The Class Idiot

The Class Idiot

Today was our first workshop in Undergraduate Writing 101, and it was an eye-opener. Five freshmen coeds and I, a returning-to-college senior, would read the first two pages of our new short stories, followed by a group discussion with comments and suggestions. I was looking forward to the coeds recognizing my genius.

Once everyone was in the classroom and seated, the teacher, a seasoned novelist, asked me to begin. I was delighted. I knew—and maybe he suspected—that my short story would be brilliant, and I was glad to show off my writing acumen. At the same time, I worried that after my classmates had heard how advanced my writing skills were, they'd be reluctant to share their contributions, which, of course, would be inferior. But, maybe they'd be encouraged to catch up to me. So, I began.

"Dearest readers, this story starts in the pits of hell, where bad people dwell. A lonely coal miner chips away at the wall of futility until he breaks through to a land of eternity, and sees a unicorn that turns into a princess bold and tall, who makes him want to change it all. He asks her, "May I come with you?" She tells him, "Yes, that you may do."

But little known to neither one, a war is brewing near the sun. Certainly you remember the galactic war between the Xerians and Kaneskies, horrific battles with laser beams and droneskies. This new war, a war of Earthlings, Martians too, is a fight to death, long overdue. Pray tell, dearest reader, what could they do? The miner ran; the princess flew. Until they met the magic cow that showed them when and how. But why?"

I continued with a strong, clear voice until the end of page two. I even halted mid-sentence on occasion to let the gravitas of my words sink in. I glanced up to see what I was sure was wondrous adoration in my classmates' eyes. Their tight lips told me that they were holding back excited praise. To conclude, I repeated the last sentence twice. Then I folded my hands and waited.

The dead silence portended what could only be muted astonishment. No doubt my tongue-tied classmates were mining their vocabularies for superlatives. I thought I saw one squirm in her seat, eager to begin the compliments.

Our teacher had conducted workshops before—although never one where Nobel Prize-winning literature like mine was on the table. He had a procedure, he said, and explained his Veil of Silence, an ingenious device where the person whose work was being discussed—or, in my case, adulated—could listen and take notes but not speak. I chuckled to myself. Why in the world would I interrupt lavish praise?

Who knows how long the awe would have persisted had not the teacher finally called on someone to start the discussion. I was sure she would start by announcing I was now her favorite author.

"I don't get it," she said, "That setting was unimaginable. A coal miner discovers a unicorn-turned princess waiting for him? It was difficult to get my head around."

My setting was unimaginable? From a girl who grew up on Harry Potter, Minecraft, and vampires? I immediately labeled her Class Idiot.

"Was that supposed to be a poem?" the next classmate asked. "Because the rhyming seemed unnecessary."

At first I thought I had heard her incorrectly. As the others nodded in agreement, however, I realized I'd heard correctly. A poem? Like "Mary Had a Little Lamb"? What do I look like, a sissy? I'm not a goddamn poet! The lines had to rhyme; that was part of the brilliance. I wanted to portray the diametrically opposed forces of good and evil juxtaposed with man's lackadaisical attitude toward his struggles. Could the dimwit not tell the difference between a Sisyphean symbol and a little lamb that follows her to school? I labeled her Class Idiot #2.

What I heard next was just as unsettling: not the adulation I deserved but one of the dumbest questions that had ever been asked in all the workshops in the world since the beginning of time.

"What's the point?" someone asked.

The point? Are you blind? Do you not comprehend the theme of world-class literature? Would you ask Proust, Tolstoy, or Hemingway, "What's the point?"

Oh, how I wanted to break the Veil of Silence. Give these youngsters a stern talking-to. But I was muted. Nevertheless, I had now identified Class Idiot #3.

The third classmate, thank God, said something positive. "I thought this was hilarious, a great example of farce."

Farce had been the furthest thing from my mind when I composed my story. But her comment was somewhat consoling, albeit misguided, after I had heard nothing but criticism. I nodded and smiled as if she'd nailed it, hoping to avoid the drivel she might effuse if allowed to say more.

By then my expectations had waned. These kids neither appreciated my highly-sensitive retelling of man's struggles for happiness nor recognized great literature. Did Beethoven face such ignorance? Picasso? J.K. Rowling?

The last two classmates had nothing worthwhile to say. One suggested I had mommy issues. The other thought I was in the wrong course.

Who were they to judge me, the best writer in the class and probably at this university? My disappointment had reached the boiling point. But I was still under that jack-ass Veil of Silence, forbidden to speak until everyone had had their say.

Finally, the teacher spoke. "I think it needs more work."

More work? What do you mean, "more work?" The damn thing is perfect, guaranteed to win both the Pulitzer and the Nobel. Had he, too, missed the power and wisdom in what I had written? Or perhaps he was jealous, sensing competition from a more skilled writer. Whatever, I quickly realized that he was also an idiot.

I stood up and lit a cigarette. Oh, you should have seen those little undergraduate eyes widen. They pursed their thin little lips as if to stifle horror. They plugged their stupid little noses and sat stunned as I gathered my papers and exited, blowing smoke in their direction, glad to get out of a class full of idiots.