Chapters (60)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Personae
- I: Early Days
- One. Control
- Two. Doubt
- Three. Fate
- Four. Same
- Five. Fine Arts
- Six. In Loco Parentis
- Seven. Settling
- Eight. Neighbors
- Nine. Prospects
- Ten. The Lucky
- Eleven. Instruction
- Twelve. Same
- Thirteen. This Is a Pipe
- Fourteen. This Is Not a Pipe
- Fifteen. The Reason
- Sixteen. That Person
- Seventeen. Predictably
- II: Writing Teacher
- Eighteen. Early Poems
- Nineteen. Motivation
- Twenty. Allegory
- Twenty-One. Grief
- Twenty-Two. A Portrait
- Twenty-Three. Veils
- Twenty-Four. Soft Power
- Twenty-Five. Lists
- Twenty-Six. A Break
- Twenty-Seven. Elsewhere
- Twenty-Eight. Custom
- Twenty-Nine. Parity
- Thirty. Fortune
- III: Volta
- Thirty-One. Images
- Thirty-Two. A Very Interesting Young Man
- Thirty-Three. Letters
- Thirty-Four. We Prefer to See Ourselves Living
- Thirty-Five. Love
- Thirty-Six. The Iceberg
- IV: Your Best Reader
- Thirty-Seven. A Novelist
- Thirty-Eight. In Advance of the Broken Arm
- Thirty-Nine. Their Penultimate Encounter
- Forty. Détente
- Forty-One. Worlds
- Forty-Two. Recognition
- Forty-Three. Persistence
- Forty-Four. And Then
- Forty-Five. Mingling
- Forty-Six. You
- Forty-Seven. Persona
- Forty-Eight. Est et Non
- Forty-Nine. The Author
- Epilogue
- Afterword: The Libertine
- Acknowledgments
- About the Authors
Loudermilk comes in: “I just wonder if what I’m writing is something that you or, uh, like, people can understand. Like, generally? I mean, this is all so good to know, not to mention, deep.”
Marta does not take the bait. “Generally?”
“I mean, uh, the, uh, creative side of this, you know? Like, are people going to actually care about my poem? I mean, outside of this place. Which of course is so wonderful.”
“‘Are people going to actually care?’” Marta repeats. “People are—” she begins, but does not to know how to complete her sentence. “You are writing at a very high level, Troy,” she says.
“Loudermilk,” Loudermilk corrects her.
“I prefer Troy, if you don’t mind? It seems fitting somehow, for our age. Anyway, you can’t write for every reader. That’s not the point. You can only write for your best reader.”
“Who’s that?”
“A vital question.”
“So, like, do you think you can help me find out?”
“I’m already doing that for you, Troy.”
“Oh, certainly!” Loudermilk is quick to agree.
But Marta does not feel the same way Loudermilk feels about whatever it is they are currently supposed to be unpacking. “That is the point—of what, if anything at all, I am attempting to get across to you. Writing cannot be taught, and here is the reason why: You write, not to address the world as it is, but to create the world, all over again. Truly great writing does that. Truly great writing is not about the expectations or needs of contemporary readers. It’s not even really addressed to its own time. It shouldn’t be! It doesn’t need to be. This is the mistake so many of your classmates make, and I wonder if it’s not somehow encoded into the DNA of the workshop setting. Students come to this place expecting this, they think I can hold their hands, but this is not how things are. We do not write for one another—as or however much we may think that we are doing so. We’re not here to address one another. We’re here to confront something about humanity, to confront the fact that, as humans, we are fated to make things, and we are, meanwhile, the subjects of history. We each have two hands and this is, quite simply, what culture is! It’s where all the tragedies come from, but it’s also the source of great joy and mystery. I expect my students to be able to see past whoever’s sitting across the seminar table in front of them on a given day. We have to imagine that writing is an act of transhistorical communication, not a mere performance, and that’s what I most want you to understand! I need you for poetry, Troy. That’s why I summoned you here.”
“You mean today?”