Chapter Seven
Mr. Sfinkter arrived in class just as the bell rang. He dropped his books on the desk and looked around at the class.
“Your essays were enlightening,” he said. “Mr. Holinground?”
“Yes, sir,” said Chill.
“You want to be an artist, do you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how do you expect to support yourself?” asked Mr. Sfinkter.
“You think that much of yourself, do you?”
“No, sir. But if I keep working at it...”
“Once that teenage ego of yours dies away, you’ll realize that drawing is a hobby, not a career. Now would be a good time to start thinking about that.”
“I’ll take that under consideration, sir,” Chill said while dismissing it.
“Well you can start by putting your doodling away and paying attention in this class.”
“Yes, sir,” Chill said, folding up his pad.
“I’d best not see that sketchpad again,” he said, staring at Chill before he continued, “And Sean Fitzsimmons.” I found myself immediately crossing my arms and legs. I felt like I was in one of those dreams where you show up at school only to realize that all you have on is your underwear.
“Yes, sir,” I said, hoping someone would appear with a blanket for me to hide under.
“You dream of writing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, perhaps you should spend less time dreaming and more time learning how to spell,” Mr. Sfinkter said.
“Sorry, sir, my pen’s spellchecker wasn’t working.”
I got a chuckle from the class, those brave enough anyway, but not from Mr. Sfinkter.
“And a smart mouth isn’t going to get you far either!” he said angrily. He took a deep breath to compose himself. “If you want to be a writer, I would advise a teachers’ college so that you’ll have a job that pays while you write. It’s very difficult to make a living writing, and I should know. I have three books published myself.”
“Really, sir?” I asked with genuine interest.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said. “I have three works of non-fiction published, all about things that have happened to me in my life or to people I find worthy of my time and interest. Currently I am working on a fourth about all the authors and publishers that I have met, being in the business. I’ve had dinner with...”
And as he talked, the floor became littered with the names he was dropping. Some I knew, many I didn’t. It was obvious by the way he spoke that I should be impressed. I tried my hardest to show that I was.
“You know, Mr. Fitzsimmons, if you are truly interested in becoming a writer, then you must write a book. Non-fiction is, of course, better, but that is best left to the more mature writers like myself.
“If you wish to show me that you’re serious, then you must complete a work of at least one hundred pages, double spaced, twelve-point font. Spelling and grammar being, of course, the most important thing in those pages. If you do this, I will give it to one of my many publisher friends, who would be more than happy to do any favor I ask. In fact, if I think it’s good enough, they’ll publish it on my say-so alone.”
“Really?”
“I do hope your writing is less repetitive than your speaking.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
“You’ll give it to a publisher?” I said, unable to believe that such a thing could happen. I wanted to be a writer, but I thought it far out of my reach. And if Chill didn’t have the talent to be an artist, I certainly didn’t have what it took to be a writer.
“I am a man of words, Mr. Fitzsimmons,” said Mr. Sfinkter, “so my word is my bond.”
“Is that like a promise?” I asked.
“Yes, Mr. Fitzsimmons, that’s like a promise.”
He didn’t read anyone else’s career plans that day.
“I don’t want to overload your developing minds, so we’ll just do a couple of students a day. Give you all something to look forward to,” he said.
And look forward I did.