Creative Writing, Public School Style

In my last year of high school, I signed up for an extracurricular club for creative writing. According to the flyers that were plastered all over campus, it was to be "A place for students to share their work and get helpful critiques that will help each writer move forward in their craft.”

As an aspiring writer, this was one club I could not resist joining. My best friend, Connie decided to come along, in the event she could pick up some pointers on spicing up the captions for her artistic photography.

There were about twelve of us gathered in that classroom after school, an eclectic group from all walks of high school life. There were a couple of reporters for the school newspaper hoping to perk up their columns, four of us came from the drama classes, several were there to find out if they even liked creative writing, and two were there just to be in one more club picture in the annual.

The teacher facilitating the club was a gentle soul who had a tendency to clasp her hands and beam with delight whenever one of her students wrote a complete sentence. Rumor had it she wasn’t the sharpest knife in the faculty drawer, but she was popular with seniors because she was good for an easy “A.”

I started worrying that the only thing I was going to get out of this gathering was another way to waste a perfectly good afternoon. From what I'd read in the school paper, the journalism staff could all write better than anything I’d heard from the teacher, but what did I know? All I’d heard from her at school was schmaltzy poetry, all pink and fluffy, with touches of dewdrops thrown in for good measure. Perhaps under all of that cotton-candy goodness and doe-eyed exterior pounded the gritty heart of a beat poet or rabble-rousing crusader for women’s rights who battled oppression with her mighty pen.

I could only hope.

Our first assignment was to write a short paragraph or poem that would provide our introduction to the rest of the group. Not being much for writing poetry, I elected the paragraph format, finishing quickly and waiting for the rest of the class to catch up.

Judging from mumbled rhyming phrases, sweaty brows, and piles of wadded papers, there were several aspiring poets among us. The teacher, Miss Dobbs, did her best to encourage each of us, stating over and over that there were no grades here, and that whatever we wrote did not have to be perfect. We were here to grow.
I believe that was her way of saying, “hustle up, you turkeys” but she was much too polite. I’m all for politeness, but I’m also for getting to the next point, and those poet wannabe’s were holding up the show.

The clock dragged the second hand around another 15 times before the last pencil was put down. Miss Dobbs asked for a volunteer to read what they’d written. Before anyone else could twitch a finger, a red-headed cheerleader type jumped up, waving her paper and breathlessly exclaimed that she would like to go first.

“This poem is about me,” she said in a very perky voice. Connie made a soft gagging sound, but I didn't dare look at her or I’d start laughing. Oblivious to my friend's rude noise, the Perky One continued.

“Hair the color of flame/skin one shade above pure white,/eyes as blue as the azure sky,/teeth shining like stars./Graceful as a dancer, lithe and limber/that’s all about me/my name is Kimber.”

There was dead silence for several seconds before Miss Dobbs clasped her hands and beamed. “Oh, Kimber, that was lovely. It is well written and very descriptive. You certainly will be an asset to this group. Now,” she said, turning to the rest of us, “we’ll go around the room and each of you can give Kimber your thoughts on her poem.”

“You mean, we all have to say something about it?” one of the journalists asked.

“Of course. That way everyone gets a chance to tell exactly what they think of each poem.”

I raised my hand.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t write a poem, Miss Dobbs, I wrote a paragraph.”

“That’s fine, Shelly, a paragraph was one of the options.”

The journalists looked at each other for a moment before one of them stood up. “It was descriptive and the last stanza rhymed.”

“Excellent critique!” The next thing I knew everyone had echoed what the first person had said and it was my turn.

Somehow, I managed to suppress the groan that threatened to announce my feelings to the rest of the group. Instead I said, “It does a good job of telling us how you look, but it doesn’t tell us anything about what makes you…you!”

Kimber’s mouth dropped open and she huffed, “Well, excuse me, Miss ‘Poet Person!’ I suppose you could do better.”

“Since I don’t write poetry, I wouldn’t know. I’m just basing my opinion on what I heard. You talked about how you look, not how you feel. I thought poetry was about feelings.”

“Girls, please. Kimber’s poem was just fine, and while I hope you meant well, Shelly, what you said wasn’t very nice.”

“I thought we were supposed to critique it, not just praise it. Praise is good, but an honest critique is much more helpful, don’t you agree, Miss Dobbs? After all, we can’t grow as writers if we don’t know what needs work.”

I snagged Connie's paper from her desk and scanned it. She was notorious for horrible grammar and punctuation. This was one of her finest examples. “For instance, Connie here has disregarded every rule of writing we learned in grade school.” I leaned down and whispered, “You do know that a period is more than just a once-a-month thing, don’t you?”

She stuck her tongue out at me.

I stood back up and continued, “However, she does talk about things other than how she looks. With a little work, this would be decent enough to use as a bio for her photography display.” I handed the paper back to Connie, who smiled. “See? Constructive.”

“May I see you in the hallway, Shelly?” Miss Dobbs closed the door behind us. “I think you’re hoping to get more out of this group than what we can offer. Perhaps you should find something more suited to your needs.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it sounds like you know where you’re going with your writing. I doubt you’d be happy here, and I also doubt, that with the exception of the reporters, none of them would be happy to have you offer criticisms of what they write.”

“So, because I’m telling the truth I have to leave?”

“These people are not professional writers.”

“Neither am I.”

“You can’t expect perfection, Shelly.”

“But can’t we expect a good effort and some punctuation? Shouldn’t we all be putting in our best efforts, even in the most basic things we write?”

She sighed and rubbed her brow. “I could give you one more chance, but you must be nice.”

“Nice, but not honest, right?”

“Yes.”

“And if I speak my mind…?”

She held out her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Like I said, Shelly, I don’t think this is the group for you.”

Glancing through the window in the door, I noticed a couple people stuffing their introductions into pockets and looking purposefully at their watches. It was getting late and quite frankly, I’d had more than my fill of poetry for the day.

“Any suggestions of where I can find a—a group that would better fit my needs?”

“None that would take a high school student seriously.”

I don’t know why, but I was feeling bad about being asked to leave. I had, for a very short moment, thought I’d found a group of similar-minded people, writers who take their craft seriously. Being so wrong about something so dear to me hurt like hell. It felt like something was slipping from my grasp and I was helpless to stop it. Evidently my dismay was written clearly on my face.

“May I see what you wrote, Shelly?” She read it through a couple times before handing it back. “Well written; excellent use of grammar and punctuation. While it tells the reader where you want to go with your writing, it is sorely lacking in physical descriptions, giving the impression of a rather distant person.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks.” Before I left, I stuck out my hand and said, “Miss Dobbs, I believe there is a beat poet lurking deep inside you.”

She took my hand and shook it. “It’s not that deep, dear.” Then she went back into the classroom to deal with the poetry of Kimber and the listless drivel of people who weren’t sure what they wanted. Through the glass in the door, I could see Miss Dobbs perched on the stool at the front of the room, listening to the next poem, hoping, I was sure, to find a spark of something she could fan into full flame and send out into the world.

(Originally written under the pen name Sarah James)