coffee and pie

Kristin, oh my word. That is heart-wrenching. I am so glad you're going to have it published. And definitely, do whatever you can to hold onto as many of the rights as you can.

I was taken out of it a little by the way you've ended. You have:

In the years that have passed since that winter day, I have had to move beyond my guilt and my fear. I resisted the temptation to give up the assignment, to play it safe. Instead, new students have filled my memory and heart, and new letters have swollen the drawer—puffed full of predictions and crumpled twenty dollar bills and revelations I can only imagine. I have finally reclaimed much of the joy of January as I sort through the envelopes, remembering and hoping. But from then on, every year as I have sent out these letters to students I once almost knew, I have wondered.

Don't get me wrong. It's lovely. But when I look at what you've told me, this ending overstates things, or something. Urgh--I'm feeling inadequate, because I know I'm never going to get across how much I love this piece. Please know I'm picking because I love it. I'm going to try again, and it's going to take me 500 words to say what I should be able to say in 20.

Part of the reason this last paragraph doesn't work for me, is because the rest of the piece is plainly honest, and in this last section, you employ some poetic overstatements, which would work for me in another piece, but here, seem to detract from the whole. Even the bones of your essay are powerful enough, that I don't think you need that 'years' in the first sentence of the paragraph I've quoted, or the 'finally' in 'finally reclaimed...January'.

t maybe this is just me You're not looking back over a long period of time. You say Michael wrote the letter and graduated in 2002, and picked 2007 for his letter to be sent. It's only been 2.5 years since he graduated. You don't say when he died, but if it was winter, at most it was two years ago, quite possibly less time. Also, since you introduce Michael saying you mourned him because you barely remembered him, I'm not sure about the 'new students have filled my memory and heart' because you start out confessing he wasn't particularly dear to you, when he was in your class.

The final paragraph as is, sounds like something you'd write 10 or 20 years hence, about a student very dear to you, while he was your student. I think the point of it should stay, but I'm wondering if you should rework some of that language. Part of what is powerful about your piece, is that this wasn't your pet student, and this is the sort of thing that happens to 20 year old kids, each day. Having his probably wise-ass blank sheet (which is such an 18-year-old-boy-thing-to-do) of paper turn out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy resonates in an incredibly strong--chilling, even--way.

I'm sorry. This is a really personal piece you've written and it doesn't feel proper to critique it. If you were just going put it up in your LJ, I'd only be giving it love, but I know you want to sell it and I want you to sell it. I've argued with myself over whether or not to just keep my mouth shut, because really, I am so moved by this piece, that to nit pick it feels wrong.

t /me

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D'oh. I think Cindy has a point. It does sound like you're writing it ten or twenty years after the fact, when it's really only been a couple.

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Cindy, no need to apologize. You should SEE how much nitpicking it's already survived...and much improved by it, no matter how little I sometimes wanted to admit it!

I very much appreciate your feedback and definitely see your point. That paragraph was the last thing I revised, almost as an afterthought when I realized that earlier drafts didn't really conclude at all, and I knew (quietly, in the part of my brain I was trying to ignore) that it was overstated in a way the rest wasn't.

And actually, I think your point about the passage of time may have been the magnifying glass I needed to figure out how to fix it.

Hmmm....let me obsess a little and do so.

Apart from that, now that you have read the essay, did you think the title worked? I know it was long (one of the alternatives I had considered was the one you mentioned, "Questions A Teacher Can't Answer"), but the models all seemed quit long to me, too. Also, I was hoping the irony would surface, but that might be too subtle. Your earlier post had said it would depend on the actual essay.

Also, Lyra Jane:

I like the one you ended up with, but it's not something you need to obsess over - they probably have copyeditors write those, like other headlines. Just give it one that will give the editors the gist of the piece, and expect it to be changed.

Excellent point. I think I'll make it

My Turn: Questions Even a Teacher Can't Answer

I had asked my students to reach out to the future, but an untimely death forced me back to the past.

and be done with it until the editor changes it completely.

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instant oatmeal:

What about this instead? Is it enough when put in the context of the essay, or do I need more to convey not only that I wonder, but that I don't take their happiness for granted in the way I used to?

It has been a year since Michael died, and New Year’s is approaching. Very soon, I will open my desk drawer for the familiar ritual of sorting and remembering and adding two-cent stamps; even the postage rates remind me how much time has passed since I thought I knew them. But this year as I look at each envelope, puffed full of predictions and crumpled twenty dollar bills and revelations I can only imagine, I will wonder in a way I never used to.

About who they were and who they became. About who filled their future with stories and who never wrote a word.

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That's stupendous, Kristin. I like it. Gives it a sense of urgency, of being there. I like the postage rates bit.

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Thanks P-C. I'm much happier with it. I'm still tweaking, obviously, but I think that's much closer to where I need to be.

Oh crap! Speaking of where I need to be, I have a hair appointment in fifteen minutes, and I'm still in my jammies!

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Hair appointment? Don't you have school today?

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Apart from that, now that you have read the essay, did you think the title worked? I know it was long (one of the alternatives I had considered was the one you mentioned, "Questions A Teacher Can't Answer"), but the models all seemed quit long to me, too. Also, I was hoping the irony would surface, but that might be too subtle. Your earlier post had said it would depend on the actual essay.

You know, I was so floored by the essay, I forgot. I think both ways work, now that I've read it.

What about this instead? Is it enough when put in the context of the essay, or do I need more to convey not only that I wonder, but that I don't take their happiness for granted in the way I used to?

I'm gonna put them side by side and answer as I think.

v 1:

In the years that have passed since that winter day, I have had to move beyond my guilt and my fear. I resisted the temptation to give up the assignment, to play it safe. Instead, new students have filled my memory and heart, and new letters have swollen the drawer—puffed full of predictions and crumpled twenty dollar bills and revelations I can only imagine. I have finally reclaimed much of the joy of January as I sort through the envelopes, remembering and hoping. But from then on, every year as I have sent out these letters to students I once almost knew, I have wondered.

v 2:

It has been a year since Michael died, and New Year’s is approaching. Very soon, I will open my desk drawer for the familiar ritual of sorting and remembering and adding two-cent stamps—even the postage rates remind me how much time has passed since I knew them. But this year as I look at each envelope, puffed full of predictions and crumpled twenty dollar bills and revelations I can only imagine, I will wonder in a way I never used to.

About who they were and who they became. About who filled their future with stories and who never wrote a word.

I think the second one is much better. Does it reflect all of your truth that you want to get across? That--your truth--is what is so effective (for me) where the whole essay (last paragraph aside) is concerned.

Thanks P-C. I'm much happier with it. I'm still tweaking, obviously, but I think that's much closer to where I need to be.

If you decide to tweak it, just remember to stay naked, and oddly I don't mean that as innuendo. That's what so powerful about the whole rest of the piece. It's naked because

• A young person died

• You admit his name was only vaguely familiar

• You tell us he was an underachiever, rather than beatifying him

• You show the lump in your throat you must have felt when you remember the letter, without ever telling

• You admit to the 'not my job' feeling, and the temptation to mail it, anonymously

It's a fantastically honest piece, and that's where and why it is important, and touching.

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t delurk

Hello writers! I stumbled across this LJ community, and I thought people in here might find it handy. It's basically a forum for asking questions exactly like Susan's above.

t /delurk

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I think this is pretty good so far, but also, if I write it this way, it might not have dramatic tension and stuff, i.e. Something Happens to Somebody. I had considered kind of a "Psych!" ending where the customer ends up being the woman the husband is doing, but that's kind of Rod Serling, huh? Maybe I should move it from just the one day...
Saturday Morning Cut

By Erika Jahneke

Cheryl’s life only makes sense when she cuts hair. Something doesn’t fit or is uneven, she can train it back or trim it, squirt it with water or product, something. You can’t exactly pull life back with a banana clip. Even the smell, which every associate stylist she’s ever had complains about, is one of her favorite things.Burned hair, perm solution, color with its sinus-opening ammonia...if she could snort it she would, because when she’s here, she makes things happen. She knows exactly how long a dye job lasts. Not like, say, a marriage. She picked up Pete’s wandering eye before he could admit to it himself...they’ve always been in a weird kind of synch. She thought it would save them, back when she was still scarred from coming from a house where bowls of potatoes get flung at the wall in fits of parental rage. but it’s hard to read your own husband’s mind and not find yourself.

She has trouble adjusting to change; sometimes cast changes to her favorite television series throw her off balance . But she manages...that’s what she does, manage, starting from age ten, scrubbing those damn cold, congealing spuds off the wall. Somebody had to do it, but sometimes she wonders when her name got to be Somebody.”That was then, this is now,” she reminds herself for the millionth time, sweeping the floor like she was cursing it.

It’s not hard to get stuck in the past in this salon...salon being a gross overstatement. This is an old-school beauty shop, not one of those sybaritic temples to Paul Mitchell promising coconut-scented hairgasms. This place is still half Cheryl’s mom’s fifties modish pink Formica. Cheryl swore she’d never work in here, but she forgot to tell herself what she would do instead, so here she is, gamely attempting to resurrect the beehive for what one of her few college classes would’ve called her aging “client base.” She sighs, just thinking of all the museum -quality styles she’s done in the last few years, since the neighborhood changed and the young, cute locals felt more comfortable in salones aestheticas,and her “ladies” weren’t nimble enough for white flight.She can see the sigh over her head in a balloon like in her kids’ comic books. She could do a lot of things; she goes to conventions, tries to keep up, admires short spiky styles, new colors. It’s all wasted. Her clients want the hair from when their mental clocks stopped, the last time they felt they understood, which around here taps out at about 1964 or something....the Goldwater years.”Like, wow, what a bummer, man. A total bad scene.” she says and laughs at herself. I could take the job at the mortuary, she thinks, the work’s the same...just ...quiet. The clients don’t tip, though.

When she first started here, she used to do her own hair, sometimes a platinum that made her feel famous, but lately anything new she brings home makes Pete say “Why do you have to act like some fucking *kid,* Cheryl?”

Because I’m not fucking dead, Pete. “I thought you’d like it.” Given that that girl you stare at is only about nineteen. She’s not that pretty, though. Her pores are huge and her makeup is too dark for her complexion. But she is a lot younger, probably doesn’t squint when she reads, if she reads.Cheryl wonders if she should refit the place, make it more modern, or if she did the wrong thing in fighting the city when they wanted to run the freeway through here. Mid afternoon is slow on weekends...the older ladies get started early and frantic moms looking to get kids haircuts prefer not to go downtown for them, in favor of a chain salon with a million chairs and toys in the waiting area.
So she is surprised to (continued...)

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