How to Empty a Room

Upon starting my first semester in college, a good friend called me, her words tripping over her tongue with such speed, I comprehended few words—"creative writing class," "right up your alley." A creative writing class? Really? Where? I’d pored over the college catalog numerous times and would not have missed such an opportunity.

“Not here, silly,” she laughed, as if I expected too much from my college choice, a college of a small, intimate nature—smaller staff, smaller class size, smaller class list.

My hometown state university, however, offered creative writing classes and within two days, we both registered, paid fees, and signed up to take the course when we learned the credits were transferrable. I’d already deemed this my favorite class choice, without hesitation, and I couldn’t wait to start…a three-hour evening course once a week. I had little experience with justifying three hours in one night, but quickly learned the necessity.

Since I always spent extracurricular time writing stories throughout my high school career, I had quite a collection and stuffed a couple of “to-go” selections in my notebook for the first class, having no idea what to expect. My friend and I arrived for what we thought would be the typical teacher introduction, orientation and syllabus-type session, entered a healthy-sized room with few available seats, and settled in. As a freshman, I’d never put much stock in professor horror stories, but when this writing instructor took the podium, a chiseled frown on his face and a stance out of the Chuck Norris playbook, the atmosphere took a more serious tone than expected.

He immediately set the terms. This was not a “lazy” class to be treated as an easy credit. Everyone would be expected to turn in three short stories over the semester of at least five-thousand words each, typed (yes on a typewriter), double-spaced, and stapled in one corner. Each class would be spent critiquing one of the student’s creations he selected from those he reviewed and deemed worthy for copying and distributing. Welcome to creative writing.

Gulp, gulp, slouch, slouch, like a choir on cue.

Although this professor’s demeanor sang of condescension and intimidation, I was not deterred. Despite the groaning and discontent filling the room, neither was I easily dissuaded. Following the short session, my friend waited for me in the hallway while I bravely approached “Chuck Norris” and offered him my first story. I was shocked my enthusiasm solicited a slight smile from the man, and he kindly said, “See you next week.”

My friend, pacing coolly in the hallway, informed me she was dropping the class. Her bailing out petrified me. How could she abandon me with Chuck Norris for a teacher? This was not the plan. After all the hassle to get there, she caved. We were supposed to carpool and take this class together. Bribery, cajoling, trickery, nothing worked. I was on my own. And since I had already committed to the class, I had to suck it up and persevere.

The following week, I walked into a nearly empty room with a clock counting down three minutes until doomsday. 

“Where is everyone?” I asked one of the dozen students.

“Most of them dropped out.” As simple as that. No shield, totally exposed, no easy way to skip class. Time to worry. 

Promptly on the hour, the professor found the podium, carrying a stack of printouts. He made no reference to the “lightened” room or increase in empty desks. He methodically set about his business, approached the first row of slim students and handed out stapled pages. Upon receiving my copy, I wanted to dive for cover. He had just handed everyone a copy of my story.

Back at the podium, he said, “This is a good example of how it’s done.” He proceeded to read the story aloud, then dissected it sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph. He commented on every key component of the story, narrative, dialogue, tension, characterization, plot, everything I had “instinctively” done. He expressed nothing but praise for my work. He handed me my graded version with an A+ at the top, and I handed him another one. By the end of class, I decided I would stay in creative writing, and stay I did, for every college semester thereafter until graduation.