Item: 1 United States 1984 quarter coin
This quarter was given to me sometime around 1990 by Dr. Stephan Cook of Westmont College. I was meeting with him about one of my essays from the Modern Grammar and Advanced Composition class, which he was handing back and telling me I should send out to a magazine to be published.
Here, he said, plunking the quarter down on the table. I’ll put my money where my mouth is. I’ll pay for the stamp. Stamps cost less in those days, clearly.
This was a refrain from him the entire semester: Send it out. I think that most of what I wrote in this class covered important late-adolescent topics such as struggles with my hair, or my inability to perform well in jazz dance class. Somehow I doubted this material was ready for prime time.
The thing is, it doesn’t matter how many people tell me I can write; somehow the comments, when I remember them, have morphed into a belief that those people just felt sorry for me, or that I had a slight talent once which has since rusted away. I start a story, sweating and trembling over its every revision, believing it is good right up to the moment when somebody else is about to see it. Then the blinders are stripped away and I see it for what it is -- a pitiful reflection of a small mind, riddled with logical errors, tired observations, and only the shallowest presence of truth.
Most of the time, I can’t be sure that what I write is really any good at all, the reality that John Berryman passed on to WS Merwin. The reason I can identify the quarter given to me for postage in 1990 is that it has been sitting in my desk drawer ever since, a subtle yet physical expression that someone thought what I did was good once. Another quarter might also be worth twenty-five cents, but would not convey the same message.
I ran into Dr. Cook a few times post-college, when I still lived in Santa Barbara. You’ve got some good stuff, he growled at me, get some of it out there. I'm working on it.
Here, he said, plunking the quarter down on the table. I’ll put my money where my mouth is. I’ll pay for the stamp. Stamps cost less in those days, clearly.
This was a refrain from him the entire semester: Send it out. I think that most of what I wrote in this class covered important late-adolescent topics such as struggles with my hair, or my inability to perform well in jazz dance class. Somehow I doubted this material was ready for prime time.
The thing is, it doesn’t matter how many people tell me I can write; somehow the comments, when I remember them, have morphed into a belief that those people just felt sorry for me, or that I had a slight talent once which has since rusted away. I start a story, sweating and trembling over its every revision, believing it is good right up to the moment when somebody else is about to see it. Then the blinders are stripped away and I see it for what it is -- a pitiful reflection of a small mind, riddled with logical errors, tired observations, and only the shallowest presence of truth.
Most of the time, I can’t be sure that what I write is really any good at all, the reality that John Berryman passed on to WS Merwin. The reason I can identify the quarter given to me for postage in 1990 is that it has been sitting in my desk drawer ever since, a subtle yet physical expression that someone thought what I did was good once. Another quarter might also be worth twenty-five cents, but would not convey the same message.
I ran into Dr. Cook a few times post-college, when I still lived in Santa Barbara. You’ve got some good stuff, he growled at me, get some of it out there. I'm working on it.
posted by Karen at 6:18 PM
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