The Professor of Mean

November 4, 2018 | By | Reply More

I went to my first writers conference a very long time ago. It was held over the summer on the University of California Berkeley campus; I believe it was sponsored by the Berkeley English department, but as they say in the movie Airplane, “that’s not important now.”

I won’t name the man who was in charge of the operation. I’ll simply call him The Professor. He’s no longer with us, and you can’t defame a person who’s deceased, but the world is small, and I don’t want to stoop to his level by hurting anyone unnecessarily, such as a relative or friend.

The Professor had been a wunderkind: he’d been nominated for a National Book Award very early in his career. But while the New York literati loved him, he was not “popular,” as in “making a lot of money.” The rumor (and it was only a rumor) was that he blamed that on his move from East to West Coast. (But the weather is so much nicer here!)

Whatever the reason—the move from New York, or the increase in granola in his diet, or an inherently mean-spirited nature—the Professor was cruel to the students. There was an older woman who’d written a heartfelt memoir about her family. The Professor read the opening paragraphs then set the pages down on his desk with a thwap. “They cut down trees to make paper.”

Over the course of the week he made many such pointlessly unkind remarks. What did he hope to accomplish? To weed out those of us without talent, or too sensitive to withstand the negative feedback that would inevitably come our way?

He did single out for praise a few writers whose wordplay met his standards. One of his rules about the use of language was that we not repeat the same letter in two consecutive words. He had disdain for one writer’s phrase, “he put the envelope in the pocket of his jacket,” because of the repeated “K” sounds.

The conference ended. I had a year of law school remaining, and, after I graduated, though I had already decided not to practice, I didn’t write. In fact, didn’t do much of anything for a couple of years. I wanted to write, but the thought of anyone seeing what I might produce paralyzed me. And every time I did eke out a few words, I’d see something wrong, such as “pocket of his jacket.”

(Donna Tartt uses the phrase “pocket of my jacket” a number of times in The Goldfinch, which won the Pulitzer Prize in 2014. I think the moral of this story is clear.)

Eventually, I got up the nerve to try again. I found a novel-writing workshop that met weekly in Berkeley, though unaffiliated with the university. This time I got lucky: It was facilitated by a great man who I will name with affection and respect: Leonard Bishop. He was gruff and blunt, but that was all for show. He believed in us. He believed in all of us. He often said, “Your novels aren’t publishable yet, because they’re not finished yet.”

Every writer needs a Leonard Bishop. He combined this faith with sharp insights, and trained us in helping each other. In addition to critiquing skills, I learned many things from Leonard. I learned that in the beginning, we’re all beginners. I learned that every writer’s work deserves respect, if not necessarily admiration. There is such a thing as talent, but it doesn’t show up on an X-ray.

And because of Leonard, I formed the desire to teach fiction myself, or at least, since how much fiction can be “taught” is a matter of debate, I formed the desire to be a Leonard Bishop to others.

In the end, we’re all responsible for doing the work. And I don’t know, but maybe we seek out those who can help us if we want help, and learn instinctively to pull away from those who would undermine us out of their own needs: to lessen the competition or reassure themselves that they’re the ones with something special to offer.

But people in a position of power—any kind of power—also have a responsibility to those over whom they hold that power. If you are in that situation, take that responsibility seriously.

Donna Levin’s latest novel is He Could Be Another Bill Gates. She’s the author of three previously published novels (Extraordinary Means, California Street, There’s More Than One Way Home), as well as two books on the craft of writing, Get That Novel Started and Get That Novel Written, both published by Writer’s Digest Books. Her papers are part of the California State Library Archives. She lives in San Francisco with her family.

http://www.donnalevin.com/

Follow her on Twitter @DonnaLevinWrite

About He Could Be Another Bill Gates:

Anna Kagen had her heart broken five years ago–so badly that she can’t imagine ever having another man in her life. Her ex-husband, Alex, would like her to stay single: that would ensure that he has control of their children, Jack, a 16-year-old on the autism spectrum, and five-year- old Marissa, whose “giftedness” might be wishful thinking on his part, since he needs someone to achieve his own unfulfilled ambitions.

As for Jack, he’s ready to open his heart: to the lissome redhead and high school queen bee, Ashleigh. And she’s taking an interest in him! When Anna reconnects with Jason, a man from her past who was once kind to her and who has a special needs son of his own, they seem destined to become a new family. But not if their ex- spouses have anything to say about it….

“Levin’s latest novel will appeal to any parent who has felt stuck between a rock and a hard place. Refreshingly, she doesn’t shy away from the alternately frustrating and triumphant realities of parenting an autistic child. Fans of Rebecca L. Brown and Mark Haddon will appreciate Levin’s tender and realistic portrait of a nontraditional yet immediately recognizable family.” –Booklist

“[A] complex and insightful rendering of contemporary love and family…Jack’s teenage point of view is striking for the glimpse it provides into Asperger’s.” –KirkusReviews

“Being a good parent is always a challenge. Add a particularly challenging child, acknowledge the daily-ness of the work, add wit, compassion, and imagination, and you have He Could Be Another Bill Gates. Levin’s story is compelling and her voice authentic. The result is simultaneously hopeful and sobering.”–Karen Joy Fowler, winner of the PEN/Faulkner award and bestselling author of The Jane Austen Book Club

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