I’m mentoring one (soon two) creative writing students at Bishop Gibbons High School in Schenectady, New York.
I take mentoring seriously; I think older men and women are morally obliged to pass on what they have learned to people who need it or want it. It’s not ever straightforward.
But it’s more complex than ever since the Internet, which has transformed the digital youth culture and exploded it beyond the grasp or understanding of people my age, even though I’ve participated in it for much of my life.
You people grow up in a completely different world than I did, and I always need to consider that when dealing with them.
Trish White, the very dedicated and caring head of the Bishop Gibbons English Department, asked me if I would mentor two of her students. The first one (I haven’t yet met the second) is a shy, bright, gifted, and dedicated 15-year-old junior named Killian.
I’ve taught young writers on and off for 40 years, from NYU to helping refugees and other Albany students learn to write, and now mentoring one-on-one, which greatly appeals to me.
The most confident and sassy students were the NYU students from Queens and Brooklyn.
They were afraid of nothing and impressed by little, and were highly motivated to learn and head out into the world.
The young people I teach now are very different from those street kids. They have little experience with writing, any kind of public speaking, ie often, with reading. Their activities are visual, usually on screens, and often done alone.
Their world is colorful, intense, stressful, and chaotic.
But we got along very well.
Most of the refugee kids were hard chargers; they were eager to learn and get on with being doctors and engineers, which is what most of their parents wanted them to be. They see America as a land of opportunity; they are eager to get a piece of it.
I met briefly with Killian and Trish a few weeks ago. We sat down together in Trish’s classroom.
Killian was wary but also excited; he told me he was interested in becoming a professional writer in the horror genre; his literary hero is Stephen King, a good choice if that is your genre. (It’s not mine.)
Killian is known in the school to be quiet and somewhat shy. He is not a troublemaker or rule breaker.
He loves to bowl and is a passionate listener of popular music from the 70s through the 80s. I had the sense from the first that he was tense, especially around me.
Why wouldn’t he be?
I should say that I understand how strange and intimidating I can be to people of all ages. I’ve always known that I tend to make people nervous; Maria says it’s because I’m direct.
As others have said, she says I often have little tolerance for people I see as diddlers, bullies, dishonest, insincere, or lazy. This is true but not always admirable.
A book writer is still a big deal to many people, which sometimes comes into mentoring relationships.
I have trouble with cruel and rude people, a rough road for somebody who writes online, the world capital of harsh and brutal people.
I’ve had enough bullies in my life; I don’t put up with them anymore or run and hide from them, as they often expect. My sense of identity has gotten stronger.
I’ve never brought intolerant traits into a classroom; my ratings from students and colleagues were always high and complementary; my job as a mentor is to encourage and support my students in any way they choose and need. I work hard for them.
I kept on teaching in one way or another until recently. Bishop Gibbons has drawn me back in.
I have tremendous respect for teachers like Trish and Sue Silverstein. They care.
I don’t impose my values on my students or anybody else.
Writing is very personal, and people must make their own choices. That’s where I come in. How can I help them to be what they wish to be?
I can be demanding, but I am always super careful to be supportive more than anything.
I can only imagine what I might have looked like to a shy 15-year-old who suddenly finds himself face to face with an older man who has worked as a reporter and producer, written 26 books, given many TV interviews, had a movie made about him, and published a daily blog with many readers.
I’m also a big man.
When Killian and I first met, he told me, after some prodding, a horror story from his own life, when he froze in a big-time bowling tournament and couldn’t move.
What a great horror story, I said, let’s write it. He agreed. It was a perfect way to start.
I didn’t hear from Killian for a couple of weeks, and I texted him several times asking if we could talk and if I could see what he had written.
He bobbed and weaved and ducked and evaded. I got the sense he was afraid to show me his work, something I run into all the time when I teach.
In the creative world, it is always frightening to come out and show one’s work to people for the first time, incredibly accomplished people.
We are taught that only extraordinary people can be writers or artists.
I am living proof that anyone can be a writer, I took no writing classes and didn’t finish college.
The people who share their work learn quickly and often do well. To be a writer, I told Killian, you must write. That’s how it begins.
Very few people believe their stories are essential, or anyone wants to hear them. I teach them that their stories are crucial.
I always have to remind myself to be sensitive to the force of my personality.
I started writing letters to the editor when I was eight, and I’ve never stopped writing. It’s no work to me; it’s more like breathing.
I’ve never had writer’s block or, once I was published, doubted that I had things to say that were worth telling. I’ve had five national best-sellers and lots of lovely reviews.
I have plenty of fears and phobias and have been treated for anxiety all my life, but it never came into my writing or stopped me from doing it.
When I was a kid, I made stories up and told them to my dog Sam, and I never really stopped telling stories or trying them out on dogs.
I say this because I was sure from the beginning that Killian was afraid of me and my seeing and critiquing his work. I couldn’t get him to talk to me or show me anything, and if I couldn’t do that, I couldn’t teach him a thing. He was almost paralyzed, I sensed.
I asked Trish White, his teacher, what she thought and why she recommended me as his writing mentor.
Wise and direct, Trish had a simple answer: “because he wants it more than anyone, and I knew you would go and get him and pull him out. I know you are willful.” I was impressed. She told me that Killian was valuable and needed someone like me to go and “get him.”
Someone who wouldn’t quit.
I work closely with Trish; I don’t make a move without her. She is an excellent teacher to me also. I’m pushing her to start her blog. She says if she’s going to teach it, she wants to do it first.
What she said about Killian made sense and affirmed my own suspicions. But what could I do about it?
I can’t wave a wind and be somebody else.
But I wasn’t going to quit on this kid, I knew he had something to offer, and it was my job to get it out of him without scaring or scarring him. I had to be careful. This is the sometimes mysterious power and glory of teaching – you can make or break a life.
After weeks of getting nowhere, I decided, with Trish’s permission, to call Killian out a bit to challenge him.
I texted him – he was most comfortable with texts – and explained that I needed to talk to him about his story and see some of it, or I couldn’t help him and would need to move on to somebody else. Trish, I suspected, nudged him on the other side. I always work closely with teachers; the good ones know their students and how to motivate them.
Finally, last Thursday night, Killian texted me and sent me his cell number.
I called him up at 7:30, and he was as soft and gentle as I knew how to be. But I was still direct. I would never patronize a young writer by lying to them.
For all that, Killian could barely talk.
He was, I could tell, worried about speaking to me and showing me his work. He said he was concerned I wouldn’t like it. He was worried I’d go away.
I said it wasn’t my job to judge him; it was my judge to support him. Let’s do it, I said after 10 or 15 minutes. Give me a chance to help you.
I was expecting a rough and tense reading.
He read me the first two lines after much gulping and hesitation. I was surprised. It was near perfect, polished, and well thought out. He understood the rhythm and unique structure of the horror genre (I read two Stephen King books to prepare me to help him) and told me (he was maybe afraid to say this) that he had put aside my idea for the horror story and come up with his own.
Of course, I thought, he might have been worried to tell me that.
Good for you for standing up for yourself, I said; that’s how it’s supposed to work. I’m not here to tell you what to do; I’m here to help you do what you want to do. I meant it, too.
I could almost hear the sigh of relief on the other end of the cell phone.
I said the first lines were impressive. His plot needed some thought but was very strong. His idea for an ending gave me the chills. You can do this, I said; let’s move forward. Okay, he said, I’d like that very much.
He said he knew he was no good at words. I interrupted him. “Killian, I said, “I will give you one piece of advice. Respect you’re writing. If you don’t, nobody will. I’m hopeful I can encourage you never to speak poorly of your work. It is listening.”
Thanks, he texted.
Suddenly, the conversation started to flow back and forth. I loved his ideas and tossed a few of mine at him; he liked one or two and rejected the others. I could see that once he got past his understandable trauma and risked sharing his work for the first time with somebody like me, he had a lot of confidence, plotted very well, and had a tense but up-and-coming writing voice.
He was also willing to stand up for his ideas.
His voice grew more robust, and he got more confident. It turns out he is plenty strong and plenty talented. We started having fun, tossing ideas back and forth like tennis balls.
I can help him; I know it.
Could he start asking me questions, he asked? What do about writer’s block? Was it okay to keep the plot in his head? He didn’t like writing it down yet. We threw possible endings back and forth, and I talked about the basic structure of all stories – a beginning, a middle, and an end. People often make it more complicated than it is.
He asked how one develops characters and sets up an ending.
I was astonished to realize we’d been on the phone for more than an hour, and Killian was warming up. He didn’t want to get on the phone at first, but now he didn’t want to get off.
He was, after all, 15, talking to a man who was old enough to be his great grandfather. We had found a good groove.
I texted Trish afterward and said, “this is great.” I had broken through.
Killian and I connected; I was determined to stay with him and see him to the end; he had a perfect and creepy short story worked out, we just had to figure out a way to get him to write it down, and I will put it up on my blog.
Then he can say he is a published author.
Once we got easy with each other, we connected. Tomorrow, he’s e-mailing me the first draft of his first draft. I told him I wanted to see it in a form I could print out and read; how he does it is up to him.
He agreed. I asked him how he dealt with writer’s block; we had left it hanging. He said he put his earbuds in and listened to music.
I was relieved.
And I was wrong; I had to be patient enough for him to work with me. And I was. Maria, who heard much of the conversation from her chair, said I did a great job encouraging and praising him.
Was this conversation working for him? I asked him.
It was, he said, until his earbuds broke a week or so earlier.
I had to laugh; I’ve been through this a hundred times with the refugee kids. And many of you know how it all ends up.
Some new earbuds arrived today at his home. I asked Trish beforehand if this was all right to do, and she said yes, it was the perfect thing to do.
She asked me tonight if I would take on another student to mentor.
I said yes but didn’t want to give up Killian; we were bonding. I was determined to see this through with him. I want to see that story on my blog.
Yes, she said, I know. That’s fine.
