The best advice

by Rick Blechta

Needing to fill a whole in my university timetable with an “academic” course — when what I really wished to do was take an advanced orchestration course — I signed up for a creative writing class. It was likely the only course in which I had any interest that slotted into my timetable correctly, but I don’t clearly remember.

One thing that became apparent once snow fell, which it does early in Montreal, so I’d have to trudge across campus when I really didn’t want to. However, the instructor was quite good and I was becoming more “engaged” in learning to improve my writing.

Just before the Christmas holiday we were given an assignment to write two pages of dialogue between two people who weren’t well acquainted but were also angry. Something twigged in me and I spent a lot of time working on the assignment. Handing it in, I felt pretty good about what I’d done.

At the end of the last class of the year, my assignment came back with a big red C at the top and the comment, “This could have been much better.” I was puzzled and more than a bit angry. Unfortunately I had to wait until after the holiday break to speak with the instructor. I had to know where I’d gone wrong. Why had I gotten such a poor grade? I had no idea what the comment was getting at. Even after a gap of two weeks, my assignment still seemed pretty good to me.

After the first class back, I made an appointment to speak with the instructor. She looked at me with a raised eyebrow and I got the feeling she’d expected this.

The next afternoon we sat down in her shared office.

I wasted no time. “Could you explain to me why my grade was so low?” I asked, sliding the two pages of dialogue across her desk.

“Ah, yes. I wish I’d had the time to write more, so I’m glad you came in.”

Here’s a sample of what I’d written. (Yes, I still have the assignment.)

The man entered the room without knocking.

“I have to talk to you!” he said to the woman.

She looked up from her desk.

“Yes, what is it?”

Not answering, the man instead turned his back and proceeded to look out the window.

The woman sighed and put down her pen.

“First, you barge in here, disturbing my concentration, and now you won’t talk? Say something or get out!”

After a bit of time, the man turned.

“Can’t you guess?” he answered angrily.

Now, did you spot what my instructor didn’t like? (Besides a fair number of what she’d refer to as “dead words.”)

“You’re moving your characters like chessmen. There’s movement, one speaks. There’s another movement. The other answers. Your scene becomes stiff and jerky. Think for a moment. Can’t you do both at the same time?”

She spent a good half hour showing me how to combine description, emotional state and dialogue into one seamless flow. Unfortunately, I don’t seem to have the sheet of notes and corrections I made that day, but I do remember what I learned.

Maybe I should write my memories out, so I can refresh my memory every time I have to edit a manuscript, because I often discover I haven’t followed those sage words and have created yet another in a long line of non-flowing scenes. I don’t do it every time, certainly, but even one in a story is too many.

And I still owe that terrific instructor a tremendous thank you because that day I took a huge step forward as a writer.