ENGL 682

“Who's late to their own class?” 

Another student stands up, “Yeah, I’m about to leave.” Frustrated, he exited the classroom, followed by half the students. 

The door slams, a chuckle ringed from the back of the room. “Now we’re ready to begin.” The man says, standing up.  

The room was silent, nobody remembered seeing this man sitting in the back. He wore a black hoodie, a bucket hat, and gray sunglasses. By the time it registered, he had already locked the exit. He was huge, definitely more of a door than a window.

“Okay, now that everyone’s found their seats, let's get started.” He says, walking to the front of the room. He pulls out his backpack from under the presentation podium and turns around. 

I was nervous, unsure what was going on. I silently packed my bag, while keeping an eye on the door. He turns around and sees me heading near the exit. 

“And where do you think you’re going?!” His voice was as deep as the tattoos carved in his skin, stunning me, unable to reply. He looks at me, rolls his eyes and walks toward me.  

“Take one and pass it down.” He says, handing me a stack of paper titled, Syllabus Schedule. 

He takes out a dry erase marker and begins to write “ENGL 682” on the whiteboard while I pass around the packets. Embarrassed, I head back to have a seat. 

“No, you can stand.” The professor says, pointing at me. 

“But I thought…” 

“You thought wrong… For those looking to take Creative Writing, the department has decided to add a Literature feature. Meaning...” 

The students groaned at the announcement. 

“Meaning…this will run a hair longer than usual.” 

The students continue their groans. 

“Relax, it’ll be just as fun, as long as you are prepared.” The professor scans the classroom seeing the looks on the student’s faces. 

“I can tell that a few of you feel uneasy. I assure you, change is a good thing.” The professor chuckled. He steps out in front of the podium, moving around the room. 

He stops and faces the class. “What is the importance of literature?”

It’s silent, he then looks at me and says, “You, standing in the back. What is the importance of Literature?”  

I take a second to think of an answer, “To be shared.” 

He smiles and asks, “What is the importance of writing? Uhhh... You, standing in the back!” 

The rest of the class turns around and stares at me. I took another second to answer, “To be shared.” 

The professor smiles, “For the sake of the art. Allow me to share: 

There lived a writer in Brooklyn, on their way to Manhattan, to have dinner with an ex.” 

The class chuckles at the professors’ unorthodox introduction. 

“I’m serious!” The Professor giggles, locating where he left off. 

“The writer was working on a novel, and believed that they may have hit a snag. For hours, the writer stared at a blank screen. 

“Go for a walk!” One of the friends suggested. “There’s always inspiration in nature!” 

So the writer headed to the park and walked. The writer hears the birds above, playing in the clear blue. They resembled schools of fish, being swept away by gentle currents. The writer continued onward. Bombarded by flavors of charcoal seared meats, the writer noticed people celebrating one another as they filled the air with laughter. Hitting the home stretch, the writer watched in awe as butterflies danced from petal to petal touching every soul and nose they could find. 

Their friend was right, nature was exhilarating. With the wonder and hope of nature’s best, the inspired writer quickly headed home. Sitting at their desk, logging onto their screen, the writer pulls up the blank canvas.    

Nothing, it looks like the writer was back to the drawing board. 

“How about mediation?” The neighbor suggested. “I teach yoga classes and you’re more than welcome to join!” 

The writer, unfamiliar, smiled and obliged. The neighbor taught yoga class by the East River, a block past the corner shop, and met at dawn. The writer arrived on time.” The professor paused, looking at the students. 

““Glad you could make it.” The yoga instructor said, handing the writer a yoga mat. 

The writer took a deep breath, searching for their center, channeling their focus. Breathing in, while bending to the floor and exhaling through the deep stretches. In the midst, with each breath turned sweat, resembling the morning dew. The rising Sun kissed their skin. The writer never felt so deeply relaxed. Surely, this would lead to something.  

Nothing, the writer stared blankly at the canvas. Unsure if there was any remedy for what plagued them. 

“How about a drink?” the clerk at the liquor store asked, trying to make a sale. “For you my friend, full price.” 

The writer, out of ideas, takes two bottles and wanders aimlessly. Unaware, if inspiration was at the bottom of the bottle, the writer continued to explore headfirst. The next morning, the writer awakes with a hangover, four missed calls, and a voicemail from “Do Not Answer”. 

“Do Not Answer” invites the writer out for a casual meet up at their favorite restaurant. The writer looks at the time and gets dressed. Running out of the house, the writer passes the corner shop before reaching the train. The writer stops, was this a sign? The writer hears the train and hurries toward the platform, city bound. 

The writer steps inside, and the doors close. The train was empty, it was silent. Nothing but the wind and rails, occupied voyage. It was soothing. The writer takes a deep breath, and closes their eyes. Somewhere between the bustling of the train and the calm of their breath, a spark ignited. The writer’s eyes opened wide, after all this time, it was time! 

The writer takes out their phone to jot down notes, but the writer forgot to charge it the night before, the phone dies. Panicking, the writer jumps off at the next stop, weaving in and out of traffic toward any exit. Sprinting up the stairs, the writer sees the sign for the corner shop across the street but is stopped in their tracks. 

“Hey, you got my message.”, “Do Not Answer” intercepts, blocking the entrance to the corner shop. “I’ll admit, I was kind of shocked that you called but I’m glad you did.” 

The writer, overwhelmed in the moment, takes a deep breath and walks past “Do Not Answer”, heading inside the corner shop toward the stationary aisle. The writer finds the first pen and pad available, tuning out all other sounds, administering the remedy page after page.”  

The professor walked around the room and asked, “And what was the lesson?” 

The class was silent, he looked in my direction. “You there, standing in the back.”

I took a few more seconds to respond, “Always bring a pen and pad?” 

“Never forget your pen and pad!” He exclaims, looking around at the class of spring graduates. “How can a writer be a writer if they never write?” He chuckles pointing at all us without a pen or paper on our desk. 

The bell rings and nobody moves. The professor walks toward the exit, “This course will open your eyes to possibilities if you allow it. Make sure you’re always prepared.” 

The class gets up and heads toward the professor. He hands a student a clipboard, “Before you leave, write your first and last name. Everyone that stayed will be getting a 100% on today’s quiz. To those I see next week, I look forward to taking this journey with you.” 

He smiles and unlocks the door, wishing all of us a happy semester.