About a month ago, I was clearing out my Gmail inbox when I stumbled across an unusual email I had received about eight months prior. It was the first chapter of an unpublished fiction manuscript written by some guy I don’t even know. Sounds like an odd thing to have in my electronic possession, right? I’d say so, but there’s a story behind it.
Last summer, while I was still living in Manhattan, I had taken my brand new Dell mini over to the Starbucks in Union Square to do a little writing. After walking out of the perspiration-inducing New York humidity and into the AC-chilled, billion-dollar café chain, I bought a “tall” iced tea and sat down at a small round table in the middle of the seating area. Hoping to dissuade strangers from bothering me while I vigorously exercised the right side of my brain, I covered my ears with a set of large, Bose headphones.
[Note: Over the years, it's become clear to me that whenever I'm trying to do work in a coffee shop, I give off a very loud vibe; one that screams, “La dee DAHHH! I'm just sitting here doing absolutely NOTHING of importance! Please come by my table so you can inquire as to exactly what I am doing, and then ask me a never-ending stream of questions about my life. Or if you'd like to inform me of the number of gay lovers you've accumulated in your 70 years on this planet, that'd be cool too.”]
But I was really hoping that a set of giant headphones would make it clear that one of my goals for the afternoon was to shield out my surroundings.
I was wrong.
After sifting through my creative conscious for no more than five minutes, a 30-something guy made a beeline for my table, pointed to my 8.9” Dell mini and asked…
Guy: Whoa!…WHAT IS THAT!?
I thought to myself…
What IS this? What does it LOOK like!! It has a screen, sort of like a laptop screen, 61 little keys that are arranged in a rectangle, which kind of resembles a keyboard, it says “Dell” on it, which is a company that is widely known for manufacturing laptops, and it looks remarkably like a laptop. WHAT DO YOU THINK IT IS!!
But instead, I just sighed, removed my headphones and answered his ridiculous question.
Me: It’s a laptop.
Stranger: Whoa, REALLY!?? It’s SO SMALL!!
I sighed again.
Me: I know.
He then looked at the screen, saw that I had a word-processing document open and asked me what I was doing. I tried as hard as I could to look annoyed as I answered his question, hoping he would get the hint that I just wanted him to go away.
Me: I’m working on a book.
Stranger: Oh, really? That’s AWESOME! I’m writing a book too!!
UGHHH…
The stranger then stood and talked my ear off about his book for the next 15 minutes. He was apparently writing a novel, he had written about half of it, and he was expecting the finished product to be somewhere around 500 pages. He also informed me that he works in the field of chemical engineering, but that he’s always dreamed of breaking into the literary industry, and that this book would be his first crack at it. I gave him a tiny smile and said something along the lines of…
Me: Oh, that’s nice. I hope it works out.
The stranger took this response as the green light to ask if I, a random Starbucks patron, would mind reading Chapter 1 of his book and giving him some feedback.
I sighed, for the third time. I’m not particularly interested in fiction. Especially if it’s been written by a dude who has not only interrupted an activity that I was very much looking forward to, but who can’t take the hint that his interruption has left me somewhat irritated. I tried to explain to him that my opinion of his work would likely be of little help because I am not a writer by trade. Rather, I am just a person who writes.
This, however, did not matter to Starbucks Guy. He wanted my opinion anyway.
Since I have trouble saying no to anyone who hasn’t gone out of his way to physically or emotionally assault me, I reluctantly gave him my email address and told him he could send his chapter along whenever he felt like it. He was excited and told me he’d be sending it immediately.
That very night, I received his opening chapter. That very night, I read something else. I read something else the next night, too. And again the night after that. Two weeks later, I received a follow-up email of: “So, did you like it?”
Oh crap.
I actually had to read his chapter. And so…I read it. And the answer to his question was: “Ummmmm…did I LIKE this?? What IS this!?”
To be fair, I could tell from his writing that he was a very intelligent man (although, the chemical engineering thing kind of gave that away). However—between introducing something like six characters in the first paragraph, and then including the height, body type, complexion, hair color, hair texture, distance of jaw-protrusion, facial scar depth, number of fine lines, complete wardrobe description, and approximate shoe size of each character, but then having such trouble with his pronouns that figuring out which character he was referring to was nearly impossible, and then inserting a non-sequitur after every 3rd sentence, and then allowing some of his sentences to take up as many as eight lines (much like this one)—his chapter itself was so confusing that I had to give up after spending 20 unsuccessful minutes trying to translate his first three paragraphs into some kind of readable English. There are no words to describe the magnitude of the mess this man had created.
Then I was left with a decision. How to answer his question. “Did you like it?” Well, no I didn’t like it. I couldn’t even read it! And because of that, I couldn’t even figure out what it was about! But was I supposed to tell him that? Was I supposed to level with him about the crappiness of his writing? I wasn’t sure. The truth would have been something like,
“Hey Starbucks Guy,
In all honesty, this sample of writing is the shittiest thing I’ve ever read. If you really want to get published, I suggest you eliminate 2/3 of your characters, then cut out the flowery descriptions, then remove every non-sequitur, and then axe the run-on sentences. This will probably bring your 250 pages down to about 7. Once you are down to 7 pages, you may as well ditch the entire thing. Then you might think about signing up for a few crash courses in creative writing, and then starting from scratch. Or it might be easier to take up a new side-project. Like shuffleboard. Or badminton.”
Sincerely,
The girl who just dashed your dreams.”
Yikes. I think if somebody gave me that kind of feedback, I’d be sent into a tailspin and give up on writing altogether. Although…maybe that’s exactly what he needed. To give up on writing. It seemed like any more time spent trying to produce literary gold would be less productive than time spent running in a giant hamster wheel. (At least in a hamster wheel he’d be getting an aerobic workout)
But was it really up to me to dash the dreams of a complete stranger? I was just some random chick he had run into in a Starbucks. But on the other hand, I felt a slight sense of responsibility to at least try to veer my fellow human off a path of inevitable rejection and disappointment. Sure, it would hurt him, but who better to give sour news to a deluded individual than a total stranger who wouldn’t have to witness the repercussions of dashing the deluded person’s dreams? I wouldn’t actually have to see the shattered expression on the guy’s face, or hear about the talks he would inevitably have with his newly-hired therapist. But then again (…again), my imagination would probably create images of the scenario. And my conscience would probably chastise me with things like: “Randi. You are a horrible person. You took this guy’s dreams and smashed them. The guy probably jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. Even though I am part of you, I hope you go to Hell, you heinous bitch.”
I needed some advice.
Over the next few days, I talked to my brother, one of my girlfriends, and even my mother about my predicament. Although, looking back, I don’t even know why I bothered. To them, there was no predicament. And it was ridiculous to even consider hinting to the guy about the awfulness of his work. All three confidants gave me the same piece of advice:
“Randi, you don’t know this guy. It’s not your place to crap on his parade. And it’s CERTAINLY not your responsibility. So just make the situation go away and forget about the whole thing.”
I knew that was the more “socially appropriate” thing to do. When asked to give subjective feedback about a person, to that person, we are supposed to smile, nod, and say, “What? Do I think you’re a good actress? Of course I do!” and “Oh, honey…you sing like a songbird! Daddy and I will pay for your voice lessons so you can be the next American Idol!” and “Oh, no…your book should not be used to keep my fireplace going for an extra five minutes this holiday season.” We are supposed to lie to the face of the dreamer because it’s not nice to hurt feelings. But really, this just hurts the person even more. I mean, is it really better to allow a person, stranger or not, to continue wasting his or her life chasing the dream of becoming the next Tom Hanks? Or the next Susan Boyle? Or the next Mark Twain?
When it came time to give my feedback to Starbucks Guy, I opened his email, clicked “Respond,” and watched the cursor blink. My brain and my heart were telling me to rescue this guy from hundreds or thousands of wasted hours abusing his computer keys. And to gently (or violently) nudge him off his current road to nowhere. I wanted to save his future.
But then my conscience chimed in, and I kept thinking about the reaction he might have upon receiving such bitter news. What if I caused him to dip into a months-long bout of depression? In all fairness to my conscience, I didn’t know anything about this guy’s mental status. What if his wife had just informed him that she wants a divorce…because she’s been having an affair with his brother? And that she and his brother are planning to move to Ireland so they can frolic through fields of clover in search of trees filled with cookie-making leprechauns? And before she walked out the door forever, she informed him that he’s a terrible lover? And that he has never left her satisfied? Because he has a tiny penis!?! What if all of that had just happened to him!?!!? And the dream of being a writer was the only thing standing between his fragile sanity and a nervous breakdown?!!! HOW COULD I DO THAT TO HIM!?!!!
And so, my decision was made. I had managed to convince myself that the random coffee-drinker would kill himself if I told him the truth. So instead, I followed social norms and the advice of my loved ones, and told him to clean up his pronouns, cut down on the flowery, detailed physical descriptions, and watch out for run-on sentences. By now, the poor guy is probably peddling his book all over creation, getting one rejection letter after another.
I still think about him sometimes. And that maybe I should send him another email. One that might actually nudge him in a positive direction. I feel like it would be good Samaritan-ish; swallowing my fears of hurting feelings in order to help the greater good. I do hate the thought of that guy writing himself into oblivion during hours that could be spent enjoying himself, or trying to find a new wife who appreciates his valiant efforts at being satisfactory lover, despite his penile handicap. Sure, it would be weird. Nine months after the fact, receiving an email that reads,
“Ummm, hey there. Remember me? The chick from Starbucks? Well, I’m just writing because I recently reread that chapter you wrote. I’ve been giving it some thought and I really think shuffleboard would be more up your alley. It’s super fun. Way more fun than writing. Ok, bye.
Sincerely, Randi Braun.
P.S. Badminton is fun too.”
Despite not being the “socially appropriate” thing to do, I think in the long run, writing something like that—perhaps using slightly different wording, and omitting any references to geriatric sports—would actually be the noble thing to do. Maybe I’ll do that. In fact, maybe I’ll do that right now. And if my conscience damns me to Hell, well fine. At least it’ll be right there in my hand-basket, coming along for the ride.
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Randi, get out of your head! I’m sure the guy is fine and probably enjoys writing despite how awful he is at it. Why spoil his delusion?
P.S. I love your articles and can’t wait for the next J-Date disaster story (does that make me a bad person?).
So did you email him again?
A friend of mine just asked me to provide comments on one of his dissertation chapters. I hated his writing. I couldn’t tell him that though. I just corrected the stuff I hated very most, and let the rest slide. His doctoral adviser and committee can handle the crushing of dreams part.
What a coincidence, that is I, the 30-something year old unshaven intelligent chemical engineer with brown hair and hazel eyes standing 5’10” and 160lbs., that is currently wearing an orange T-shirt and green pants and therefore feeling kind of hungry, and has a depressingly small penis so wants to be a writer that you speak of!
Just kidding: My penis is huge.
Ok, just kidding again.
Scott L’s meltdown/redemption might have been my favorite part.
John- Don’t worry. A new JDate tale (err–hilarious disaster) is on its away! And this one might be even more shocking than the others :)
Native Minnow- No, I didn’t end up writing him back. I decided it would be way too weird.
And it’s a good thing your friend has a doctoral committee to handle the dirty work. Passing the buck is always a good way to eek your way out of a situation. I just hope some of the literary agents that Starbucks Guy queries will give him some useful advice.
Scott- Thank you for making me laugh out loud :)
Funny stuff. I’ve been in a similar situation with a co-worker. His weakness was giving every single character a nickname. And, I’m talking bad nicknames like “Lightning” Larry Williams. And, Frank “Ice Cold” Coleman.
I tried to let him down easy, but he still hardly ever spoke to me again. What are you gonna do?
By the way, do you want to read the first chapter of my novel?
I’m an English Writing major and some of my coursework involves critiquing my classmate’s writings in a workshop style format and sometimes it is absolutely painful. I don’t want to be a jerk and point out how shitty their writing is, but I don’t want them to think it’s any good either. I usually try to be as nice as possible for reasons I can’t explain, or maybe I actually do it because I don’t want them to bad-mouth my writing either? But I guess therein lies the dilemma, doesn’t anyone who writes think that what they are writing is, at least, somewhat good, which leads them to writing more?
yeah, don’t be honest. i wrote on one of your previous articles that you are riding the coat tails of douchey paul’s haiti idiocy and therefore cosigning his opinion and that you could use some spell checking and some editing. you and some of the commenters didn’t take it well.
Pragmatism, you could use some spellchecking and editing as well. You could start with your use of capitalization.
MG- “By the way, do you want to read the first chapter of my novel?” That made me laugh.
I think I’m going to leave things with the guy alone and just hope that some sympathetic literary agent out there gives him a little guidance. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.
Kyle- I think this is a dilemma with almost anything that can be considered an art, or anything subjective, really. The first time I thought about writing a piece like this came after I watched some American Idol auditions. I thought to myself, “Oh my god! How can some of these people think they’re good?!” But the thing is, nobody has actually been honest with them. Or even worse, sometimes people even ENCOURAGE them! For example, this is an audition that really stuck with me:
A young girl, maybe 17, walks into the audition room and begins to sing. She is awful. Halfway through her song…
Simon Cowell: Ok, that’s enough. You’re terrible.
Girl: What? What do you mean?
Simon: What do you think I mean? You’re terrible. At singing.
The girl’s eyes fill with tears.
Girl: But my parents love my singing…and so do my voice coaches!
Simon: How many voice coaches do you have?
Girl: I’ve have 2 in the past 9 years.
(All judges look appalled)
Kara: I hate to say this, but they’ve been stealing you parents’ money. You’re just…not good.
All 4 judges tell the girl that she should really take up some other craft. The girl begins to cry and by the time she leaves the judging room and gives the bad news to her parents, she’s sobbing. Then I think she tells her mother that the judges are f*%$#n @$$&%$#! (or something like that), and her mom reassures her that the judges are stupid and don’t know what they’re talking about, and that she is an amazing singer and should never give up on her dream.
I realize that this an extreme example, but it’s sort of the same concept, you know? Sometimes, without reality checks, our delusions about our talents and abilities can get out of control. And the longer they stay out of control, the harder it is to handle when we are faced with the truth. But the problem is, nobody actually wants to tell the truth (including me).
I could probably go on for another 30 minutes about the intricacies of this issue and the psychology behind it, but I think I’ll just stop there :)
Thanks for reading and thanks for commenting. Oh, and thanks for the backup with pragmatism. It’s really too bad he doesn’t understand the difference between giving someone an honest, constructive critique in an attempt to help that person with his or her craft, and expressing pent up anger and sexual frustration by being an anonymous, trolling dickhead. If he did, he wouldn’t have left such a silly comment on my board. Oh well.
so anonymous commenters should be held to the same standard as the writers who are publishing their work here? that’s funny kyle. funny and sad. for you.
lol randi. my critique was honest. your credibility suffers on both counts. projecting with the sexual frustration? i don’t see how you came to this “analysis”. i just deal with what you say. its telling that you have to speculate about my personal life instead of dealing with the substance of my comments. like i said before, i won’t be your last troll. you’d better learn how to handle it. speculation = FAIL.
Randi, you’re definitely right with your response. Getting told that you’re not as good as you think you are is definitely a heart-breaker. But, like in your example from American Idol, even though it hurts it’s better to get told the truth than to keep buffering delusions of grandeur!
Randy!It was not really a question of telling him “the truth” that mattered. The real question is the truth that was, [is], yours to tell. One of the reasons this becomes so difficult is that society has tied up in knots your vision of “truth.” It has become, for the vast majority of people educated in today’s vision of itself, something that must be approved by those amongst whom you live your life. Society demands that you think in a certain way which conforms to its way of seeing things. It tells you what is acceptable “to it.”
Even more transparent, another person should ask permission before intruding into your space and making demands on you. You need to guard the powers that you have been given as a writer. Whenever, wherever, you sit down to begin a piece of work, [with or without the earphones], you must be ready to protect this time, your time, and the moment of creative silence which it demands from you. This is your responsibility. You must learn to say [something like], “Sorry, I’m busy and I do not wish to be disturbed.”
This is your moment of truth, not his or hers. It is yours to protect, so that something can be created. That is your responsibility, not some flim-flam moment of “being nice,” as society deems proper conduct.
Real truth is that moment when creativity demands your respectful attention. You must respond to that moment, be true to yourself, and everything else will fall into place – its truthful place, created by you.
Sentient beings dream, and then create. That is truth. Live it-be true!