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Tess Catalano "Take Back the Night" and other academic essays, 1982

1982-12-10 Ms. Shephard Page 6

earthy, in the popular sense of the word."
   That was the first argument we ever had, probably because I was too afraid to argue with her. She had this power about her, that could make me forget what I wanted to say, so that eventually, what came out of mouth was never very intelligent. It seemed that she was always in control. When I'd go and talk with her, she always sat across from me, her emaculate desk between us. She would only see me during her office hours, I never made an appointment the whole time I knew her. When I'd arrive at her office, I'd usually have to wait because there were other students who also wanted to talk with her. Finally, when I'd get in to see her, I could only stay about ten minutes because there were other students still waiting to see her. 
   One day it all came together, then apart, I had been depressed all week because I had really come to believe that I wanted to be a writer. But I couldn't write anything I, and Ms. Shepard were satisfied with. Now I was thinking the only reason I wrote was to see Ms. Shepard. 
   She suggested that I try a more structured form, to help me choose my words with more precision. She suggested a villanelle, then I wasn't a writer and I had better give up. 
   That day when I was in her office I was unusually quiet. I didn't talk about any of my work, I just asked a question about the upcoming mid-term in her class. I didn't stay much more than a minute, and she didn't even ask how I was . After dinner, I walked home the usual way, not even noticing if Ms. Shepard's car was parked in Ms. Brown's driveway. I got home, locked myself in my dorm room, and tried, again, to write a villanelle. "Write something you feel," she had said, "but not something still burning

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earthy, in the popular sense of the word." That was the first argument we ever had, probably because I was too afraid to argue with her. She had this power about her, that could make me forget what I wanted to say, so that eventually, what came out of mouth was never very intelligent. It seemed that she was always in control. When I'd go and talk with her, she always sat across from me, her emaculate desk between us. She would only see me during her office hours, I never made an appointment the whole time I knew her. When I'd arrive at her office, I'd usually have to wait because there were other students who also wanted to talk with her. Finally, when I'd get in to see her, I could only stay about ten minutes because there were other students still waiting to see her. One day it all came together, then apart, I had been depressed all week because I had really come to believe that I wanted to be a writer. But I couldn't write anything I, and Ms. Shepard were satisfied with. Now I was thinking the only reason I wrote was to see Ms. Shepard. She suggested that I try a more structured form, to help me choose my words with more precision. She suggested a villanelle, then I wasn't a writer and I had better give up. That day when I was in her office I was unusually quiet. I didn't talk about any of my work, I just asked a question about the upcoming mid-term in her class. I didn't stay much more than a minute, and she didn't even ask how I was . After dinner, I walked home the usual way, not even noticing if Ms. Shepard's car was parked in Ms. Brown's driveway. I got home, locked myself in my dorm room, and tried, again, to write a villanelle. "Write something you feel," she had said, "but not something still burning