The Writing Exercise, Part Two

The writing instructor, Marvin, begins to speak, but as it turns out he really does not invoke or even vaguely resemble the figure in his concertedly impressive bio, the one in the course catalog with the nice photo and a row of books behind him. He’s actually a bit silly and quite shlumpy- I pictured a tall British poet with sculpted features and flaxen hair, not a pot bellied gnome with scruffy beard gone brillo gray in a wrinkled shirt. 

For the moment I have the insane urge to laugh, you know, really crack up until the tears come but force myself to control the impulse. The guy lisps too. This has got to be a sitcom about a lisping writing instructor who wildly mispronounces certain words and destroys whole sentences with great concentration.

Thally’s Thtory raithezz an interething quethion Marvin offers, as Sally of the floppy bangs thits there continuing to thulk in what she hopes is a vaguely literary pose.  Marvin as it turns out also has a kind of  vocabulary suggestive of the verbal part of the SAT and knows how to turn- or mangle- a phrase exquisitely, depending on contexth, and what’s more he is giving the victim of the vengeful hair cutting shears her full due. But if it continues like this much longer, I will be compelled to run screaming from the room.

The word of the day appears to be resonant. Does Floppy Bangs' story have resonance (or rethonance as it were)? He glances expectantly around the circle.

I hate the word resonance, I really do.

Resonant is not much better, and in fact may even be worse.

Why in the hell do words have to resonate????

Personally, I would much rather they evoke. . . but why split hairs? Am I simply being too judgmental, and not empathetic enough to the sad tale of the botched bangs???

The apathetic circle quickly stirs to life and sheets of paper begin to rustle as pens flick back and forth in nervous fingers.  A lady with lots of eye makeup and a little red cowboy bandana rakishly caressing her skinny neck says that although she understands Sally’s frustration about the bangs, the narrative voice simply is not childish enough. Then the neighbor to Bandana’s left in a loud, spangled, low cut t-shirt purchased at a street fair no doubt and platinum spikes with the roots showing says she understands Bandana’s problem with the story but feels the real weakness has to do with the description- or lack thereof- of the invasive shears. This last comment provokes murmurs of assent all around as the next "suggestion" creeps silently into the air awaiting its miserable little turn. Finally an elderly pixie in size zero entrenched on the other side of Floppy Bangs comes in for the kill: Do these bangs actually suggest castration or simply a haircut gone wrong? I have a problem with the ambiguity- it lacks punch.

I cannot bear to look at Floppy Bangs at this point and decide it really is time to leave. These people are out for blood! Do I really want them eviscerating my own pathetic little tale of woe? I think not. I picture strutting in with a bouffant or an afro of a story and leaving bald, bereft, crumpled like a discarded draft, and near tears. This will never do and soon I’m wriggling quietly out of the seat looking appropriately so very sorry as I make my writerly way out that goddamn door.