Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [15]
“The actual act of writing is a very private thing.” I paced the front of the room, hoping the movement would wake them up. “But the private act of writing is only half the life of a story or a book. Its other half is the life it lives for its audience.” On the board I wrote imaginary audience. “Who is it you see in your mind when you sit down to write?” I asked. “What faces—what crowds—do you write for?”
We discussed the many audiences we saw in our minds when we wrote: editors in offices in great cities, professors with their red pens, peer reviewers, family, friends.
“Sometimes these people can hinder our voice,” I said. “How many times when you are writing do you hold back for fear of what your mom would say if she read it? Or for fear of what a professor will say about your style? In today’s reading, Lamott points out that you have to free your mind from the burden of that critical audience. To write what it is you need to write.”
Lillian Finelley, a varsity cheerleader whom I suspected of taking the class for an easy A, raised her hand. “Who’s our audience then?”
“Yourself. God. Someone kind and forgiving.”
“But don’t authors write for specific audiences?” Mary Beth asked. She planned to be a poet. It was clear that she resented having to agree with Lillian, but she kept on. “I mean, if you write for children you write for children, not for yourself. Or if you write romance, you write for a certain public.”
“Of course we all write to audiences,” I agreed. “And, yes, any given genre is compelled to meet its audience’s expectations. But what I’m saying is maybe we get so busy trying to please a target audience that we miss the very story we have worth telling.”
They were listening intently, but were skeptical.
“How about this,” I said, regrouping. “Would you keep writing even if no one read your work?”
I studied each face in turn. One offered a sympathetic smile, another frowned to prove he was thinking. Few met my gaze. Lonnie Weis stared, but Lonnie always stared. Mostly at my breasts.
“I wouldn’t.” This from Jason Burkie, who only talked if he could be antagonistic.
“Why not?” I asked.
He shrugged his thin shoulders. “What’s the use?”
His shrug tipped the debate. One after another, the students agreed with him.
“I think the whole point of writing is to be heard,” said Lillian the cheerleader. “Like you write so you can have a voice in the world. You know, to protest evil and things.”
Another student: “What good is it if you’re just listening to yourself?”
And another: “Who cares about voice? If you want to entertain people you have to keep their expectations in mind.”
On and on it went. One reason after another why an author should burn her pages and step off a ledge if unsuccessful at publication.
“But don’t we write for more than just entertainment?” I asked. “What about writing for therapy? And doesn’t a person who has been given the passion to make art have an obligation to use that talent no matter what attention he or she receives?”
Convinced I was now playing the devil’s advocate, and that by opposing me they were doing precisely what I wanted them to do, they completely denounced any such notion. A writer should strive to be read. Writing that was not read was wasted paper. They rarely got this excited, but I didn’t want to hear any more. I said it was Friday and we all needed a break: They were free to go early.
As they shuffled out of the classroom, I erased the day’s notes from the board. It seemed a monumental task.
I turned to find Lonnie waiting at the front of the room.
“Lonnie! I didn’t know you were standing there.”
“I wanted to turn in my story.”
“You know it isn’t due for two weeks,” I said.
His eyes, so intent upon me in class, were now fixed on the floor. “Well, you know, it was getting to me up here. I have deadlines for the paper, and I can only have one story in my head at a