“A Creative Writing Flashback: Unconventional Coursework, a Mad Professor, and the Tale of the Bad Brownie”
In fall 2001, I took a creative writing class at the University of Wisconsin-La Crosse. English 305. I was a fourth-year senior, with a heavy course load of upper-level microbiology, chemistry, and undergraduate research. I hadn’t taken a composition class since high school and my inspiration to write the Unsung Heroes book series was still years away. Still, I knew I wanted to try to write a book one day, and the creative writing course had intrigued me ever since I arrived on campus. The class was for three credits and met once per week, on Wednesday evenings from 6:00-8:45. Sessions were held in a nondescript classroom in what is now Wimberly Hall (formerly North Hall), which housed classes for the Arts, Social Sciences, Humanities, Archaeology, English, History, Political Science, and Sociology Departments. When I arrived on the first day of class, I discovered that most of my 25-30 classmates were students I’d never met before. Being a science major, this didn’t surprise me, though I did recognize a few faces I knew from the rec center, my years of living in the campus dorms, and the mix of general education classes that I’d taken. The creative writing class was elective, even for English majors, and so everyone who signed up for it did so because they wanted to be there. Our group had a feeling of informality—a casualness that made me feel comfortable. The atmosphere gave me the impression that this was going to be much different from what I was used to in my regular science classes, and a very interesting semester of learning. Little did I know just how accurate my assumptions would turn out to be.
An awkward start.
When our professor arrived, he took a seat at his desk in the front of the classroom. He was a burly man; tall, long-limbed, broad in the chest, with a full head of brown hair and a thick beard and mustache. He had the appearance of what I imagined an old-time lumberjack would look like. I also had the suspicion that he was not a guy I’d want to make angry. For the purposes of this post, I’ll refer to him as “The Professor.” Once class began, The Professor introduced himself and proceeded with informing us that he’d recently been denied tenure at the University, meaning this would be his final year of instruction at the school. The Professor made no effort to hide the fact that he was displeased by the University’s decision, and because the school wasn’t going to hire him back, he had no intention of grading us on any type of formalized writing assignments. He did ask that we try to write something each week, with the only guideline being that during the first four weeks of the semester we should focus on poems (he liked poetry). We were to make photocopies of our work that would be distributed to our classmates at the beginning of each class period. From there, we’d take turns reading our work aloud and receiving feedback from our peers. If we ever had weeks when we were too busy to write anything because of our coursework from other classes, then that was fine. After all, he wasn’t going to be grading most of our work anyways. He even went to so far as to admit that he wasn’t going to be teaching us much either. Again, a much different vibe from an instructor then I was used to getting.
First lesson learned: I am not a poet.
During the early weeks of the semester I tried my hand at poetry, and while I managed to produce some stanzas, most of the poems I wrote were comical, but not because I intended them to be. For many of my classmates, poetry was clearly in their wheelhouse. I felt impressed by their work, and not to mention self-conscious that so much of it was far superior to anything I was writing. There was a lot of variance to the topics people chose, from the wonders of the natural world, to ruminations about existence and mortality. I recall one classmate who would write the most graphic sex poems you could imagine. He’d read them aloud in this deep, sultry voice, with what seemed like the clear motive of trying to pick up girls in the class. I’m not convinced he ever succeeded, but I’ll give him credit for his bravado, especially in the pre-Fifty Shades of Grey era. As for The Professor, he was an accomplished poet himself, and based on the limited feedback I received from him during those first weeks, I had the distinct impression that he didn’t think much of my poetry writing. I could easily complain that he wasn’t teaching us anything, but the truth is that even if he had, it wouldn’t have made a difference in my case. To The Professor’s credit, he was opening himself up more to the class. He still seemed imposing, and not to mention enigmatic by PhD standards, but he was also becoming amicable, and the fact that he wasn’t pressuring everyone with strict guidelines on our writing assignments undoubtedly boosted his popularity. He was candid with us on many fine details of his personal life, including the fact that he was a recovering drug addict, and how proud he was of being sober for so many years. He took the time to organize a class trip to a reading by poet, essayist, and activist Robert Bly at nearby Winona State University, which was a nice gesture. I remember gathering with The Professor and my classmates in our creative writing classroom, carpooling to the reading, and sitting in the Winona State lecture hall. After that…sorry, but I got no actual memories of the reading itself (did I mentioned I wasn’t a very good poet?). The only reason I even know Robert Bly was the speaker is because the following week in class, one of my classmates wrote a poem entitled, “The Night Robert Bly Killed my Dog.”
Breaking from the poetry pack.
The first week I was finally able to write something other than a poem, I drafted a short story titled “An Untypical Tuesday at Maple Springs Harmony Manner.” For those of us in the class who wanted to venture outside poetry (only me, as it turned out), The Professor had suggested trying to create a storyline where one of our characters was trying to get something from another character. I chose to write about a pair of old ladies in a nursing home, and the conflict they shared surrounding a piece of pumpkin pie at the lunch table. Having grown up next to a nursing home where my mom worked in recreational rehabilitation, I’d logged countless hours of volunteer work during my childhood, which made me familiar with the dynamics of nursing home life, and the social interactions shared between residents and caregivers. I had fun crafting the story, as it was satirical and filled with dark humor. To my amusement, the story was well received by my peers in the class, and The Professor even went so far as to give me rave reviews. I recall him saying, “This is funny. I mean…this is really funny.” Considering my shortcomings as a poet, I could tell that I’d surprised him. He asked if fiction writing was something I aspired to do, and I told him it was. When I admitted that poetry was a struggle for me, I was relieved to see him shake his head and dismiss my concerns with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Not everyone gets poetry, and that’s okay. Stick with what you do.” He told me he thought I was “pretty far along on the pie chart” as an aspiring writer, and while the critiques he ended up giving me were simple, they served me well both then and now. Here are a few of them:
Beware the wall of words: The Professor noticed in my writing that I tended to have some very long blocks of text. The way paragraphs look is sometimes just as important as what they say, and so in order to keep a reader’s attention, it’s advisable to break things into smaller segments so they’re easier to visually digest.
Take the idea and make it bigger: All writing projects have to start somewhere, and they’re often rooted in humbler origins than most people would suspect. To expand upon a concept by pushing it in all directions is foundational to the creative process, and underlies the challenge all writers face with getting a project started.
Read up on Janet Burroway: I wasn’t familiar with Burroway when The Professor suggested her to me. Turns out, her how-to books on creative writing were some of the most widely used text in America. In her signature work Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft (currently in its 10th edition), she discusses the matter of “significant detail.” Burroway states (p. 46): “…your job as a fiction writer is to focus attention not on the words, which are inert, nor on the thought these words produce, but through these to felt experience, where the vitality of understanding lies.” I really liked this concept when I read about it. Anyone can come up with grand ideas for stories. What distinguishes a great writer is their ability to tell a story in a way that touches all who read it, getting the audience to look at a one-dimensional image so that it turns into something that influences them in a way they’ll never forget.
Read just as much as you write: The simplest and most important caveat to the life of a writer. The Professor was the first person to give me this piece of advice, but certainly not the last.
“Well, I'll eat it,” said Alice, “and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door; so either way I'll get into the garden, and I don't care which happens!” (Carroll, 2001, p. 10)
Near the halfway point of the semester, we began our weekly session with one of my classmates raising his hand to get The Professor’s attention. After being called upon, he made a rather odd declaration. “I made you a brownie.”
The class quieted down, and the exchange that followed between the student and The Professor went something like this:
“You made me a brownie?”
“Yeah,” the student replied. He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a Ziploc bag that contained a square-shaped, chocolate brownie half-wrapped in a white napkin. “A special brownie.”
All eyes turned to The Professor, who was seated at the front of the classroom and staring at the student inquisitively. “What’s so special about it?”
There was a long pause while the student looked back at The Professor; the chocolate brownie now sitting in front of him on his desk. He smiled through pursed lips, acting mysterious in a way that, to me, felt rather theatrical, and replied, “I just think you’ll like it.”
As the Professor considered these words the student continued smiling, more unabashedly now. At some point he stood up, walked forward, and set the brownie down on The Professor’s desk. “Here you go,” he told him.
The Professor picked up the brownie and inspected it. “Is this okay to eat?” he asked.
The student shrugged. “It’s up to you.”
The Professor raised his eyebrows. “I need to know if this is okay before I eat it. I’ve told you about my history.”
Based on the tone of The Professor’s voice, it seemed clear (at least to me) that he wanted a straightforward answer. I’m not sure he ever got one, but I believe the student laughed and waived him off in a way that suggested, yeah, it’s fine—I’m just messing with you. To my surprise, The Professor proceeded with eating the brownie. The rest of us watched, half-wondering if he might keel over. He didn’t, and so class continued.
Ten minutes later, the Professor was speaking to the class from his seated position in the front of the classroom when he abruptly slammed both palms onto his desk. He stood from his chair, and with his head turned down so that he was staring at his feet, he proclaimed. “I’m high.” He looked up and locked his sights onto the student who’d given him the brownie, and asked, “You know I’m an addict, don’t you?” Following a fast glance around the room, he declared, “I’m high. I need to go.” Before anyone could respond, he hastily grabbed his coat along with a few personal items from one of the desk drawers, and was out the door.
My classmates and I looked around at each other in disbelief. Whispering voices soon filled the air and a few people starting asking questions to the student who’d given The Professor the brownie. The student appeared just as shocked by the sudden turn of events as anyone, and for what seemed like the first time since class began, he wasn’t smiling. Part of me couldn’t help wondering if what I was witnessing was some sort of joke, orchestrated by the Professor and the student. That theory didn’t last long, however, for when The Professor reappeared in the doorway, it was clear by his expression that whatever was going on was no laughing matter.
“You,” The Professor asserted, pointing across the room at the student who’d given him the brownie. He beckoned the student to come forward, and together, the two of them exited the classroom. The Professor wouldn’t be back to a class for another three weeks. When he finally returned, he never spoke about what’d happened, or where he’d been. As for the student, I can only imagine what became of him. During the year and half that I remained in La Crosse, I never saw him again.
Takeaway points and final grade.
During the last few weeks of class we spent a lot of our time revising the writing assignments we’d worked on throughout the semester. We were also instructed to write a Formal Apology paper that would defend our work and explain what we learned from the class. Much of my poetry writing was indefensible, but I cleaned it up as much as I could and focused the majority of my efforts on editing and expanding my fiction writing. I wrote other stories that semester, though the nursing home one was my most well received. As for what I learned, there really weren’t many take-homes, but the feedback I did receive was useful. The thing I remember The Professor emphasizing in his evaluation of my Formal Apology was how important it was for me to keep reading. This was more of a reemphasis from what he’d already told me during the semester, but it was helpful to hear again. My final grade for the course was an A/B (basically a mix between an A- and a B+). Like most students, I would’ve preferred getting an A, but looking back I think the assessment was fair. After all, I could never hide the fact that I was such a lousy poet.
Thanks for sticking with me on my trip down memory lane. Until next time, everyone!
- Todd
Works cited disclosure:
Burroway, J., Stuckey-French, E., & Stuckey-French, N. (2019). Writing fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft. Tenth edition. Chicago; London, The University of Chicago Press.
Carroll, L., & Tenniel, J. (2001). Alice in Wonderland. New York, Scholastic.
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