My Experience as a Creative Writing Monitor

I joined the students in the retired seniors class and slipped unnoticed as a monitor to the rear, just as the professor began.

“We are judging your Creativity Assessment today,” the professor said to the students, twenty of them sprawled on the lawn. He peered out at the class over the top of his tortoise shell reading glasses. “Some of you will not be moving forward to graduation commencement.”

A lady in pink sweatpants and a gray ponytail raised her hand.

He stroked his chin with his thumb and index finger, and hid the slightest smile. “Yes, Mildred.”

“What about our final submission? The stream of consciousness piece?”

“Rest assured. We have your final submissions, all of them. But, as you know, this retreat is pass-fail. Those who fail, fail. Those who pass can learn from the emotional experience they gain from those who fail. Experienced emotion, dear class, is a golden commodity for writers.”

The professor picked up a clipboard on the grass in front of him. Behind him the woods formed a half-moon cathedral around where he sat. Not seen but heard, the ocean sounded like applause. “Now. About the Creativity Assessment. You shall each step to the front as I call you.”

“Oh… Lloyd Jameson.”

The professor’s eyes landed on a gentleman wearing a gray English flat cap. His white hair tufted out the sides, mustache to match. He wore a Hawaiian shirt untucked, khaki shorts, and loafers with his bare ankles showing.

“Join me Lloyd. Don’t be shy.” The professor looked at the class and chuckled.

As Lloyd came forward he glanced at the students. A front rowed man gave him a thumbs up. He winked back. The professor gestured where he should stand and he took his place, close enough to touch, his hands clasped together in front of him.

The professor eyed Lloyd from head to toe for a long time.

“You have failed Jameson. I am sorry but it is true. And frankly, I’m not surprised. Missing class, your fiction no more than filler, a half effort. Where will you go from here? A lonely existence of staring out windows, wondering where your life went.”

Lloyd looked at his feet. His hands were now clenched.

The professor called Mildred to the front and once she joined him, leaned into her face. “Method acting, method writing. Feel it, woman. Drag the very essence of condemnation, of disgust, into your very soul. Experience it. Say it. Be it.”

Mildred side-glanced at Jameson. “You’re a piece of shit, Lloyd.”

“Louder. Like you mean it. Like you feel it. You need to face him!”

Mildred stepped in front of Lloyd. “You’re a piece of shit, Lloyd Jameson!”

As if directed, the professor coached Mildred in berating Lloyd for the next twenty minutes: the thinness of his work, his lack of talent, and the only reason he attended was to please his daughter. “Get a grip, Lloyd!” Mildred finally screamed at him.

Lloyd was facing away from me, his shoulders hunched and shuddering.

“Thank you, Mildred, please take a seat. Lloyd, you’re dismissed.” The professor gestured to a grove of trees where a man stood and made a motion for Lloyd to follow.

As a monitor, my role was nothing more than observation. This must be part of the creative fiction coursework, must be like acting, or must be a technique I knew little about not being an academic. And a valuable lesson it was! But outside, in the real world, I would certainly, probably, have to object to the way Lloyd was belittled.

I scanned the class. Many were taking notes. Two students to my left were whispering to each other. Judy, a lady with a wrinkleless taunt face, giggled at the woman next to her. This woman wore a beige cashmere sweater, pearls, and earrings to match. When Judy leaned close to her, Cashmere Sweater closed her eyes and shook her head as if a fly buzzed.

The professor examined the clipboard once again. “You understand, it is a necessary thing to raise the creativity median. A proud tradition means having standards.”

The professor took his time and scanned the class. The slant of his brows said he cared, the crease in his forehead said he was empathetic. There was a wet glint in the corner of each eye.

“I’d like to call on Miss Ruth Crimson.”

From the front of the lawn a woman rose. She was short and thin and her gray hair hung in front of her eyes like a veil.

Someone muttered a comment. Others snickered.

Ruth glanced back, her face red, and then took her place next to the professor.

“Sorry,” the Professor said to Ruth. “You failed also. We talked about this, didn’t we?” His forefinger wiggled at the man directly to my side. “Dwayne, come here.”

Dwayne struggled to rise out of his hunched position on the lawn, but with obvious practice swung his paunch to gain momentum and stood up. He strode to the front. He was wearing jean overalls and a cap: ‘Harvester’ in yellow letters, the thread torn and ragged.

The professor rummaged in his bag and brought out a riding crop, the handle stiff and dark in his grip, the attached leather strap dangling down two feet, ending where steel barbs glittered, small and bright against the grass, like diamonds that weren't his.

He then looped the leather corded handle around Dwayne’s wrist and drew it tight. “Ruth, will you please stand in front of this tree and face away from the class.”

She giggled and the professor smiled back. He stood her against the tree, her cheek pressed against the bark. She wasn't smiling now while he placed her arms around the trunk. One shoe slipped in the wet grass and she dug her toe in. He held her shoulder for a moment and bound her hands with nylon rope.

"I hope it doesn't hurt."

The professor moved behind Dwayne and held his shoulders with both hands. He turned him toward Ruth. “Whip her, please, and don’t hold back.”

Dwayne hefted the crop in his hand. He shook it to dangle the leather end. After examining it closely, he reached out with it and tickled the back of Ruth’s neck. She shivered.

“Can I give her everything I’ve got?”

“Certainly. Proceed, sir.”

I jerked from my place on the lawn and didn’t stand exactly but almost did and I looked left and right at the students all sitting staring and riveting on Dwayne.

And yet no one seemed upset.

I clenched my body and closed my eyes hard and opened them.

Several sat hugging their knees and one pulled his earlobe and Cashmere Sweater scratched the back of her head with her eyes on Judy and Judy smiled back.

I sat back down.

Took a deep breath.

My role was nothing more than a monitor and the class was calm. How could I interfere?

But to ‘give it all’ was indeed what Dwayne meant.

When he was finished Ruth lay crumpled at the base of the tree, her dress torn, her back exposed, and her mouth gasping for air.

Sure. THAT went sideways, this creativity retreat, but at the same time might I be called to task? Might an authority ask me, “Weren’t you appalled at the brutish way Lloyd Jameson was dismissed. And you did nothing?”

I still might have skirted condemnation for Jameson, but now? Now there was actual physical violence and every minute that passed with my doing nothing meant it was harder to speak up.

And yet.

Number one I was only a monitor number two no one had assigned me actual leadership number three these were adults and their spouses or children or caregivers or powers of attorney all had the first right to take action and if I filed a complaint with the Retreat Organization a student’s case against this professor might lose its authority.

Don’t be stupid.

It was smarter and better for all and especially for those harmed and I’m no psychologist but might they have a quick recovery and might they be stronger over time?

Might they be?

The professor reached in his black bag and pulled out a pistol. I don't know much about handguns but the barrel had a hole the size of a sewer pipe.

“What we’re going to do, class, is experience an emotion, the feeling we get from life’s real events, not from a book, or a movie, but from actually doing the act.”

The professor picked up the gun. I could smell gun oil. He flipped it and held the handle towards Mildred. She stared at the gun.

“Mildred, please take this, a .44 caliber handgun, point it at Dwayne, and shoot him square in the chest.”

“But Professor,” Mildred said, with a wincing smile. “You’re kidding right?”

“Remember what we’ve learned, woman. Show is better than tell, but how can you show what you don’t know?”

“Emotion transference!” hollered Cashmere Sweater.

“Exactly, Anastasia,” said the professor. “If we can experience an emotion, we can transfer it to the page. Fear of getting shot, if you’ve had it, cherish it. Use it for a character’s fear of falling.”

The professor placed the pistol in Mildred’s hand. He guided her to extend her arm at Dwayne.

“Can you feel it, Dwayne, the emotion, the fear?”

“Fuck’n A,” Dwayne said.

“And you, Mildred. What are you feeling?”

“I’m scared, Professor. But kind of excited.”

Mildred faced the class, Dwayne in front of her. Her chest was rising and falling as she breathed. Her face was flushed. Her eyes unfocused.

The Professor leaned into her ear. “Power, girl. The power to take a life is in your hands. Remember the feeling, describe it, let it wrap around you, let it help you squeeze the trigger.”

Mildred’s hand shook.

“The hammer darlin’, pull it back.”

Mildred reached with her left hand and tugged. Click. Click.

“Shoot him, you bitch!” Anastasia shrieked.

Judy glanced at Anastasia. “Do it!”

Mildred’s hand convulsed.

“Feel it,” the Professor rasped.

The blast of the exploding gun blew Dwayne off his feet and into the first row of students. Ruth screamed. The group stumbled, ran.

Then silence.

“Cool,” Anastasia said. “I can use that.”