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The Writing Class
     

The Writing Class

3.8 9
by Jincy Willett
 

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Amy Gallup was a promising writer once--published and highly praised at twenty-two. It was all downhill from there, and now, year in and year out, she teaches a writing workshop at the local university extension. And this semester begins just the same as the others. But then there's a threatening phone call, followed by obscene threats worked into the student's

Overview

Amy Gallup was a promising writer once--published and highly praised at twenty-two. It was all downhill from there, and now, year in and year out, she teaches a writing workshop at the local university extension. And this semester begins just the same as the others. But then there's a threatening phone call, followed by obscene threats worked into the student's peer evaluations. Then a murder--and every one of the students is a suspect. The clues are hidden in their writing, and she (and we) can solve the murder only by looking more closely at each writer's attempts at fiction. Hilarious, vicious, and elegantly written, The Writing Class examines the desperation, perversion, and mania of the writing life through an unforgettable mystery story.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

“Willett's delicious satire savages every literary pretension imaginable.” —The Miami Herald

The Writing Class is alternately funny, sweet, and suspenseful. It's a mystery written for book lovers.” —The Buffalo News

“Willett's zany humor is blended with intelligence and empathy for people worth knowing. . . . She is never boring, and has a way of bonding the reader to herself.” —The Providence Journal

“A marvelous toy of a book, full of wry surprises and sly twists . . . extremely clever and quite enjoyable.” —Booklist

Publishers Weekly

Can a class of wannabe novelists solve a murder in their midst? That's the premise of this dark comedy of the absurd from Willett (Winner of the National Book Award), a boisterous satire of pseudointellectuals, impotent writers and the adult extension programs of public universities. The only things Amy Gallup, a once-noted California author, has published in years are blurbs of other writers' work. Amy's only income comes from teaching fiction writing to a motley collection of varyingly talented "prepublished" adults. Someone in the class is making threatening phone calls and sending extremely cruel notes to other students. When two of the students are murdered, a deep sense of danger takes hold. Yet the class goes on. Amy's lectures actually constitute a damn fine guide to writing fiction, while Willett's prose has sparkling moments ("The line was playful, offhand, the poem itself a smug, imperious cat stretch"). The tension is so strong that readers can hardly resist the temptation to peek ahead and see which student is the killer. (June)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Reviews
Aspiring writers meet a grisly end in the latest from Willett (Winner of the National Book Award, 2003, etc.). Amy Gallup used to be a promising young author. Now, her three novels are out-of-print and she pays the bills by teaching would-be writers in a university extension course. One class is so much like the last that she has to use a crib sheet to keep her students straight, but this term is a little different. This term, there's a killer in the classroom, and Amy's class is filled with potential victims-and potential suspects. This is an entertaining premise for a cozy mystery, but the book is not a cozy mystery. The first corpse appears about 200 pages in. The sluggish pace gives readers ample time to notice the flimsiness of the characters. The bored reader may also reflect upon the utter implausibility of Willett's narrative. The author seems to encourage us to wonder why more than a dozen ostensibly sane adults would insist on finishing a class when an anonymous, demonstrably homicidal sociopath is targeting fellow students. A murder mystery written by someone who maybe doesn't like, and definitely doesn't understand, murder mysteries.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9780312428419
Publisher:
Picador
Publication date:
05/26/2009
Edition description:
First Edition
Pages:
336
Sales rank:
619,577
Product dimensions:
5.48(w) x 8.28(h) x 0.91(d)

Read an Excerpt

The Writing Class


By Jincy Willett

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2008 Jincy Willett
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-0623-8



CHAPTER 1

Hearty Handclasps


To

M. J. Andersen

Sandy Asirvatham

Norma Cwiek

Carl and Suzie Hammond

Tom Hartley

Dick and Diane Longabaugh

Lil Walker

Ward and Joanne Willett

who slogged through unfinished drafts (of a mystery novel, knowing that for years they wouldn't even find out who for pete's sake did it) and were cheerful and encouraging and gracious about the whole thing. I wouldn't have been.

To

Sven and Kristin Nielsen

for help with all email and Web site stuff, and who remain entirely blameless for any remaining bloopers.

And to

Tess Link

and

Lisa Fugard

who know why.

CHAPTER 2

The Fat Broad


Lumbers into class five minutes late, dragging, along with her yard-wide butt, a beat-up vinyl briefcase stuffed with old notebooks. A contender once, it's obvious, she's got great hair, long and wavy and thick and white gold, but she's pushing sixty, pushing two hundred, and she wears polyester fat pants and a Big & Tall man's white long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves ragged and rolled up. Here is a woman who does not give a rat's ass.

She sits down behind a rickety desk in front of the whiteboard, upends the briefcase, and spreads out the notebooks and papers in a neat line, like a magician's row of cards. She's the teacher. But I knew this. How? Because she's the only person in the room who isn't nervous.

Because she's the dominant male.

She looks up and counts us with her eyes. Seven. She heaves herself up on her feet and addresses the whiteboard with a green marker:


Fiction Writing Workshop

Amy Gallup


And she follows it up with the numbers of her home phone and cell phone, which if I turned this into a novel or esp a screenplay I'd have to represent as 555-something, which is foolish, which is stupid, but there you are, this is the world we live in, soft and womanish and lowest common D.

I, of course, am not nervous. Yes, I am. Why? I've done this before. I'm a workshop vet, Purple Heart and Silver Cross. I've shown my stories to pretentious morons from sea to shining sea. I've been encouraged by twinkly grandmas, torn apart by gynecologists, talked down to by insurance salesmen.

Write what you know

The interesting thing about women, they get past a certain age and they might as well be men. The Dominant Male. Title? Idea for story?


TORN APART

BY TWINKLY GRANDMAS

PATRONIZED

BY GYNECOLOGISTS

Six more trickle in. The fat broad looks up with studied disinterest. Yes, studied disinterest. It's not a cliché because these workshop instructors don't get paid if they don't fill their quotas. The quota here is ten; any fewer than that and it's no go, we get our $$ back, the fat broad goes hungry, which would do her a world of good, but never mind. So behind her pleasant, scary face the gears are whirring and grinding. I've got to keep ten of these people. Not much breathing space. It's time to go into my dance.

And will she dance with me? Will she walk across that floor, past the losers and wannabes, the loudmouths, the grandmas, the housewives with a million stories in them, the math teachers whose characters for God's sake wake them up in the middle of the night — will she pass them all and pick me? And will it be a fun dance? Will she tell me I'm talented and brilliant and that it's just a matter of time and perseverance, and will she know what the hell she's talking about and will she have any idea how much fucking time and perseverance I've put into it already and will she look right at me and lie and will she for Christ's sake help me out or

2 more, more noise in hallway, here comes another, that makes 16, she must be breathing easier, the bitch

Or will she condescend me to fucking death like that pompous twit at Irvine and that pompous twat at Berkeley or look right through me like Professor Twitmore Fucking Twatface in Chi with his Recommended Reading list and his fucking Strunk & White


WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW

WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW

WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW

WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW

WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW

WRITE WHAT YOU


The Fat Broad speaks.

CHAPTER 3

First Class

The List


This is a fiction workshop. We will meet once a week for nine weeks, counting tonight, at the end of which time each of you will have written at least one piece of fiction and submitted it to the group for critique." Amy paused a beat, as she always did. "So anybody who thought this was a balloon winemaking class better throw dignity to the winds and beat feet."

Somebody tittered, but the rest was silence, except for the drone of that cheap standing fan in the back of the room. It was way past time to tweak the speech; balloon winemaking used to get the big laughs. Amy had a thought. "You do know what balloon winemaking is."

A generically lovely young woman raised her hand. "Isn't that where they like sail over the vineyards and sort of check out the vines?"

Amy sighed. "Balloon winemaking was a sixties thing. You mixed wine in a bottle, stuck a balloon over the neck, and watched it ferment."

"Yeah," said a guy in the back row, "and after a couple of weeks you got to watch it explode all over your garage."

Big laughs. Blessings on thee, little man. He didn't look quite old enough to remember the sixties, though. Only Amy in all the world was that old. Older even than this stocky, balding little guy with a great wide mouth like a frog. Maybe she could get a routine going with him, a little break-the-ice patter. Maybe he'd help her work the room.

She made a little show of studying her pre-registration list, which she would turn, before the night's end, into her own mnemonic cheat sheet. Froggie, she would pencil in next to his name. Amy had a poor memory for faces, let alone names, and needed all the help she could give herself. "And you are ...?" She maintained eye contact and let her mouth hang open expectantly.

Froggie wiggled bushy eyebrows and smiled a secret smile.

Oh crap. "You want me to guess?"

"Nah. You'd never do it. I'm not on your list."

That's what you think. Amy shifted in her squeaky chair, raised her voice. "Which brings me to the list. I have here, in my hand" — she waved the pre-registration list — "a list of known ..." If they didn't remember the sixties, for sure they wouldn't know the fifties. Although, now that she was beginning to look at them individually, clearly there were a few old enough; one woman was more than old enough. "And first among the boring tasks before us tonight is checking your names against this list. Since there are ten names here and sixteen people in the room, my lightning powers of deduction tell me that at least six of you are window shopping." Hands started to go up. "Shoppers who decide to stay with us will register between now and next Monday."

"What if we're undecided?" Froggie again.

"We offer this course every quarter. Winter will come around before you know it." She gave him her frostiest smile, which was unwise. She needed the money; she couldn't afford to alienate potential students (customers, the university extension people called them); and Froggie wasn't really out of line. But she hated first nights, hated not knowing if she'd have enough people to run the class (she'd never failed, in fifteen consecutive quarters, but there was always a first time), hated most of all having to work a cold room. In a few weeks' time she'd feel comfortable with these people, and most of them would like her. Right now she wanted them all to buzz off.

Two hands shot up close together. Amy smiled vaguely in that direction and rattled her damn list. "When I read your name, please tell me if I've pronounced it correctly. Between me and the registrar you've got about a fifty-fifty chance." Dead silence.

Amy focused on the first name, which was, of course, surreal. "Tiny Arena?" Amy had long ago learned, from a student named Mary Louise Poop, to keep incredulousness out of her voice and face when reading the class roll.

Sure enough a hand went up, connected to a pale, morbidly obese man in his sixties. Even seated he was clearly way over six feet tall. "Tiny Arena?" Amy asked again, gently, and the man gravely nodded. She relaxed. "You know, I've come across your nickname in fiction lots of times, but in all my years of teaching, you're my first real-life Tiny."

"Actually," the man said, and his voice trailed off into a mumble. He had eyes like Amy's basset hound, red-rimmed, lugubrious. Tiny = Alphonse, she wrote.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Tony," the man said. "Actually, my name is Tony."

"But they call you Tiny?"

"No."

"I'm awfully sorry." Then why in hell did you nod your head yes, you big dope? Somebody giggled. Not Tony Arena. Amy broke a sweat and kept going, even when she saw the next name. Straight-faced, she looked out over the crowd and said, "Harold Blassbag." Jesus.

"Blass Ball," enunciated a visibly annoyed man in the front row.

"Sorry, Blass Ball," said Amy. Blassball? What the hell kind of name was Blassball?

"Blass Ball," said the man, even more put out.

"Blass ..." Oh for god's sake. "I'm sorry. Could you spell it?"

"B-L-A-S-B-A-L-G." He was a slight, fine-boned, annoyed man in a maroon running suit, which would come in handy when he ran back to the registration office, Tony Arena in tow, to demand both their refunds.

"Thank you. Sorry about this. And pronounced Blass Ball?"

"Blass Ball!"

"Suggestion!" Froggie waved his hairy arm in exaggerated, locked-elbow fashion, like a small child who has to go to the bathroom. "How about we turn off this fan? It's making a terrific racket back here."

"Please," said Amy, and in a click a terrible quiet descended over a room she had previously thought merely tomblike. "And I'll tell them to put a second l in your name, Mr. Blasbalg."

"Harry," said the annoyed man.

Amy cleared her throat. "Ricky Brizza?"

"Buzza."

"Three for three!" cheered Froggie, to scattered applause.

"That was my line," said Amy, who felt already as if she and Froggie had been mortal enemies in another life. "Buzza," she said sadly.

"B-U-Z-Z-A. You got it." The young man smiled at her in a kindly way. "But you can call me Brizza if you want." He looked like a Norman Rockwell paperboy all grown up, eager and full of energy. He was going to stay. And he had short-clipped blond hair, not exactly a buzz cut, but it would do.

"No," said grateful Amy, "I will call you Buzza." She scribbled on her list, fixing Buzza, fixing Tony, decorating Blasbalg with obscenities. "Next," she said, "we have, arguably, Dorothy Hieronymus."

"Here." A plump, pleasant-faced woman about Amy's age raised her hand. "I use dot," she said.

Amy nodded as though this made sense, because by now she basically didn't give a shit. Uses dot. "Tiffany McGee." The pretty blonde girl with the winery balloonists. Of course her name was just fine. "Sylvester Reyes." Tall, tan, fifties, hiking shorts, sitting in the front row with his legs spread wide. Why did men do that? Simple comfort? No way. "Call me Syl," he said.

Amy shook her head at the next name. "I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but as God is my witness, the next name is Marvy Stokes."

"Right here."

General hilarity. She was working the room at last. Sure, they were laughing at her, but the laughter seemed pretty companionable. This could turn out to be a good group, what with the shared experience of watching its instructor make an ass of herself. What price dignity? Nine hundred and thirty-five dollars a quarter, no benefits. "You're my first Marvy, Mr. Stokes," said Amy.

"And you're my first writing teacher," said Marvy, a Hawaiian-print shirt, chest-hair kind of guy in his forties. "Actually, it's Marvin," he said.

"Hence Marvy," said Amy.

"Right."

"Got it. Frank Wasted?"

"Wah-sted," said another running-suit man in his thirties, this one bright orange. He'd beat out Blasbalg in a sprint: he looked like a lifetime member of Gold's Gym. Maybe a founder.

"Wah-sted," said Amy. Why the hell not? "W-A-S-T-E-D?"

"There's another A," Wah-sted offered, reasonably.

"Where?"

"Right before the first one."

"I can't stand it." Amy put her head in her hands. The laughter was delighted, unforced. They were bonding.

"W-A-A-S-T-E-D." Muscle Man ticked off each letter on a stubby upraised finger and smiled agreeably. "See?"

"As in aardvark."

"Exactamento."

"Edna Wentworth?" Gray hair, thick and permed; polite smile.

"Tiffany Zuniga?"

"Absent."

Amy shot a look toward the speaker, who turned out to be Ricky Buzza. "I beg your pardon?"

"She's coming. She's late. She's a colleague of mine." She's more than that, thought Amy, watching Ricky Buzza turn pink.

"So much for the list," she said, and turned it over so she could write on its back. "Now for the shoppers. Starting here" — she said, pointing stage right — "would those of you whose names haven't been called out and mangled please identify yourselves?"

A handsome, patrician man in a gorgeous cream-colored cashmere sweater raised, not his hand, but a single index finger, as though summoning a waiter. "I am Dr. Richard Surtees," he said.

Well, whoopee. Amy flashed on an old joke, one of the sort where, given a famous line, you were supposed to fabricate a question that changed its meaning. Line: Dr. Livingstone, I presume? Question: And what is your full name, Dr. Presume?

An equally handsome woman to his left, mid-forties, skinned-back chestnut hair, smiled at Amy. "Ginger Nicklow," she said. Their looks were similarly classical, but the similarity stopped there, and clearly she was unconnected, other than spatially, to Dr. Richard Surtees. She had a thrift-shop elegance about her that beat hell out of wallet-elegance.

"Pete Purvis," said somebody somewhere. Amy looked up but couldn't find him. "I'm here," said Pete Purvis, and sure enough he was, a pale young man in a green sweatshirt, squarely behind poor Tiny. Tony. Amy could just see his upraised hand.

Two hands went up in unison, side by side. A couple in matching T-shirts and jeans. "We're the Boudreaus, Sam and Marilyn," said the man. "We're not staying," said the woman."

"Do you want to leave now?"

The Boudreaus shrugged and shook their smiling heads in unison. The first class was free, and clearly the Boudreaus never turned down a freebie.

A tall, slender young woman stood in the doorway, panting.

"Tiffany Zuniga?" asked Amy unnecessarily, as Ricky Buzza was making a clumsy job of clearing his stuff off the chair next to him. When she didn't notice him he patted the seat, thumping it hopefully, like the tail of a happy hound. Taking pity, Amy pointed him out to Tiffany II, who sat down without acknowledging him, whipped a steno pad out of her backpack, and held her pencil poised above it, ready to record Amy's every luminous word.

Amy cleared her throat. "Either one of you is lying doggo," she said, "or I can't add. I've got fifteen names now on my list and there are sixteen of you."

"It's me," said Froggie. "I was on the fence."

"That's perfectly all right, but I'd still like your name."

"I'm not so sure," said Froggie, grinning.

"Rumplestiltskin?" asked Amy.

"Charlton Heston," said Froggie.

Amy just stared.

"Really," said Froggie. "My mother was a religious nut."

"Charlton Heston," said Amy. She massaged her eyeballs as the class bonded joyously all around her. It was early for break, but what the hell. "Take five, everybody. Take twenty. When you come back, we'll get down to business. Be prepared to tell us what books you like to read, and what you hope to accomplish here in the remaining weeks." Amy always got them to name their favorite writers: it was a good icebreaker, and it helped her sort them out in her head. A depressing proportion of writing students didn't actually read much fiction, but few would admit it. Instead, they'd usually profess a deep love of one or all of three writers: Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Updike. Amy had no idea why these were the safe names for nonreaders. Perhaps this would make a good list for her blog.

Charlton Heston walked up to her as the rest filed out. "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

"Is your name really Charlton Heston?"

"Yep."

Amy sighed and found herself smiling up at him. "You can get me a beer."

"How do you take it?"

"Black," said Amy.

CHAPTER 4

Class List Cheat Sheet

took off during break — kill me now

HAROLD BLASBA — LG —lawyer!!!, HARRY, likes King, Grisham, Turow, zzzzzzz

RICKY BUZZA —young — 25? — blond buzz cut — reporter North County Times — thing for Tiffany Z — Palahniuk, Bukowski, Pete Dexter

DOROTHY HIERONYMUS —matron — clueless Margaret Dumont book-club type, "I read everything" esp UPDIKE (prob Nora Roberts) — "DOT"

TIFFANY MCGEE —blonde airhead, "I don't read a lot but I wanna write"!!!


(Continues...)

Excerpted from The Writing Class by Jincy Willett. Copyright © 2008 Jincy Willett. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

JINCY WILLETT is the author of Jenny and the Jaws of Life and Winner of the National Book Award. She lives in San Diego, California.

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The Writing Class 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 9 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
More than the sum of its parts, this novel was fun to read. Jincy Willett makes writing about writing look easy. THE WRITING CLASS succeeds on every level. It is sly and witty, suspenseful and entertaining, and gives you something to think about as well. Amy Gallup is a fascinating and well-drawn protagonist. Highly recommended.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Ms. Willet introduces us to Amy Gallup, an overweight, divorced,out-of-print novelist who lives with her indifferent dog, Alphonse. Then Thursday comes. A creative writing class consisting of thirteen people from thirteen different walks of life convenes every Thursday under the perceptive gaze of Ms. Gallup, the writing instructor. Throughout the story, Ms. Willet threads every character's life into the story to create a charming atmosphere of warmth and familiarity for the reader. When a class member is murdered and anonymous messages are sent out to class members and the teacher, mystery begins to dramatically seep into the pages of The Writing Class. Intrigued by the title, I could not wait to dig into the book. I will admit that I was startled by the author's decision to use a cynical, washed-out woman as the center of her story, but I kept an open mind. By Chapter 2, I was hooked. Ms. Willet was brilliant with her choice of characters and wording, and I look forward to reading more of her work. So settle down on the subway, at the park, or in the warmth of your home as you lose yourself into the magic and intrigue of The Writing Class.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I found it difficult to put this book down. I learned more about creative writing from its pages than I did from my creative writing class in college. The cast in this story is large, and the incidental characters are distinctive enough that the reader rarely needs to refer to the character "cheat sheet" which the author generously provides early in the novel. The pieces "authored" by the participants in the writing group are great fun, and Ms. Willett clearly had a fine time preparing material in so many different voices. I was amused, entertained, and impressed by Ms. Willet's prose, and I highly recommend this book.
KFH More than 1 year ago
Jincy Willet proved once again that she is the Mistress of Words! It is easy to feel oneself falling in love with Willet's seductive prose, character development, and exciting plots. Read the Writing Class and find yourself on a magical safari of enchantment!
Vovo More than 1 year ago
I purchased this book, not really knowing what I was to expect. Sure, I was hyped up for a charming book about a creative writing class, but I was not prepared for the eerie suspicion that slides in unexpectedly line upon line, page upon page. The story is a beautiful presentation of human minds. Compassionate, prideful, skeptical, and a little bit crazy-the characters of the Writing Class are characters who are impossible to forget. This is not a 'women's book'. It is a story that can be enjoyed by males and females alike, whether they are in their late teens or brinking on the age of 100. I highly recommend reading it even if you just like reading books for the sake of reading a book.
GardenerGal More than 1 year ago
Entertaining "who done it?" & a great vocab lesson thrown in.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I'm sorry....I have read the other reviews for this novel and I do not agree that this is a must read. It is NoT! I borrowed this book from the library and I am so glad that I did. The basic premise of this story is a good one ...but I feel it was edited and put together badly. When your main character takes over almost a whole chapter of the book with her nonsensical lists of "funny words"...then your story has taken a twist that is very uninteresting. The villain is not developed until the last pages and your main character is basically running away from any confrontational situations for the entire book.

I want to like the main character....not feel sorry for her.

I'm sorry I read this book. Don't spend your money on it.