Writers: Don't Mess With Politics

There's no winning

Emily and Derek are MFA students, and I don’t know what they read. They carry books around by writers like Colson Whitehead and Virginia Woolf. If you see someone carrying Virginia Woolf, you don’t ask a whole lot of questions.

One senses a strong political bent with these authors. It’s not too great a stretch to say Colson Whitehead and Virginia Woolf will vote Democrat in November. Or rather Colson Whitehead, whose novels all involve hard-working underprivileged people victimized by Simon Legree-like overseers. If that’s not a Democrat for you, I don’t know what is.

Emily is a proud Democrat. I’m not so sure about Derek, but he better be. Emily, short, dark, attractive, is open-minded and sweet-natured. Unless the topic is politics.

“Who are you voting for?” she demanded.

I sat at a table in the atrium of the Hazelwood Center, where one of their classes had just concluded. I put my cup down. “I believe,” I told her. “That our vote is a matter of privacy.”

“Ugh!” she gasped. “I knew it!”

“Knew what?”

“You’re one of them.”

“One of who?”

“A Republican!”

“No I’m not.”

“Then you’re a Democrat.”

“Well I don’t know…”

“Ugh! There is no other choice.”

Actually I believe there is, but couldn’t think of one then and there.

“Help me out, Derek. What is he?” She turned to her fellow classmate. Is that what he is? MFA-mate? MFA-er? I suspect he’s more, but am far too polite to confirm this. Derek is tall and wispy-blond. He tends to stand close to her, nostrils twitching, as though to catch her scent, which is vanilla. I would too, but am married. I don’t needs no trouble.

Derek had a conundrum. He likes me. I think, and I have helped him with his writing. I think. He once gave me a story that started like this: Bruno and Stan were greeted by Brenda, Polly, Margaret, and Mr. and Mrs. Alexander. I told him that was too many people to introduce in the first sentence. He asked how many he should introduce in the first sentence. I told him none. He didn’t like this but cut three or four. It improved the story, a little, and he knew it.

None of his instructors made such a suggestion. “I think,” he said in level tones. “That what we’re talking about here is the issue of measuring positions on the important arguments, then analyzing, from a purely neutral aspect, the range of options, vis-à-vis the prevailing choices, regarding candidates and their stated views on the plethora of events from which we may surmise, at least, a certain conclusion.”

Emily looked at him. She was processing his statement. “Maybe,” she said. Then she turned back to me. “But the bottom line is this. We’re Democrats. Either you’re with us or against us.”

“Who’s us?” I asked.

“Every writer in the world.”

I didn’t know if that was true. Maybe.

“And don’t forget. Your future depends on it.” She hitched her pony express bag higher on her shoulder, and walked out, Derek close behind. He gave me a little wave.

Now that last statement, I suspected, was true. I sipped my coffee and examined the street. Then took up my pencil, and got back to work.