At Beloit College in ice-bound Wisconsin I taught a course called Advanced Exposition, English 221
I inherited this course from a husband and wife team, married, full profs, fussy, jealous, proprietary—this was their course, I should do it their way, I should use their lectures, assign their assignments, and wind up dead behind the desk
but I had solved that problem in bonehead english back at UT-Austin
At Beloit, I changed advanced exposition from a lecture course, yadda-yadda, to a writer’s workshop
I changed the meeting time from 3 days a week to one three hour session
we worked five essays a week
that was back in the days of mimeographics
remember that purple chemical smell?
remember the damp mimeo goop that lingered on your fingers?
I used a book called Modes of Rhetoric
that’s where I learned to write
The modes were paired: definition and description, drama and dialogue, reverie and persuasion, narration and process
the first chapter was about sentences
the author, a guy named Leo Rockas, rescued me on page 6:
“…there is no basic unit larger than the sentence,” Rockas said. “The paragraph is an arbitrary and conventional unit, susceptible of extensive editorial tampering.”
in Leo Rockas, I found my first writing teacher
for narration, use these words: then, and, and then, when, and when
for description, lock down your space, then use concrete nouns and well-chosen static verbs: rests, stands, sits, lies, hides, slopes, hangs
for persuasion, use If…Then, and however, and not only…but also
I hi-jacked Advanced Exposition
I taught it 28 times
Students stood in line at registration
word of mouth sent them to me
they still write letters about the course
“Hey Ray, are you still alive? Still circling words in red and green?”
my second writing teacher was the Zen Guru, Natalie Goldberg
I found her photo on her best-selling book, Writing Down the Bones
confident teeth, black hair, the face of Zen
Natalie hung out in Taos
she taught writing at the Mabel Dodge Luhan house
a five day workshop, Sunday evening to Friday noon
she taught in the Rainbow Room
6 guys and 19 women
with two detective books and a writing book I was the only published writer
I was there to clear my writing block, caused by writing detective fiction
Natalie said: Your startline is I Remember, write for five minutes
Then she said: You startline is I Don’t Remember, write for ten minutes
we wrote, we read in breakout groups, we read back in the room, the voices rang off the rafters, women’s voices made me tremble
they were free, I was trapped
when you wake up, Natalie said, roll over and write
on the fourth day of my first Natalie Goldberg writing workshop, I rolled over and wrote for ten minutes using the startline I am not a woman, and when Natalie said, who wants to read I stood up, and she said, what’s your name again, and when I read the room grew still—they were waiting for my next word, not yawning, and when I finished reading there was that cathedral-stillness, followed by a communal hum, and the women offered comfort, a divorced friend, a sister, someone to comfort me in my pain of being a man—and because of that writing, Natalie remembered my name
and when I came back to teaching, I meshed the circled word technique from Austin with the writing practice learned in Taos, pick an object from your story, write it down, here’s your startline: My object in this story is….
write for ten minutes, who wants to read?
so you come to the end of your life
you can still write
still laugh
still digest a small piece of steak
still sip a glass of wine
still hit a tennis ball, what joy zings up your arm
but you are careful where you step
fall and you don’t get up
fall and you stay where you fell
the world marches on
at the end of your life you look back down the years—like a flight of silver steps, like bright white rocks marking an upward twisting path, like doorways pushed open by hands ever more bony and claw-like—you peer down the valley of years, forever seeking the perfect metaphor, because that’s what writers do, we seek the perfect metaphor, bracelet of bright hair about the bone (lifted from Donne), garlic and sapphires in the mud (lifted from Eliot)—we steal from other writers, hoping the ruby dust will rub off, launch into the marquee of fame—
and when you escape, clutching the stolen metaphor, you look up, and there he is, the guy who began this journey
Glasses. A crew cut. A green Haspel drip dry suit. A necktie.
A fearful eye.
The guy in the suit stands frozen behind the desk.
He is afraid.
He is a writing teacher who does not know how to teach.
Who does not know how to write.
Now what?
Hi Robert, I’m the kid from Amarillo you suggested should attend Beloit in about 1974 saying it would make me more Texan. Probably worked. I have good friends from Beloit who remember you well though by the time I got there you were gone. Heard you left to play tennis but looks like much more. I have a daughter who loves to write. I sent her your blog address. We’ll see what she thinks. Perhaps we shall meet sometime – Taos is best.
hey rick send me your email address i remember meeting you over lunch
Hello Robert,
I just purchased copies of your three writing tutorials/books, and I look forward to learning more about how to be a good writer at age 71. I have begun. . I just completed my first short story and am researching what to do next with it, although I’m writing a new piece that looks like it will become a novella. Work in progress, to be sure; your wisdom will help.
I am glad to know that you are the husband of a childhood friend of a longtime friend of mine, Carol Johnson, whom I have known for many years, and glad to see that you have a blog; I would love to follow your work and keep in touch.
Warm regards,
Lyn Z
Dr Ray. I took a course from you at Beloit in 1973. I was 17 and it was my first semester of college. You used The Magus by Fowler, Hero with a Thousand Faces, Campbell (he came to school that semester), a book on Gothic architecture… You challenged us to write a “monster myth” about our lives. I struggled with the project — but utterly lacked the vision, the mythological chops, or a strong enough self-concept at the time. I went to you and said that it was hard for me to think in these mythological terms. You said, “That’s because you’re a Westerner.” And I said “No sir, I’m from Pennsylvania.” I did drop the class — a poor decision. In retrospect, and despite the embarrassment in recollecting that particular incident through the years, your course was one of the most important for me in my time at Beloit (and there were many wonderful courses). I use the insight I was just discovering in those days, all the time in life. Joseph Campbell has remained foundational for me — (as he has for so many). And I see, everyday, how we are — our world is thirsting for life-giving stories — deep stories — monster myths to give us perspective and courage.
We sat back to back at breakfast during the Surry Writers Conference in 2000 or 01. My friends and I were talking about writing in scenes, the way our mentor had taught us. (Judith Duncan) You overheard and asked to join us because we talked about scenes. Your Weekend Novelist books talk about scenes. Now, scene by scene, I have written 4 mysteries and one historical. I reference you Mystery book when I teach workshops. I have attendees write in scenes and often have standing room only in some of my presentations. Writing is scenes is almost magic! Thank you for your books.
For reasons I cannot trace to logical source, your name has been on my mind for the last three days. So I looked you up, and here we are.
At Beloit, I learned a number of things from you that stuck, chief of which was getting comfortable, somewhat, in my own skin. That comfort, like my very skin, has gone a bit slack since, but a half-century can do things to a person.
First the sword outwears the sheath, then it gets all rusty.
Hope you and yours are holding up.