Teacher, Teach

by Wendy Blake

I'd always imagined being a writer—a real writer, like Maya Angelou or J.D. Salinger. Sure, that takes a great deal of diligence and a unique set of skills, but I'd always imagined I could do it, and I'm sure I'm not alone. Thousands upon thousands of would-be writers have fallen by the wayside stagnating in the imagining stage. In college, even in high school, I'd sit around with friends talking about becoming "real writers," laboring over our words, earning fame and good money for strictly adhering to our personal visions of the nature of our art.

Such a Sellout!

We argued fervently and with great enthusiasm against the abhorrent evil of selling out. Of course, we didn't necessarily know what selling out meant, and I'm still not convinced of its definition. If I write what I know for the love of doing it, then become a huge commercial success, have I sold out? What if I take my grammatical skills and apply them to formulaic romance novels for the pure satisfaction of exploring the magic of naughty fairy tales? If I strive to become a successful ad writer because I'm thrilled at the prospect of infecting huge consumer audiences with my catchy one-liners, would my aspiring young self disown me? At the time, I didn't ponder such nuances.

Maybe it was in the back booth of the pizza joint with John and Alison, the southeast corner of the cafeteria with Stina and Julie, or the round table at the pub with Randy and Anne, but it was always the same conversation: You just can't sell out. No matter what. Your writing must be pure, artful, and non-commercial, regardless of its popularity and potential for compensation. The big dream? To be lauded for your words in print and for sticking to your chosen style and genre—with only distain for the demands and rewards of the marketplace. If you're going to be a real writer, we insisted, you must become a writer and remain a writer, sequestering yourself into a Dickinsonian turret, if it came to that. You'd know you succeeded the first time you turned down an opportunity to sell out. "Thank you, no," we'd practice, "I am not interested in licensing my novel for your crappy movie." Of course, this was all an unashamed abstraction, since none of us had ever published a word that was followed by a paycheck, and neither did we rely on our part-time jobs for survival. Our selling out was completely hypothetical, and yet I'm sure that any one of us would have jumped all over the chance to capitalize on our budding talents, cannibalizing our carefully turned phrases for the love of an almighty dollar or two if we'd thought about whatever we'd like to spend the money on.

Back then, we defined selling out as leaving the literary niche we'd invented for ourselves and choosing an alternate path for the sake of compensation, convenience, and the comfort of just being told what to do. Real writers, we imagined, inhabit special corners of the collective consciousness. They carve out—eke out—existences in fully realized worlds of their own creation, and the most dehumanizing act they can undertake is selling out. Wasting their craft on the commercial world of pedantic assignments delivered by uncreative officials with more love for income than insight. Business briefs, ad copy, and classroom curricula all fell into the sell-out bin. Because we were self-righteous English majors, we identified selling out most closely with our teachers. Dr. Grishand was a favorite scapegoat.

Those Who Can't, Teach

An awkwardly clichéd English professor with elbow patches and pipe, he lectured his creative writing students in submitting work for publication by showing his own sadly rejected works. It was a little depressing, which is perhaps why we criticized Dr. Grishand so heavily behind his back. Obviously, this man wanted to be a real writer—he kept at it, after all, but teaching commanded so much of his time that his short stories lacked the depth of careful polish that a real writer would produce. We judged him harshly, concluding that he didn't have the strength, discipline, and fortitude to be a writer, so he sold out and took up teaching, obviously regretting it—or at least longing for his old dream—because he kept foisting his own half-finished, spare-time writing on his students.

I left college certain that the poetry I'd published in a smattering of literary journals would pave my way to a full and fulfilling career as a celebrated author of poems, novels, and opinionated prose. To get myself started, I became a waitress and worked evenings, keeping my days free to write, write, write. For years, I pursued my vision of the writing lifestyle, emerging on the other side with no savings, no solid authorial experience, and no laurels as a writer. Sure, I appreciated the praise of the few folks who responded to my quasi-frequent letters to the editor and my occasionally published poems. And once, I sat on a friend's kitchen counter and listened while six peers who'd read the manuscript of my first novel analyzed its nuances. But all told, I didn't write much, and I sent out even less for publication.

When I returned to college as a student of teaching, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was treading the boot marks of old Dr. Grishand: giving up on my dream because I hadn't made any money at it and I didn't savor the flavor of rejection. I wondered if I should have persevered, refusing to be shattered and redirected by rejection. The naïve idealist inside me insisted that teaching writing was selling out. As a teacher, I'd give advice on building a writing habit, employing the writing process, accepting criticism, and submitting work to publishers. These are discrete skills I understand, and may even practice from time to time, but I gave up on the writing lifestyle just as it could have finally been getting started for me. If I didn't take up teaching, I'd have kept writing for its own sake, sacrificing job stability and mobility for the satisfaction of achieving the clear expression of well-crafted narrative. Maybe even make a career of it—or as author Tom Robbins calls it, a careen. But the daily exertion of pursuing the dream made me tired, so I traded it for steady work talking about and judging other people's writing and bringing the skill set I've chosen not to implement into the lives of my students.

The Good Sell

As a teacher, I continue to write. In an interesting way, I do it for a living, but not as I'd always imagined I would. My writing is confined to assignment instructions, constructive criticism, study guides, and the like. It has its satisfaction level—there's nothing like the appreciation of students whose eyes light up with the thrill of enlightenment in response to something I explained in writing. My younger self, the girl who sat around sipping myriad beverages and criticizing writing teachers for selling out, certainly wouldn't approve of my career choice. She'd tell me I'd sold away the rights to any thorough and honest expression of my art in favor of a regular paycheck and the squandering of my talent on the indefinite futures of student writers.

But that in itself is my compensation for this sale: I have the opportunity to instruct and inspire a handful of future Maya Angelous, Tony Hillermans, and Margaret Atwoods. One day, I may read work by a former student and remember some long-ago advice or structured guidance I provided that sent her careening into her writing life. Someday, I might find that a book I enjoy reading is written by someone I inspired to write. What a payoff!

Far beyond that grandiose notion of nurturing greatness by my own sacrifice, my selling out allows me to offer tips and encouragement to reluctant writers, the ones who drag themselves to English class with suspicious resistance. To these students I offer a clear understanding of why we structure language and punctuation as we do. I share my interest in the mechanics of practical writing and the expression of critical thinking for persuasive means. I warm students to the benefits of learning to write well and empower them to achieve whatever greatness they desire. Better writers are more successful in life, any writing manual will tell you, and the rewards of helping others attain success are too great to be ignored.

While Wendy Blake has moved on from teaching to pursue other exciting opportunities, she still learns from the experience. This quirky irony is not lost on her. Visit taopoet.net.