Now, though, it's time to really stop dreaming and start writing. This is the heart of the class, and its methodology.
"We're going to spend 20 minutes straight, just writing on the subject we committed to. Just write!" the instructor says.
Huh?! That's it?! Just basically write?!! Couldn't we do that after class, you know, after we are actually taught something? I note that the last three pages of the "Stop Dreaming & Start Writing" workbook are blank. Here, apparently, is where we're supposed to start writing, after we, of course, stop dreaming.
"Does everyone feel like they have a concrete idea? Go on a crazy riff," she says. "Ready. Begin."
Everyone has that diligent look of writing on her face. Even our instructor is writing. My hand begins to hurt after five minutes of silent writing. I wonder how The Superhero's Academy is coming along, and if The Life of Jessica concludes with an ironic spin. I loudly unwrap a chocolate to distract everyone. It has no effect; they're all absorbed in their writing. Perhaps the more advanced students get to do silent writing for a full hour?!
Yes, all this for $49.
I take the time to compose my original masterpiece (I know I shouldn't call it such), created when I STOPPED DREAMING AND STARTED WRITING. So here's what the class helped create for you, the readers of this week's column.
A HUNTIN' AND A FISHIN' -- A MEMOIR
By Armando Leonardo
I like a huntin'. I also like a fishin'. The only thing I like better than a huntin' is a fishin', OK? That goes without saying. Heading to the woods with my huntin' and fishin' equipment in hand, I exclaim, "Hunt! Hunt! Hunt!" A few seconds later, I exclaim, "Fish! Fish! Fish!" The reason why I do these activities is because I'm what you call an outdoorsman. Did I mention my gym teacher touched me as a kid?
My story ends with a bunch of robot noises -- "Beep! Bop! Boop!" -- a page of repeated, scrawled text ("All work and no play makes Jack a very dull boy"), and a picture of a tank blowing up, all followed by a big "Go Niners!" And then:
THE END?
The question mark, at the end, leaves the possibility of a sequel to A Huntin' and a Fishin' -- a Memoir.
"By 20 minutes, everybody should be really into it, immersed, into what they were doing," our instructor says at the finishing mark. "How do you feel?"
"My hand hurts!" I say.
"If you plow through like you did here, you'll be able to get through your project," our instructor confidently pronounces.
"How long will it take you to write a book if you write an hour a week?" inquires one of the moms.
"Four months!" the instructor says matter-of-factly.
Well, fuck me sideways.
As it turns out, the more advanced classes at the mansion actually do spend one hour entirely on silent writing.
"The classes start with 20 minutes of talking. Like, I'll bring up a topic like patience, then we'll talk about it," the instructor says. "Then the rest of the time is spent with 60 minutes of silent writing."
As it turns out, the $49 class I've taken is merely a teaser for the four-week course. (Kind of like the live-chat porn site that makes you pay more for the clothes to come off.) As the instructor's promotional postcard says, in each session there'll be no critiques, no discussion of writing, no brainstorming of story ideas -- just one hour of silent writing on the topic you have to chosen to come in with. But remember: There are hors d'oeuvres.
"We meet in this gorgeous dining room," she again explains. "The chandelier was apparently from Gone With the Wind. The piano was Noel Coward's piano!"
And to conclude the class, she says, "You're all highly motivated to STOP DREAMING AND START WRITING."
[Clapping]
Before leaving, a mom from the back row buttonholes me, saying, "I think you're doing something similar to me." Is she also infiltrating a ridiculous Learning Annex writing class, I wonder? As it turns out, though, she's just trying to start a writing group. "So send me an e-mail," she says.
But I'll do better than that. I'll invite her to the writing class I'm teaching. It's a highly advanced correspondence course that involves six hours of silent writing, a stopwatch, and a cardboard cutout of me. So remember: Stop Break Dancing & Start Writing!
