- From the essay "Professions for Women":
But to tell you my story—it is a simple one. You have only got to figure to yourselves a girl in a bedroom with a pen in her hand. She had only to move that pen from left to right—from ten o’clock to one. Then it occurred to her to do what is simple and cheap enough after all—to slip a few of those pages into an envelope, fix a penny stamp in the corner, and drop the envelope into the red box at the corner. It was thus that I became a journalist; and my effort was rewarded on the first day of the following month—a very glorious day it was for me—by a letter from an editor containing a cheque for one pound ten shillings and sixpence. But to show you how little I deserve to be called a professional woman, how little I know of the struggles and difficulties of such lives, I have to admit that instead of spending that sum upon bread and butter, rent, shoes and stockings, or butcher’s bills, I went out and bought a cat—a beautiful cat, a Persian cat, which very soon involved me in bitter disputes with my neighbours. - From the essay "How it strikes a contemporary":
As for the critics whose task it is to pass judgement upon the books of the moment, whose work, let us admit, is difficult, dangerous, and often distasteful, let us ask them to be generous of encouragement, but sparing of those wreaths and coronets which are so apt to get awry, and fade, and make the wearers, in six months time, look a little ridiculous. Let them take a wider, a less personal view of modern literature, and look indeed upon the writers as if they were engaged upon some vast building, which being built by common effort, the separate workmen may well remain anonymous. Let them slam the door upon the cosy company where sugar is cheap and butter plentiful, give over, for a time at least, the discussion of that fascinating topic—whether Byron married his sister—and, withdrawing, perhaps, a handsbreadth from the table where we sit chattering, say something interesting about literature itself. Let us buttonhole them as they leave, and recall to their memory that gaunt aristocrat, Lady Hester Stanhope, who kept a milk-white horse in her stable in readiness for the Messiah and was for ever scanning the mountain tops, impatiently but with confidence, for signs of his approach, and ask them to follow her example; scan the horizon; see the past in relation to the future; and so prepare the way for masterpieces to come. - From the essay "How should one read a book?":
Yet who reads to bring about an end, however desirable? Are there not some pursuits that we practise because they are good in themselves, and some pleasures that are final? And is not this among them? I have sometimes dreamt, at least, that when the Day of Judgment dawns and the great conquerors and lawyers and statesmen come to receive their rewards—their crowns, their laurels, their names carved indelibly upon imperishable marble—the Almighty will turn to Peter and will say, not without a certain envy when he sees us coming with our books under our arms, “Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved reading.”
I've been trying to write about Los Angeles from the pedestrian-and-bus perspective from my decade there, and it's not flowing. I just get some bits and snapshots:
The asphalt from this perspective is way more broken and sticks up higher, so that waiting for the bus is like looking out at a moonscape.
Way more businesses are closed that you think when you drive by. The flyers stuffed into their mail slots have soaked and rotted into papier-mâché.
Shitty parts of town are dark. The streetlights are weak and few. Even in the day time a place like East Hollywood or Hyde Park is dark somehow.
People are friendly when you're on foot, and you can talk to them and hear their stories. It's only when you're en route to your car and back that the city is socially forbidding.
The emotional memory is harsh. It's very lonesome and demeaning to wait so long for a bus, knowing that you'll wait so much longer for the transfer, while watching the city zoom by you and the other lost souls on the bus bench.
The L.A. buses smell like a drunk guy. No matter how often they're swept and cleaned, the cheap beer and sweat and smoke and just a bit of vomit never quite leave.
Only the poor, the old, the young, the disabled, the addicts, and the unsuccessful criminals ride the bus in that town. A decade in their company is humbling.
The asphalt from this perspective is way more broken and sticks up higher, so that waiting for the bus is like looking out at a moonscape.
Way more businesses are closed that you think when you drive by. The flyers stuffed into their mail slots have soaked and rotted into papier-mâché.
Shitty parts of town are dark. The streetlights are weak and few. Even in the day time a place like East Hollywood or Hyde Park is dark somehow.
People are friendly when you're on foot, and you can talk to them and hear their stories. It's only when you're en route to your car and back that the city is socially forbidding.
The emotional memory is harsh. It's very lonesome and demeaning to wait so long for a bus, knowing that you'll wait so much longer for the transfer, while watching the city zoom by you and the other lost souls on the bus bench.
The L.A. buses smell like a drunk guy. No matter how often they're swept and cleaned, the cheap beer and sweat and smoke and just a bit of vomit never quite leave.
Only the poor, the old, the young, the disabled, the addicts, and the unsuccessful criminals ride the bus in that town. A decade in their company is humbling.
Our Dark Materials
Nov. 29th, 2007 05:20 pmI knew Philip Pullman was a fan of my dad's work; an interview with him that ended up in The Week caused some friendly interest and was much appreciated.
Apparently he's really, really a fan. Woo!
Apparently he's really, really a fan. Woo!
good morning. well, morning.
Aug. 18th, 2007 04:42 amIt's 0432 and I haven't slept. This is almost entirely my fault for the luxurious and gin-fueled nap I had too late in the day.
So of course I've been Wikipeding. I was looking at information about actors, because I remembered
hyniof pointing out years ago that David Lynch cast the antagonists from West Side Story as antagonists in Twin Peaks, and sure enough it's Richard Beymer and Russ Tamblyn.
This reminded me of Amber Tamblyn, and of a "literary magazine" I saw at the B&N recently. Don't remember the name of the thing, but it was very glossy and hip. It billed itself as some kind of "community project" and the front matter was touchy-feely and sweet in a way that reminded me of eTarded ravers.
And among its writers was Ms. Tamblyn, who also considers herself a poet. She's not.
Also, the magazine had a picture of an anonymous pretty girl on the cover, which isn't typical for literary magazines. For a moment I thought about submitting a William Carlos Williams poem and seeing if they noticed, but snark is a lot of work sometimes so I just had a Fatburger and went home.
I also read a lot of pages about Tolkien stuff on the Wikipedia and was too tired to correct typos. This reminds me that back in the day when I was an L.A. music lizard, Exene of X had this husband post John who was a poet or something. He'd show up at clubs and I think I saw him read, not sure. He was sort of annoying but mildly, and he had an unforgettably Scandihoovian name. And then I forgot all about the guy until he popped up as Aragorn in the film version of The Lord of the Rings and suddenly that weird Viggo poet person from the club scene was the object of 15-year-old-girl lust and mountains of slashfic. Now that's just plain strange.
Similarly it's weird when I hear Gary Calamar on the radio because he managed this band who were friends of mine in my early 20s and kinda hung out with us and had been the manager of the Licorice Pizza record store where they'd all worked. So he was Gary, that nice guy who was always doing something or other musical, and now he's some kind of media presence. I bet he'd write better poetry than Amber or Viggo, too.
Maybe I should try sleeping again! Let's see how that works.
So of course I've been Wikipeding. I was looking at information about actors, because I remembered
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This reminded me of Amber Tamblyn, and of a "literary magazine" I saw at the B&N recently. Don't remember the name of the thing, but it was very glossy and hip. It billed itself as some kind of "community project" and the front matter was touchy-feely and sweet in a way that reminded me of eTarded ravers.
And among its writers was Ms. Tamblyn, who also considers herself a poet. She's not.
Also, the magazine had a picture of an anonymous pretty girl on the cover, which isn't typical for literary magazines. For a moment I thought about submitting a William Carlos Williams poem and seeing if they noticed, but snark is a lot of work sometimes so I just had a Fatburger and went home.
I also read a lot of pages about Tolkien stuff on the Wikipedia and was too tired to correct typos. This reminds me that back in the day when I was an L.A. music lizard, Exene of X had this husband post John who was a poet or something. He'd show up at clubs and I think I saw him read, not sure. He was sort of annoying but mildly, and he had an unforgettably Scandihoovian name. And then I forgot all about the guy until he popped up as Aragorn in the film version of The Lord of the Rings and suddenly that weird Viggo poet person from the club scene was the object of 15-year-old-girl lust and mountains of slashfic. Now that's just plain strange.
Similarly it's weird when I hear Gary Calamar on the radio because he managed this band who were friends of mine in my early 20s and kinda hung out with us and had been the manager of the Licorice Pizza record store where they'd all worked. So he was Gary, that nice guy who was always doing something or other musical, and now he's some kind of media presence. I bet he'd write better poetry than Amber or Viggo, too.
Maybe I should try sleeping again! Let's see how that works.
Bad sentence of the week
Jun. 8th, 2007 11:37 pmMatt Davis, in the online car mag Winding Road, re: the new Audi S5:
"Audi is impetuously tearing open its sensible shirt and flashing its formidable man breasts."
"Audi is impetuously tearing open its sensible shirt and flashing its formidable man breasts."
Woke up somehow hung over without having consumed any alcohol.
Cat barf on carpet.
First attempt to make coffee unsuccessful because I did not use water.
Opened cat food can in wrong direction so that minute particles of wet cat food went in my eye. Eye care advice: do not put cat food in your eye.
Inexplicable communication from government agency regarding money.
Rushed shower to meet friends for lunch. Therefore had not completely removed soap from hands before putting in contact lenses. Eye care advice: do not put soap on a contact lens and then place it in your eye.
Lunch with friends was good!
Santa Ana wind gusts to 60 mph. High tension lines flailing in traffic with arcing and explosions. Trash cans bouncing down the street like Rover from The Prisoner. Big-ass brush fire up off Santiago with at least one severe burn victim.
Inability to clean house; spiral of shame.
Kéan Coffee: Good coffee. Ibuprofen and ranitidine. LA Times food section full of inexcusably bad writing, particularly from S. Irene Virbila. I maintain that she is one of the Andy Kaufman clones or possibly a tulpa manifestation of the narrator of The Debt to Pleasure. Examples today:
Back to cleaning; spiral of shame deepens. Fortunately, maternal flight delayed from 7 until 10:30 pm. Then, flight delayed further. Uh oh, I know where this is going. Yep! The flight will now miss the curfew for SNA and be diverted to LAX.
Folks I'm going to drive into L.A. to meet a flight at LAX at 1 am now. I wonder what I'll put in my eye first?
Cat barf on carpet.
First attempt to make coffee unsuccessful because I did not use water.
Opened cat food can in wrong direction so that minute particles of wet cat food went in my eye. Eye care advice: do not put cat food in your eye.
Inexplicable communication from government agency regarding money.
Rushed shower to meet friends for lunch. Therefore had not completely removed soap from hands before putting in contact lenses. Eye care advice: do not put soap on a contact lens and then place it in your eye.
Lunch with friends was good!
Santa Ana wind gusts to 60 mph. High tension lines flailing in traffic with arcing and explosions. Trash cans bouncing down the street like Rover from The Prisoner. Big-ass brush fire up off Santiago with at least one severe burn victim.
Inability to clean house; spiral of shame.
Kéan Coffee: Good coffee. Ibuprofen and ranitidine. LA Times food section full of inexcusably bad writing, particularly from S. Irene Virbila. I maintain that she is one of the Andy Kaufman clones or possibly a tulpa manifestation of the narrator of The Debt to Pleasure. Examples today:
A fresh spirit is blowing through the Paris dining scene... ...A friend who loves wine told me about Le Villaret, a small bistro with stone and half-timbered walls in the the 11th arrondissement, Paris' equivalent to Silver Lake.Start the reactor.
Also, a recipe for Blanquette de Veaux (HOW MANY VEALS ARE TO BE USED?)
Another writer suggests fancying-up mac 'n' cheese: My personal cheese advisor Steven Jenkins, who wrote the definitive guide "Cheese Primer," suggests bringing the dish up to 2006 cheese-aisle standards by using a fresh goat's milk cheese, mascarpone, Gorgonzola dolce and a sheep's milk cheese from Spain (manchego, Idiazábal, Roncal) or from France (Ossau-Iraty). The combination is almost other-worldly, much more nuanced than the predictable original.
Back to cleaning; spiral of shame deepens. Fortunately, maternal flight delayed from 7 until 10:30 pm. Then, flight delayed further. Uh oh, I know where this is going. Yep! The flight will now miss the curfew for SNA and be diverted to LAX.
Folks I'm going to drive into L.A. to meet a flight at LAX at 1 am now. I wonder what I'll put in my eye first?
"Writing about technology is like having sex in a bathtub: If you don't know anything about sex, it won't help to know a lot about bathtubs."
via http://slumbering.lungfish.com/2006/09/writing_advice.html
via http://slumbering.lungfish.com/2006/09/writing_advice.html
I have developed a manifesto-sized idea and am about to blog it out. You have been warned. Long essays making a large cultural point can't be sold and published conventionally unless the author is a respected and eminent intellectual or a rock 'n' roll star. Those who can, do; those who aren't, blog.
This may fizzle or may be several essays; I'm not sure where I'm going to pinch off the blog yet. Because of TL;DR in this post-literate medium I present some bullet points below for those who aren't going to plow through the thing.
But sometimes an idea just arrives and possesses me. This one has sat on me for years, and is at the root of a troublesome fiction project that won't budge. Tormenting my small audience with an unsaleable vanity-press think piece is the best I can do with it right now.
Further material in this series will be tagged "ironyproject."
This may fizzle or may be several essays; I'm not sure where I'm going to pinch off the blog yet. Because of TL;DR in this post-literate medium I present some bullet points below for those who aren't going to plow through the thing.
- Irony is worse than dead, it's suicidal.
- Stop celebrating bad art, bad food, and evil. There's a place for enjoying things that are so bad they're good. It isn't the place called "the entire culture." Giving up on quality of any kind has more serious consequences than we might think.
- Phony postmodernism kills. Take the risk of being well-meaning and sincere. A couple of poorly understood Cultural Studies classes does not confer the privilege of detached Godhood.
- Permanent adolescence is no improvement over permanent childhood. Living our lives fully and meaningfully is a duty to others and not just to ourselves.
- Subcultures, fandoms, and gaming worlds are eating a generation of privileged and educated people alive when we could and should be doing well and doing good. Come out of the couch fort and live.
- Cheap fatalism is a crime of privilege. Admitting defeat in advance hurts many, many people less fortunate than we are before it touches us.
But sometimes an idea just arrives and possesses me. This one has sat on me for years, and is at the root of a troublesome fiction project that won't budge. Tormenting my small audience with an unsaleable vanity-press think piece is the best I can do with it right now.
Further material in this series will be tagged "ironyproject."
I actually like Panera just fine...
Sep. 14th, 2006 10:51 pm...but whoever wrote this needs to be taken out to the shed and shot:
What is bread leadership?From http://panera.textdriven.com/about/company/
With the single goal of making great bread broadly available to consumers across America, Panera Bread freshly bakes more bread each day than any bakery-cafe concept in the country.
THERMOBARIC
Jul. 15th, 2006 04:16 pm- The initial anaerobic detonation reaction, microseconds in duration, is primarily a redox reaction of molecular species. The initial detonation reaction defines the system’s high pressure performance characteristics: armor penetrating ability.
- The post detonation anaerobic combustion reaction, hundreds of microseconds in duration, is primarily a combustion of fuel particles too large for combustion in the initial detonation wave. The post detonation anaerobic reaction define the system’s intermediate pressure performance characteristics: Wall/Bunker Breaching Capability.
- The post detonation aerobic combustion reaction, milliseconds in duration, is the combustion of fuel rich species as the shock wave mixes with surrounding air. The post detonation aerobic reaction characteristics define the system’s personnel / material defeat capability: Impulse and Thermal Delivery. Aerobic combustion requires mixing with sufficient air to combust excess fuels. The shock wave pressures are less than 10 atmospheres. The majority of aerobic combustion energy is available as heat. Some low pressure shock wave enhancement can also be expected for personnel defeat. Personnel / material defeat with minimum collateral structure damage requires maximum aerobic enhancement and the highest energy practical fuel additives: Boron, Aluminum, Silicon, Titanium, Magnesium, Zirconium, Carbon, or Hydrocarbons.
One of my dad's former students and a family friend is Marti Leimbach. She has been a successful novelist since the MFA program, with one of those kaboom debuts. Her first novel was Dying Young, which was not only a very good book but was made into a movie, causing fame and money, etc. (The book is way better than the movie for anyone who only knows the latter.)
Looks like she's going to make another big dent with her newest, Daniel Isn't Talking. It's really great to see Dad's friends and students doing so well. Thirteen years after his death, you can see the effect of teaching and mentoring continue.
Looks like she's going to make another big dent with her newest, Daniel Isn't Talking. It's really great to see Dad's friends and students doing so well. Thirteen years after his death, you can see the effect of teaching and mentoring continue.
This is interesting. Michael Chabon was a student of my father's in the UCI MFA program more than 20 years ago. He's been a family friend since, and I also admire his writing.
In his website column this week he writes about the value of the program. He's given props to my dad before by name, many times, which was gratifying. This is more interesting. He talks about the phenomenon of being "a little shit" as he says he was, or more particularly a talented by self-absorbed young privileged man, and then being dumped into a group of peers who were talented and also different: older, more experienced, more mature, and more than half of them female.
Food for thought, especially on the topic of male literary misogyny. Oh, and I see it was published in Details, the magazine of little shits everywhere.
In his website column this week he writes about the value of the program. He's given props to my dad before by name, many times, which was gratifying. This is more interesting. He talks about the phenomenon of being "a little shit" as he says he was, or more particularly a talented by self-absorbed young privileged man, and then being dumped into a group of peers who were talented and also different: older, more experienced, more mature, and more than half of them female.
Food for thought, especially on the topic of male literary misogyny. Oh, and I see it was published in Details, the magazine of little shits everywhere.
My Orwellian Day
Mar. 22nd, 2006 11:15 amNick and I talked for about an hour about Orwell and specifically 1984. People use the word "Orwellian" a lot or say "That's so 1984", but it's a lot more than just totalitarianism and the abuse of language. 1984 is rich in detail and just about every single little detail is accurate almost to the degree of prophecy. If you haven't read it, or haven't read it in the last decade, go read.
Later I saw a regular whose name I didn't know reading Orwell from a magazine reprint. I buttonholed him and said "Orwell! Good stuff!" and we had a big talk. He's a high school teacher and was preparing lessons. I told him about the big fat cheap Orwell essays book. He said "Animal Farm is the book I recommend for my friends who don't read, because it's so easy and short and so full of huge ideas." I really liked him. I also pointed him towards Politics and the English Language, about which he had forgotten.
Then I went to Mother's and bought groceries and the cost was $19.84. At one point I was on a screen at the checkout that said "19.84: YES OR NO?" and to get my food I had to click YES. I clicked it. They fed me. I loved Big Mother.
In unrelated news I found out that
the_silent_one has a GUN hanging in her DOGHOUSE. You've been warned.
Later I saw a regular whose name I didn't know reading Orwell from a magazine reprint. I buttonholed him and said "Orwell! Good stuff!" and we had a big talk. He's a high school teacher and was preparing lessons. I told him about the big fat cheap Orwell essays book. He said "Animal Farm is the book I recommend for my friends who don't read, because it's so easy and short and so full of huge ideas." I really liked him. I also pointed him towards Politics and the English Language, about which he had forgotten.
Then I went to Mother's and bought groceries and the cost was $19.84. At one point I was on a screen at the checkout that said "19.84: YES OR NO?" and to get my food I had to click YES. I clicked it. They fed me. I loved Big Mother.
In unrelated news I found out that
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Who broke who in the what now?
Jan. 31st, 2006 10:12 am![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
We are all Junior High School Newspaper Editorials now.
If you don't have time to read the entire mess of a review, this very short silent video the guy posted of himself off his xanga (!) should be enough for you to get the gist.
Eddie Little bits
Jan. 23rd, 2006 02:10 pmI'm going through the LA Weekly's archives pulling out some of Eddie Little's columns so people can get an idea of what he was about. Links are below.
Locals, think "Bob Trout if he could write".
http://www.laweekly.com/view/Trouble_In_Paradise-1998-02-25/
http://www.laweekly.com/view/Paradise_Lost-1998-12-16/
http://www.laweekly.com/view/Chop_Shop_Guys-1998-08-12/
http://www.laweekly.com/view/To_the_Super_Max-2001-11-21/
Locals, think "Bob Trout if he could write".
http://www.laweekly.com/view/Trouble_In_Paradise-1998-02-25/
http://www.laweekly.com/view/Paradise_Lost-1998-12-16/
http://www.laweekly.com/view/Chop_Shop_Guys-1998-08-12/
http://www.laweekly.com/view/To_the_Super_Max-2001-11-21/
As they have dared, so shall I dare.
Jan. 16th, 2006 12:53 am[...]
This is the plain truth, Mr. President, and it is terrifying. It will leave an indelible stain on your presidency. I realize that you have no power over this case, that you are limited by the Constitution and your entourage. You have, nonetheless, your duty as a man, which you will recognize and fulfill. As for myself, I have not despaired in the least, of the triumph of right. I repeat with the most vehement conviction: truth is on the march, and nothing will stop it. Today is only the beginning, for it is only today that the positions have become clear: on one side, those who are guilty, who do not want the light to shine forth, on the other, those who seek justice and who will give their lives to attain it. I said it before and I repeat it now: when truth is buried underground, it grows and it builds up so much force that the day it explodes it blasts everything with it. We shall see whether we have been setting ourselves up for the most resounding of disasters, yet to come.
[...]
This is the plain truth, Mr. President, and it is terrifying. It will leave an indelible stain on your presidency. I realize that you have no power over this case, that you are limited by the Constitution and your entourage. You have, nonetheless, your duty as a man, which you will recognize and fulfill. As for myself, I have not despaired in the least, of the triumph of right. I repeat with the most vehement conviction: truth is on the march, and nothing will stop it. Today is only the beginning, for it is only today that the positions have become clear: on one side, those who are guilty, who do not want the light to shine forth, on the other, those who seek justice and who will give their lives to attain it. I said it before and I repeat it now: when truth is buried underground, it grows and it builds up so much force that the day it explodes it blasts everything with it. We shall see whether we have been setting ourselves up for the most resounding of disasters, yet to come.
[...]
Nonfiction Nation
Jan. 12th, 2006 12:16 amThe real reason James Frey and J.T. Leroy are depressing is that they show us once again that we're unimaginative people who won't buy a made-up story. It has to be real, just as it happened, and authentic because it was written by the person who was there! And even if the writing itself is fiction, it has to be written by someone who is real! Not one of those writers who sits in a room writing, but a soldier or a movie star or someone who was brutally abused as a child, and will talk about it on TV.
If Frey had written a novel about an alcoholic criminal fuckup and his journey through life, or if that couple in SF had presented J.T. Leroy as a fictional protagonist, they might have got a $20,000 advance and no royalties if they were very, very lucky.
Imagination is left to the kids, who get to enjoy Harry Potter having made-up adventures in a much more interesting world. Long live J.K. Rowling!
If Frey had written a novel about an alcoholic criminal fuckup and his journey through life, or if that couple in SF had presented J.T. Leroy as a fictional protagonist, they might have got a $20,000 advance and no royalties if they were very, very lucky.
Imagination is left to the kids, who get to enjoy Harry Potter having made-up adventures in a much more interesting world. Long live J.K. Rowling!
Academic stories from all over
Dec. 12th, 2005 11:31 amWell, just from my father. He taught English, comparative literature, translation, and fiction writing. Most of his later career was spent helping MFA students write first novels, so he had a low idiot ratio. He taught undergrads too, though, and there were moments. I now present two: one goofy final exam quote, and one what the FUCK story.
At one point he taught an upper division short story writing class. This was mostly English majors but not mostly people serious about fiction, so generally nice kids who wanted to learn the basics of writing stories. Along with the outlining and exercises and other Writing 101 stuff, there was required reading from an anthology of classic short stories.
On reading the final story for one student Dad found a bad problem. He called her in.
"I have something very serious to tell you," he said. "This story is plagiarized, almost completely. You could be dismissed from the University." The girl burst into tears immediately. After she regained her composure, he went on.
"Actually, it's a bit worse than that. You've plagiarized a story from the required reading. This means that not only did you steal a story as your own, but you stole one from a well-known author, and one that you should have read in the second week of class if you were participating." Again she collapsed in tears.
"It's even worse!" she wailed.
"How?"
"I didn't read the book anywhere, not even in the reading for the class. I stole it all from a Twilight Zone episode I saw in the Thanksgiving marathon!"
He gave her an incomplete in the class so she could take it over with a different teacher, on the condition that she never take another fiction class at that university again. Clearly she had no idea what she was doing on any level.
Then he came home and had a really big drink.
Dante was a traditional figure. He had one foot firmly planted in the medieval world, while with the other he waved a triumphant greeting to the dawn of the Renaissance.
At one point he taught an upper division short story writing class. This was mostly English majors but not mostly people serious about fiction, so generally nice kids who wanted to learn the basics of writing stories. Along with the outlining and exercises and other Writing 101 stuff, there was required reading from an anthology of classic short stories.
On reading the final story for one student Dad found a bad problem. He called her in.
"I have something very serious to tell you," he said. "This story is plagiarized, almost completely. You could be dismissed from the University." The girl burst into tears immediately. After she regained her composure, he went on.
"Actually, it's a bit worse than that. You've plagiarized a story from the required reading. This means that not only did you steal a story as your own, but you stole one from a well-known author, and one that you should have read in the second week of class if you were participating." Again she collapsed in tears.
"It's even worse!" she wailed.
"How?"
"I didn't read the book anywhere, not even in the reading for the class. I stole it all from a Twilight Zone episode I saw in the Thanksgiving marathon!"
He gave her an incomplete in the class so she could take it over with a different teacher, on the condition that she never take another fiction class at that university again. Clearly she had no idea what she was doing on any level.
Then he came home and had a really big drink.