscores the line with his finger as he reads it. “Who the hell talks like that?”
“It’s literary fiction. It’s supposed to be…”
“Depressing?”
I give him a no-nonsense side-eye. “Intellectual.”
“I don’t see how it’s intellectual to use a bunch of fluffy words nobody actually uses in real life.”
“Well, you don’t read. You’re not a reader. You’ve only read my stuff, so you can’t really judge someone else’s stuff with an objective mind.”
Weston grunts, standing and putting his hands up defensively. “Well, I guess I’ll just take my nonobjective, unintellectual mind elsewhere.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t be offended and upset just because Grayson chose me as his critique partner—”
“I’m not offended or upset,” Weston argues, crossing his arms over his chest. “I just want you to be careful.”
“Careful of what?”
“Of this guy Grayson. You could write circles around him. I hope you realize that. Don’t let his highfalutin mumbo-jumbo make you think that’s the only way to be ‘intellectual’ or whatever.”
I sputter a disgusted noise. “We have completely different writing styles, Wes. All I’m doing is reading his first chapter and giving him feedback, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to get it done before I meet them all at the café tomorrow.”