Page 26 of The Write Place

“I wish I knew. But you hear something enough times and you start to believe it’s true, you know?” I run a finger along the edge of the desk I’m sitting in, and it is a stark reminder that this is actually one of the first things they teach you about students who come to your classroom already feeling like failures. You have to untangle who made them feel that way before you can make any real progress, and you almost always find out some adult in their past told them they were bad at something and broke them down. Daniel seems so unsure right now, and I feel for him.

“Daniel, you are an excellent writer.” I open my mouth to finally tell him how much I love his books, but the vulnerability on his face makes me worried I’ll drain him more.

He avoids my eyes as he says quietly, “I haven’t written anything in a year. Even here, I’m back here not really writing, aside from taking some notes in the first few days.” He slides his notebook toward me, and it is open to a page of mostly doodles and a few notes. I try not to show my surprise as he continues, almost to himself. “They all had me convinced everything I did was shit.”

An idea starts to form in the back of my mind. “We’re all subject to imposter syndrome at some point in our careers, especially when we’re good at what we do.” I hope I sound reassuring, and he nods, but he’s still not looking at me. “It sounds to me like you need a new team. Surround yourself with more supportive people. There was a time I would never have even thought to stand up to Marty, but I have people like Ken and Jenny in my corner. And you,” I venture. It’s more questioning than I intend. He raises his eyes to me.

“I’d take you on my team any day, Mac.” There’s something about the way he says it that curls my toes. We stare at each other for a little longer than strictly necessary, and then I do the completely Midwestern thing of slapping my thighs and standing up.

“Right. I need to get some stuff printed for the students before they get here. So. Good talk.” I give a mental facepalm at my awkwardness, but Daniel just laughs.

I go to my computer, search for a minute until I find what I’m looking for, write it down on a sticky note, then make the walk back to Ken’s office. I knock lightly again and let myself in.

“Mackenzie!” he exclaims, putting his magazine on his desk. “Three times in one day. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I am looking for a very specific edition of The New Yorker, and something tells me you’re the person to ask.”

Chapter 11

The next day, I’m handing out a short story to my seniors, and Daniel is in the back of the room doing something that looks like writing, though after our conversation yesterday, I can’t be sure. I don’t hand him a copy of the story. He never asks for our materials, and I’m banking on him not asking this time either.

I weave through the room again, dumping boxes of markers and highlighters on each group of desks.

“We are going to practice annotating this short story today, but I want you to focus on something a little different this time. I want you to read and annotate the story twice. The first thing I want you to do is look for places where the author wants you to feel something. Choose appropriate colors for this. Red is for anger or passion. Yellow could be for happy. Blue for sad. You get the idea.”

“Green for envy?” Justin asks, and I nod.

“Yes, exactly. Then, the second time you read the story, I want you to focus on how the author has made you feel these things. What has he or she done to evoke those feelings? One of the most important things we can do as readers is try to decipher what we literature nerds call ‘authorial intent,’ which is just a fancy way of saying what the author wanted to achieve.”

“You make it sound like authors are emotionally manipulative,” Neve says, and I see Daniel snicker.

“Good writers evoke feelings in us,” I say as I make my way back to the front of the room. “That’s the beauty of literature. It makes us feel. Or maybe a better description is that it allows us to feel in a safe space. Since it’s fiction, it’s safe to feel an entire range of emotion we may otherwise hold ourselves back from in real life. Good writing evokes this in us, and good writers know how to make it happen. So, annotate this text according to the instructions. It’s only a few pages, so let’s take about twenty minutes and then we’ll talk about it.”

“What if I don’t feel anything?” Warren rests his head in his hands apathetically.

I make a show of regarding him very solemnly. “Do me a favor, Warren. Take two fingers like this.” I hold up my pointer and middle finger together. “Good. Now put them right about here on your neck.” I demonstrate, holding my fingers under my jawline, and he does the same. “Exactly. Do you feel a thumping there? Probably pretty rhythmic?” Some of the other students are giggling now.

“You mean my pulse?” Warren asks skeptically.

“Yes! Do you feel it? Do you have one?” I ask overenthusiastically.

“Yeah…” he says slowly, drawing the word out.

“Great! You’re alive. You’ll definitely feel something from this story. I can promise you that.” The whole class laughs, including Daniel. Warren grumbles as he starts reading.

A few minutes pass in silence as the students read, then Haze raises their hand.

“Yes, Haze?” I point to them.

“It’s just that you always tell us it’s important to think about background information we may know about the time period and the author when we read, but you’ve blocked out both on this story.”

“Good catch, Haze!” They look very proud. “Usually, yes, that is a good place to start any discussion of literature. However, you know how people who lose access to one sense often compensate with their other senses, and that can make their other senses stronger?” A few students nod. “Well, I’ve removed one of your senses here, and I want to see how you do with what you have available.”

Haze nods as if this is reasonable, and the students go back to their reading. Daniel looks up from his desk, his expression telling me he’s impressed. I smile inwardly.

A few more minutes pass, the students reading and highlighting their stories. Then, the gasps start across the room, telling me a few students have reached the very emotional ending. Isabel raises her head and breathes, “Oh Miss Mac. It’s so sad.” I give her an understanding half-smile.

I hear Aimee’s breathy voice. “Oh,” she sighs. “Oh no.”