A Writers journey... by Emmerson Hayes

My biggest writing inspiration was one particular fiction writing teacher I had for one lovely spring semester at University. He was a very cocky teacher with a bit of a southern drawl and a wicked sense of humor. Some of the best hours I ever spent were the 1-day-a-week, 3-hour-classes where I could sit in my wooden creaky desk with the screws that snagged my hair on the back-rest, and watch him sparkle. I was simply in love with his words, everyone was. He had a command of the class that was mesmerizing and all I could do was listen in awe.

He was/is a famous author, his class a popular one with only a few openings available. To add it to my roster I had to spend the night sleeping in line, in the hallway of the English Department with some other students who wanted to take his class as badly as I did. I my brought my pillow and the book, “Crime and Punishment” and I remember the guy sitting next to me said I was nuts and that he didn’t do “required reading” for fun. But I was fascinated with how Raskolnikov used reason to rationalize immoral acts. Dostoyevsky was criticized for not being a “skilled’ writer. But his ability to get his point across so beautifully, completely trumped that.

Nietzsche writes, “Dostoyevsky, the only psychologist, incidentally, from whom I had something to learn; he ranks among the most beautiful strokes of fortune in my life…”

I was able to add the class but then I was so tired from being up the previous night, that I slept through the beginning of class the next day. I remember trying the door but it was locked. So I just sat outside of the classroom on the floor to wait until my teacher came out.

At break he opened the door and looked down at me, a little confused. I told him that the door was locked so I couldn’t get in. He asked why I didn’t knock and I said I didn’t want to be rude (I was secretly terrified of him…not something I was going to rely during that conversation though). He was flabbergasted and he responded that the class was already full and he had just added an extra person because there was a spot available. I told him that I was late because I had spent the previous night in line to add his class. So he kind of ruffled his already-wild hair with exasperation and said OK. The classroom was in one of the older buildings with huge windows. He would open them on beautiful days and I would watch the trees sway next to my head and feel the breeze on my skin while listening to this teacher say everything I wanted to know about everything that I loved to do.

I wrote a short story in that class that went over well but ended up with one person telling me, as we packed up our backpacks, that she was shocked when she read it. I remember responding that it was FICTION…not true…not my personality. But in reality, the first part was true. I really did go to the Salty Dog Saloon and I really did see that grad student (my former teacher). But that night I only had few beers with some friends and then went home. I sat alone and wrote on my computer, a much more interesting end to the evening than what actually happened.

To my dismay, my fiction teacher knew this grad student, recognized my description of him, and 

gave him a copy of the story. When this grad student came back into town…he invited me to some weird party thing. I don’t remember if it was his get together or someone elses. I do remember though that he was so slimy towards me that I left hurriedly after about 2 minutes of conversation. I realized then that fiction is much more appealing than reality.

I mailed a copy of that story to the New Yorker. My rejection letter came to me as a handwritten note that read, “We all very much enjoyed reading this. We finally decided, however, that it was too underdeveloped. Try again?”

I didn’t try again. In fact for no real reason beyond being busy with living life instead of writing life,  I didn’t write again. Then a few months ago I started the secret experiment: Ungrateful Bliss.

These days, the inspiration for my character, Odette, comes from  a beautiful girl I knew in college, who dated a guy I had a crush on. She didn’t seem to notice how creative and perfect he was, but I did. She was the kind of beautiful where it is hard to look away…like you are trying to figure out how she does it so easily. She didn’t seem to realize she was pretty, or care. In fact she seemed to take everything for granted and everyone wanted to be friends with her regardless. She wasn’t a snob. She was nice and generous and tried to be helpful. But she never seemed bothered by anything, completely the opposite from myself as I fixated on every tiny thing that happened around me and over analyzed until I was completely exhausted.

After many years of reading only children’s books to my little ones,  I am now ready to dive back into Chaucer, figure out once again what is was about Criseyde that made my literature teacher bizarrely profess his love for her to our class. I have a sick fascination with blurring the lines between fiction and reality. Because honestly is there really a solid line? Don’t we become who we are because of the books we read and we take what we want with us, and leave behind what we don’t care to use? I would like to have the attitude of Peter Gibbons of “Office Space” the luck of Cinderella, I would like the cunning of the tailors of “The Emperors New Clothes” and the moral fiber of John Grady Cole of Cormac McCarthy’s “All The Pretty Horses”.

I am inspired by flaws…blatant imperfections that are trumped by innocence.

by Emmerson Hayes


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