Authors: Tom Grimes
Mentor: A Memoir (4 page)
Five years earlier, I’d begun the novel without a clue as to what, if anything, it might become. Immodestly, I wanted to rewrite
The Great Gatsby
, and for several days I mimicked its sentence rhythms, its restrained, romantic, yet morally upright cadence, which perfectly articulated Nick Carraway’s view of the world. I imitated Fitzgerald’s linguistic fluidity and the nuanced felicity of his prose. In an abstract way, I focused not on plot or character, but on money, and a grandiose, and no doubt naïve, insight into its place in American life. I continued this, filling perhaps twenty notebook pages, until a sentence escaped from Fitzgerald’s parade of flawless sentences and became my own. I heard my narrator say, “A word of advice: Don’t appear on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
when you’re twenty-one.” And then I listened and wrote. I wasn’t taking dictation; I revised phrases and chose more accurate or appropriate words before committing them to paper. But I had a character, although I didn’t have his story, only the genesis of it. I’d never expected to write about baseball. My imagination had surprised me, and so I made a decision. If baseball was to be my subject, then baseball would be the lens through which I examined America. Baseball would be my great white whale. And as I was writing the novel’s initial pages, I discovered a passage in John Cheever’s diaries that summed up my task. At least, I believed it did. And so, at all times, I kept it tucked in my notebook, and I reread it often, to assuage my doubts and to remind me of what I’d set out to accomplish.
The Great Gatsby
, and for several days I mimicked its sentence rhythms, its restrained, romantic, yet morally upright cadence, which perfectly articulated Nick Carraway’s view of the world. I imitated Fitzgerald’s linguistic fluidity and the nuanced felicity of his prose. In an abstract way, I focused not on plot or character, but on money, and a grandiose, and no doubt naïve, insight into its place in American life. I continued this, filling perhaps twenty notebook pages, until a sentence escaped from Fitzgerald’s parade of flawless sentences and became my own. I heard my narrator say, “A word of advice: Don’t appear on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
when you’re twenty-one.” And then I listened and wrote. I wasn’t taking dictation; I revised phrases and chose more accurate or appropriate words before committing them to paper. But I had a character, although I didn’t have his story, only the genesis of it. I’d never expected to write about baseball. My imagination had surprised me, and so I made a decision. If baseball was to be my subject, then baseball would be the lens through which I examined America. Baseball would be my great white whale. And as I was writing the novel’s initial pages, I discovered a passage in John Cheever’s diaries that summed up my task. At least, I believed it did. And so, at all times, I kept it tucked in my notebook, and I reread it often, to assuage my doubts and to remind me of what I’d set out to accomplish.
Cheever had written: “I think that the task of an American writer is not to describe the misgivings of a woman taken in adultery as she looks out of a window at the rain but to describe four hundred people under the lights reaching for a foul ball. This is ceremony. The umpires in clericals, sifting out the souls of the players; the faint thunder as ten thousand people, at the bottom of the eighth, head for the exits. The sense of moral judgments embodied in a migratory vastness.”
Now, at my desk, I waited. Several hours later I wrote my first sentence in Iowa City. From there, I continued. Calm, euphoric, terrified.
I met Connie in her small office. Or maybe the office only felt small because it was filled with hundreds of books written by graduates, dozens of the most recent ones stacked on her desk. Once I sat down she said, “So, tell me everything.” I tried to compress the details of my life into a coherent narrative. And when I left her office an hour later she said, as if she’d adopted me, “See you, sweetie.”
But I still hadn’t met Frank. I’d
seen
him, along with everyone else in the program, the day preceding our first class. We’d gathered in a large classroom, many of us sitting lotus style on the floor, or with our knees pulled to our chest, once all the seats were taken. Frank stood at a podium and introduced himself. Then he introduced the faculty, some of whom had attended the meeting, and some whom hadn’t. Finally, he mentioned the year’s visiting writers, concluding with “And Norman Mailer is coming,” his voice rising to convey our good fortune, although Mailer’s strongest work, which I admired, was a decade old and younger students considered him a relic. If Frank had promised Raymond Carver, a buzz would have engulfed the room. But Carver had died a year earlier, in 1988.
seen
him, along with everyone else in the program, the day preceding our first class. We’d gathered in a large classroom, many of us sitting lotus style on the floor, or with our knees pulled to our chest, once all the seats were taken. Frank stood at a podium and introduced himself. Then he introduced the faculty, some of whom had attended the meeting, and some whom hadn’t. Finally, he mentioned the year’s visiting writers, concluding with “And Norman Mailer is coming,” his voice rising to convey our good fortune, although Mailer’s strongest work, which I admired, was a decade old and younger students considered him a relic. If Frank had promised Raymond Carver, a buzz would have engulfed the room. But Carver had died a year earlier, in 1988.
In any case, I was electrified by hope. And I’d anticipated a grand setting for the workshop. Green, freshly clipped lawns, ivy-covered walls. Instead, the English-Philosophy Building was a square brick structure with few windows surrounded by a busy road, the muddy Iowa River, a parking lot, and a set of train tracks. EPB’s halls were dim and boxcar straight, its tile floors scuff marked, its plaster ceiling low. Light fixtures were scarce. Room 457, which sounded like a torture cell out of Orwell’s
1984
, would be where Frank held his workshop. I reached it by climbing four flights of thick metal stairs. Six or seven students loitered outside its doors. Feeling out of my depth, and by nature prone to solitude, I wandered past them. Fifty feet away, a short hallway intersected with the main one and I slid into it. A bulletin board had been nailed to one wall and I scanned the papers tacked to it. They announced fiction competitions, calls for manuscripts, and fellowship application deadlines. While I was studying the notices, a door opened, brightening the hallway. I looked to my left and saw Frank appear in its archway, holding a set of keys. He glanced up. His iciness toward would-be writers was less intense than it had been in Key West, but still noticeable. He paused to look at me. Connie must have described me to him because a moment later he said, “Are you Tom?”
1984
, would be where Frank held his workshop. I reached it by climbing four flights of thick metal stairs. Six or seven students loitered outside its doors. Feeling out of my depth, and by nature prone to solitude, I wandered past them. Fifty feet away, a short hallway intersected with the main one and I slid into it. A bulletin board had been nailed to one wall and I scanned the papers tacked to it. They announced fiction competitions, calls for manuscripts, and fellowship application deadlines. While I was studying the notices, a door opened, brightening the hallway. I looked to my left and saw Frank appear in its archway, holding a set of keys. He glanced up. His iciness toward would-be writers was less intense than it had been in Key West, but still noticeable. He paused to look at me. Connie must have described me to him because a moment later he said, “Are you Tom?”
“Yes.”
“Come on in here.” Once we were in his office, he said, “Close the door.” He sat behind a wide desk. Manuscripts were everywhere. An Oxford American Dictionary was propped open on a stand behind his chair, its fine print visible from where he’d told me to take a seat. He didn’t ask about me at all. To him, I was a novel incarnate. All he saw was literary promise. But being in that room with him altered my perception and I experienced a type of vertigo. I believe he said, “I’ll tell you. Your manuscript. Jesus Christ.” I’m certain that, an instant later, he said, “If you want, you can have the best agent in America tomorrow. I’ll call her in the morning, if you want me to.”
Her
being Candida Donadio, who had sold Philip Roth’s
Goodbye, Columbus
, as well as Joseph Heller’s
Catch-22
(which was originally entitled
Catch 18
, but another writer, Leon Uris, had published a novel called
Mila 18
, so, to avoid confusion and possibly lose sales, Candida changed 18 to 22, for October 22, her birthday. Heller received a $750 advance, and $750 on publication.) Candida had also represented Thomas Pynchon (who later married her assistant, Melanie Jackson, and became
her
client). And she peddled the work of William Gaddis, Robert Stone, Mario Puzo (an obscure literary novelist until he wrote
The Godfather
), and, of course, Frank.
Her
being Candida Donadio, who had sold Philip Roth’s
Goodbye, Columbus
, as well as Joseph Heller’s
Catch-22
(which was originally entitled
Catch 18
, but another writer, Leon Uris, had published a novel called
Mila 18
, so, to avoid confusion and possibly lose sales, Candida changed 18 to 22, for October 22, her birthday. Heller received a $750 advance, and $750 on publication.) Candida had also represented Thomas Pynchon (who later married her assistant, Melanie Jackson, and became
her
client). And she peddled the work of William Gaddis, Robert Stone, Mario Puzo (an obscure literary novelist until he wrote
The Godfather
), and, of course, Frank.
Surprising myself, I hesitated. In retrospect, I believe I declined Frank’s offer because I was superstitious and somewhat overwhelmed. So I said, “Thanks.” Then I added, “Is it okay if I don’t commit right now?”
Within an instant he raised his hands, don’t-shoot-me style, and said, “Absolutely! Absolutely!” He’d made an offer I didn’t seem comfortable with, and he wanted me to know that whatever I chose to do was okay with him. No reasons needed. No guilt.
I said, “I’d rather write the book without that pressure.”
“I understand. Don’t worry about it. You know, if I rushed you—”
“No, no, I appreciate it. I mean, thanks. But it doesn’t feel, well, somehow it doesn’t feel right.”
“Hey, I understand. Do what you need to do. When you want me, I’m here.” He checked his watch. “I guess we should get started.”
Two doors led into 457. Knowing enough not to trail the program’s director into class on the first day, I made sure that Frank entered through one, and I, lagging behind, entered through the other. Frank didn’t take attendance. Instead, he went directly to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk. He wrote:
meaning
,
sense
,
clarity
.
meaning
,
sense
,
clarity
.
Then he faced us. “If you don’t have these, you don’t have a reader.” He moved sideways and drew an arc. At its two bases, he wrote:
writer
,
reader
. At the top of the arc he wrote:
zone
.
writer
,
reader
. At the top of the arc he wrote:
zone
.
“The writer cocreates the text with the reader. If a writer gives the reader too much information, the reader feels forced to accept whatever the writer says and eventually stops reading. If a writer gives the reader too little information, the reader feels compelled to search for whatever the writer says and eventually stops reading. So, you want to meet the reader halfway.” He circled the word zone. “That’s where you want to be.” He turned to the board again and sketched a rectangle. Inside it he wrote:
voice, tone, mood
.
voice, tone, mood
.
Above that, he drew a smaller rectangle, then a smaller one, and one smaller still, as they climbed the board in the shape of a ziggurat. Beginning with the lowest of the three rectangles and then continuing upward, he wrote a word inside each of them:
subtext
,
metaphor
,
symbol
.
subtext
,
metaphor
,
symbol
.
He waved a hand at them and said, “That’s the fancy stuff. For now, worry about the basics.” Then he took a seat at the square that had been formed by placing several desks adjacent to one another.
He said, “We do two stories a week. Who’ll go up first?” Two of my classmates each raised a hand. “Okay,” Frank said. “And the week after?” Two more. “Okay.”
I surveyed the other thirteen students in the class. Those in their second year were noticeably at ease. The rest were diffident and looked a bit shell-shocked. One woman in the room was older than me. A few other students were roughly my age. Two were in their midtwenties—a long-haired girl who wore glasses appeared to be fifteen, and a short, redheaded guy, who likely had his ID checked at bars before they’d serve him alcohol.
With fingers spread and his wrists arched, Frank tapped his desktop the way he’d play a piano. He said, “We don’t have any text, so there’s nothing to talk about. Someone explain to the new guys what we do next.”
Steve Kiernan, a second-year student, answered, “We go to a bar called the Mill.” He gave us directions. Then Frank said, “Okay, that’s it. See you there.” And we left.
I walked to the bar alone, hiking uphill from the river plain where EPB stood to the state capitol building. From there I passed an indoor mall, a shop that sold Iowa Hawkeye football jerseys, a textbook store, a bakery, a bank, and a gas station. The ugly building beside it was the Mill. It had chocolate-brown wooden facing. An orange sign hanging from the roof announced that the restaurant served burgers, pasta, and pizza; basically, cheap food for destitute students. I opened a glass door and stepped into a dark bar. The cool air chilled my light sweat. I could see a second barroom with a restaurant area in the back. The room I’d entered seemed to be reserved for serious drinkers. I noticed someone from class, Charles D’Ambrosio. He wore work boots, black pants, a black T-shirt, and a skimpy, unlined black blazer. He had an iced drink in front of him. I settled onto the stool beside his.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
I ordered tap beer because it was cheaper than bottled. When the bartender handed it to me, I raised it and Charlie and I tapped glasses. He seemed keyed up and was perspiring, sweat beading on his forehead. Black stubble covered his round face and spread halfway down his neck. We exchanged backstories. He had grown up in Seattle, studied at Oberlin, later worked at a warehouse in Chicago, and then held construction jobs in New York.
“Are you in your early thirties?” I asked him.
“Yeah.”
“You think we’re too old to be here?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Good. What are you writing?”
“Stories. You?”
“Novel.”
Others, including Frank, entered through a side door and went directly into the back room. Charlie and I each ordered another drink, paid our tab, and joined them. The back room’s bar was long; fifty people could lean on it. Wooden, maple-syrup-stained dining booths pressed against the opposite wall. Seventy or eighty students from the eight workshops that met each Tuesday had crowded a separate space with more booths and freestanding tables. Frank made his way toward one of them. In his right hand he held a shot glass full of bourbon, in his left, a quart bottle of imported beer and a chilled mug. He sat on a chair in the middle of things, then reached into his blazer pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. When he noticed Charlie and me, he raised his eyebrows and waved us over by tilting his head to the side. Other students seemed to avoid Frank as if he was radioactive. By joining him, I felt
italicized
. I’d already sensed that others regarded me with some wariness. After an orientation meeting for new teaching assistants several days earlier, a second-year TA asked each of our group of six over lunch what we were working on. I said a novel. He said, “What’s it about?” When I said baseball, he held his ham and cheese sandwich several inches from his mouth and didn’t take a bite. “So you’re the baseball guy,” he said. I didn’t know what he was referring to, but I’d encountered the same reaction several times. I felt like a scarlet
B
for baseball had been branded onto my chest (and Charlie was the only person not to see me that way).
italicized
. I’d already sensed that others regarded me with some wariness. After an orientation meeting for new teaching assistants several days earlier, a second-year TA asked each of our group of six over lunch what we were working on. I said a novel. He said, “What’s it about?” When I said baseball, he held his ham and cheese sandwich several inches from his mouth and didn’t take a bite. “So you’re the baseball guy,” he said. I didn’t know what he was referring to, but I’d encountered the same reaction several times. I felt like a scarlet
B
for baseball had been branded onto my chest (and Charlie was the only person not to see me that way).
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