Balls

So I went to the writers’ conference on how to publish a best seller. It was great. Two agents were there to whom we were allowed to pitch our novels. Let me just say this: It was a great experience, but it did kind of remind me of one time when I talked my way into a passing grade in architecture school in spite of the fact I had no building and no drawings to show for an entire term’s work.

Yes, I really did that. And no, I am not ashamed of it… well not much anyway. I guess you could say I had drafter’s block. I knew how to draft; I learned that in technical school. I was capable of coming up with passing design ideas; this was not my first design class. So, what happened you might ask? Well...

This wasn’t just any architecture design class. I had been selected as one of the crème de la crème to study under a legend-in-his-own-mind professor. Even though we worked in a crappy old past-its-expiration-date temporary building on desks left over from World War I, and were crammed into our studio space like a box of number two pencils still in their box.

The stakes were high to say the least. I spent most of the term blank minded and terrified. I managed to do two things right, I kept trying to figure out what the professor was talking about, and I never stopped coming to class. A good thing, as that would come in very handy when I would later make my plea for mercy.

Everyday, I’d come to the studio, get out my tracing paper and pencils, and make wonderful looking little sketchy marks and diagrams along with everyone else. Every few days, we’d pin our sketchy little drawings up on a wall and wax eloquent to one another about them. That was relatively easy, given my gift for gab.

The fact I had no idea what I was doing and the professor might as well have been speaking Greek, did not deter me on my mission to look like I knew what I was doing. (Actually he might have been, according to their own reports, the other students were of such high caliber, I might have missed that as a requirement on the syllabus).

Anyway, the more time went on, the more terrified I became. I was in a near constant state of panic, which did not help my ability to assimilate or produce. Just telling this story is starting to give me palpitations and hives. I better get on with it and cut to the chase. So here’s what happened. The term ended as all architecture school terms end, with a Final Review.

What I later learned about the Final Review is I really could have put up my sketchy meaningless diagrams and talked about them. Most architecture students have the opposite of imposter syndrome and probably half the class had done that anyway. But I hadn’t read that part of the architecture school student manual yet.

What happened next is a blank. I don’t know if I appeared at the Final Review with nothing, or failed to appear at all. It’s kind of like a car wreck where you end up in the hospital saying, “I can remember only just up to right before the accident”. My next memory is sitting in the office of my professor about to make the ballsiest move of my as yet, barely budding, architecture career. It was divine intervention. To this day I don’t know what made me do this.

First, I told the truth. I had not, all term, produced anything of substance. I was repentant. I recapped for the professor what I had learned in spite of complete drafter’s block. I promised it would never happen again. And I may have smiled and batted my eyelashes, I was a lot younger and cuter back then. And…drum roll please… he let me off. He, the scariest guy on the faculty, actually gave me a passing grade. Badunk!

I learned a valuable lesson that day. I didn’t learn that I was an idiot who had no right to be in architecture school. I didn’t learn there had been a mistake and he felt bad I’d been let into the class by accident. This is what I learned; you never know what you might receive, no matter how unlikely the odds, unless you ask.

To say that was a valuable lesson would be like your architect saying, “we’ve gone a tiny bit over budget.” You can find that under “U” for understatement in the How to Be an Architect Manual. What a gift. That lesson has served me well ever since. I’ll ask for just about anything. You just never know.

Which brings me to the workshop. This is how the two stories are alike. One, when it came time to pitch our books, I’d changed my premise so many times, there was no book, just a title and a few highly implausible plot points. Two, it was a completely architecture student in the swing-arm-lamp moment. I was frozen with terror. And three, I have almost no memory of what happened.

All I know is, I am now the proud owner of a personalized, signed copy of Jane Smiley’s novel writing guide, Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Novel, and a picture of me with Jane Smiley was in my camera when I woke up this morning. Oh, and I know I have balls. Something I tend to forget on a fairly regular basis.

Speaking of balls. I have a vague memory of telling two agents I’d send them a copy of my manuscript as soon as it’s done, and they didn’t laugh, they didn’t even snicker. I have one of the agent’s business cards stuck in my copy of Jane Smiley’s book as a bookmark as proof. It just goes to show you, you really never know what you might receive, unless you are willing to ask.

Now, onward to write the novel.

More later.