Every once in a while, I check my old writing teacher’s webpage to see if he’s still alive. Sounds morbid I know, but he was really old. And for the past few years, every time I checked, he was still kicking, further confirming my theory that he was going to live forever. Today, I found out that he died back in October. His 94th birthday would’ve been a few days ago.
In 4 years of every other Saturday mornings, Earl taught me more than anyone else ever has. I’m starting to cry remembering those days of listening to him teach us not only about writing, but about life. He was a tough critic, ripping the stories we’d worked on to shreds. But he’d somehow managed to perfect the art of being tough without being mean, and none of us were ever upset by what he had to say.
“What’s at stake?” he’d always ask. The most important question of any story, what’s at stake. What’s the point, what/why/who are you writing for. And if you couldn’t answer that question in a satisfactory manner, well then, how could it be any good? I’ll never forget that lesson.
The second thing I’ll always remember is his pronouncement that a story needs to pull you (the reader) in immediately. If it takes a while to get interesting, it’s not a good story. I adopted that theory, and have used it since. Anytime I pick up a book, I read the jacket to see if it sounds interesting. Then I read the first page. If I’m not engaged, it gets put down again. It’s why I’ve never read the Lord of the Rings series. I think he would approve of that.
Earl was the one who gave me the best compliment I could have ever received as a writer. He told me that I had a voice. He said that many writers never find their voice, and it was incredible that I already had one at my age. He told me that he could pick up a piece of writing with no name on it and know if it was mine. He said that it was my biggest strength as a writer. I had almost forgotten about this, but I won’t anymore.
He was so proud of us, his little proteges. He absolutely loved that we got up early and spent our Saturday mornings with him. He delighted in reading every page of our writing, no matter how bad he thought it was. He strived to make us better writers, better people, and succeeded every week.
We were such a tight group, it was so disappointing when our run had to end. The program extended the age limit so that we could stay another year. But in the end, they told us that we had to go. Other people wanted to partake in Earl’s genius, and one of the problems with us being so close is that newbies tended not to stick around, feeling left out of the loop. It’s not that we were unwelcoming, but it was hard to break into the circle.
During my senior year of college, I took a memoir class and wrote my own. I sent it to Earl via the email address on his site. But right after that, my UMass email account had some major problems, and I’m pretty sure he never got it. Well, I never got a response anyway, and I’m almost positive I would have if it had been received. I really wanted his critique, but also his pride in what I’d grown into and the writing I was still doing. I know he would have been proud of me.
So rest in peace, Earl Maxwell Coleman. There will never be another like you, and you will certainly never be forgotten.
*Do yourself a favor and check out Earl’s work online at the Nearby Cafe*
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