Saturday’s Memory for June 21, 2025

I think it was in eighth grade when the teacher assigned us to write a short story. I had a dream then, that was about what happened to the world when dreams stopped. So I wrote a story from this dream prompt. The teacher gave me an “F,” the one and only F I had ever received. When I asked her why, she said I had copied it from somewhere. I was stunned by this accusation. The next time I wrote any fiction was in college. I took a short story class. There were twelve students in the class. When our first attempt was returned, there were 11 Fs and 1 D. I had received the D. Improvement! At least I was not accused of plagiarism. I did try to write my first short story again many times but always failed to complete it. Almost 40 years later, I decided to take another class in writing fiction. The instructor was the well-known author, writing coach, and editor Gloria Kempton. She has been a prolific contributor to Writer’s Digest.

“Imagine an apple,“ she directed. She then led a discussion on what we had experienced. Everyone complied, and she pointed out that our experiences were not gripping. They all amounted to putting a coin in a machine, and out popped an apple image, a compound of memories of apples and such. No drama, no tension, no plot, no story. She then proposed a writing prompt in which a minimally described character was on the verge of a crucial decision. She wanted us to be prompt in our response as well. Then, as we went around the room, the room was filled with story possibilities. No one seemed to suffer any writer’s block, perhaps because we were not writing, just “imagining.” She pointed out that all the proffered story lines were realistic, as if we all were aiming to mimic Flaubert. Then, she said, “Now, the hard part. Close your eyes; let all contents drop away. No prompt, no need to be prompt. See what comes. Don’t try to do anything.” I don’t recall how long this went on, but after a time of such spacing out, “something” happened that was different. No one could name it, but there were references to “electricity in the air” and “sparks flying.” The teacher said that we had contacted, to one degree or another, the story engine. She said she wanted us to write our short stories from “there.” No one could say exactly where “there” was, but we had had a taste. This experience broke the logjam I had suffered for so long, and I began writing my first novel, Dreams: The Final Heresy. I am writing the final chapter now, and I will publish it this year.