A nice obit in today's NYT for Frank Conroy. Anyone who attended the Writers' Workshop in the last few decades has a Frank story -- including the poets. Even though I've never been in the military, having been in his workshop, I can understand now how veterans can look back at their drill sergeants with teary-eyed fondness. I had his workshop first term, first semester. Due to some foolish planning on my part, a story of mine was one of the first two reviewed. Tuesday came, we assembled in his office, and, luck of the draw, I went first. It was like an appendectomy. Performed in the 16th century. By barbers. Wearing blindfolds. Frank, being Frank, led the charge, took the opportunity to expound on his literary pyramid, stopping occasionally to point out various errors and affronts to good writing in his offhanded way. I tried being all professional and junk -- writing notes, listening, not weeping openly -- then I noticed the guy who was going up after me. It's hard to judge your work compared to others, but I knew this fellow's story wasn't as strong as mine. Dude was white as a ghost. I felt so lucky at that moment. At least I hadn't known what was going to happen to me beforehand.
Of course, this is the part where I'm supposed to say, "He was tough, but it was tough love." And you know what? It was -- a tough love of literature. He attacked, and occasionally praised, but only what was on the page. And I knew it wasn't personal, at least with me, because I don't remember him addressing me by name. Of all the writing teachers I've had, his ideas have stuck with me most. Meaning, sense, clarity! Mediate upon the text! Good writing is where the energy of the writer and the energy of the reader overlap!
I wish I had heard him play the piano. Does anyone out there have a tape?
Other obituaries: Associated Press, Washington Post, The Guardian.
Conroy speaks: The Connection (NPR interview), The Reign of Shit (with props to Antoine).
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