the other press Features lens, clarifying their vision of good writing. Another veteran of Wharton’s workshop, Jordan Cripps, read manuscripts last summer for the Douglas College literary magazine Event. He caught himself tak- ing a Calvinistic approach to submissions that were unlikely to win Events creative non-fiction contest. Cripps grinned and said, “I found myself having to stop trying to correct and make suggestions.” Every student who offered a comment on Wharton's teaching style mentioned his sense of humour. Aikman Look said, “He’s really approachable and he makes it funny. You can't take yourself too seriously in that class. You take your writing seriously, but not yourself.” Honsinger added, “He manages to keep the classes light, so there’s an atmosphere of fun, but it doesn’t get out of control; he still maintains a respect and a structure within the class. Ultimately, he’s still in control but in a very subtle way. I’ve seen him handle awkward situations very well.” Aikman Look recalled occasions when Wharton steered her class through difficult moments. “I’ve seen him manage people who are basically on the verge of tears. Something horrific has happened to their parents and they're putting it out in front of the class, and the writing’s crap.” Wharton addressed the writing without distressing the writer. “He can lighten up the moment with a well-timed joke and everyone's happy,” Aikman Look said. Before Wharton came to Douglas College, he taught writing courses at Selkirk College, in the Kootenays. Going back even further, in the mid-1980s he was involved in establishing the Kootenay School of Writing (KSW) in Vancouver. As its name suggests, the school was affiliated with a writing program in the Kootenays, at David Thompson University Centre, in Nelson, BC. As a storefront writing school, the KSW offered students the opportunity to learn their craft in writer-friendly infor- mal classes. The instructors were the administrators, the faculty, and the staff of the KSW. At KSW, Wharton taught courses in book production, fiction, humour, and poetry. He also taught “Literary Groceries,” which provided students with practical knowledge about getting published, and ran “Blue Pencil Cafés,” which offered the Wharton workshop experience to the public at large. “We'd go somewhere, and people would come in with ten or twelve pages,” Wharton said. “We'd read them and respond to them right there, on the spot. Those were exhausting.” Wharton recalled the end of one day of the Café, when he'd drawn a larger crowd than the other KSW writers who were there. He felt completely wiped out. “By the end of the day, I was talking to somebody and http://otherpress.douglas.bc.ca I realized I couldn't. My brain and my mouth were no longer connected,” Wharton said, laughing. “I didn’t even know what I was saying. I said, Look: I’m sorry, I’ve been doing this for six or seven hours without a break, and I’m not thinking clearly anymore. It was a weird feel- ing, not something I’m used to. Not like I’m some kind of great thinker,” he said, smiling, looking a bit beguiled by the memory, “but usually I know what I’m saying!” After two years of teaching Print Futures students how to write features, Wharton branched out to teach more creative writing courses, and worked on Event. He edited the magazine from the winter of 1996 to the spring of 2001, and commissioned a story for Event which won the $10,000 Journey Prize as the best short story published in Canada, in 2001. Through those years of editing and teaching, Wharton was engaged in a writing project for his Master of Fine Arts degree at UBC. The stories he put together for his degree were published by Turnstone Press in 2002 in a collection titled, Three Songs by Hank Williams. (See side bar.) Wharton's stories tend to be open-ended, which some readers, including reviewers, have found unsatisfying. He thought those endings were appropriate for the stories. “I don’ like things to wrap up,” he said. “I definitely don't like stories that tie everything up so perfectly, where everything is completely resolved and tidily packaged and put away. I don’t think things happen like that.” The title story includes, as epigraphs, lyrics from three songs by Hank Williams, each of which cost Wharton US$100 for permission to use. The lonesome music of Hank Williams sets the tone of the collection. “There is that kind of longing for place,” Wharton said. “It’s related to lonesomeness, being alone, but it’s also like not having your place to feel comfortable in. The characters in the book are like that, in a lot of ways. Most of them don't have a place where they're comfortable, and they seem to be on some kind of conscious, or uncon- scious, search for that place. And it seems that, for me, a lot of Hank Williams’ music is about that search.” In another story, “Wrapped in Blue,” a character named Clive ends up directing traffic in the confusion of a rainy night, when the traffic lights have failed. Wharton described Clive’s action as the character's way of belong- ing. “In order to belong, he has to do something that he feels is useful. At that moment, that’s the most useful thing he could be doing, and so he’s doing it, and he feels like that’s where he belongs. And in some ways,” Wharton said, “maybe that’s where people do belong— where you feel like you're actually doing something that’s useful, contributing something, in some way. What needs to be done? Look around,” Wharton said, raising his Aipril 9, 2003 Photos by Devon Lewis voice, glancing around. “What needs to be do? Then you do it, and you're where you belong,” he sai. sitting back in his chair. “So that’s the cure for almost 2: thing,” Wharton said, smiling. Jennifer Aikman Look credited Wharton wit) pushing her to write pieces that have been published. “| owe him the fact that I’ve done anything with creativ: writing, because, honestly, I’m lazy and Print Futures is xhaust- ing. If 1 didn’t have his class to light the fire unr me, I wouldnt’ have bothered.” Adam Honsinger also paid homage to \arton, “Calvin has been a mentor. I’ve had a lot of coi, :sations » with him outside of class. He’s been very sup} fe: Honsinger, who was this year’s recipient of ti .!aurice Hodgson Award for promise as a young r, has recently published a story written in Calvin ss in Exile, a Toronto-based literary magazine. What better way of showing a writing teachc:s excel- lence than in the telling proof of his students’ work being published? In class, Calvin Wharton sits with his back «‘raight, leaning forward slightly, with his elbows on the «sk. His posture suggests he is relaxed, but at attention. || \s head is crowned with baldness, in a medieval monk-. -good- cheer style. He almost looks scholarly, but throigh his glasses, his eyes are too playful to give a bookish | mpres- sion. He is at home, in the focal point of the class, offer- ing advice in response to student writing, finding some- thing of value in each piece that not everyone sees until it is pointed out to them. Wharton sees the potential in every piece of writing. His suggestions are instructive for the whole class, though based on particular examples in each student’s writing. That is surely the sign of someone whose respect for each student is truly humane. Wharton appreciates the effort, rather than denigrating the limits of anyone’s talent. He balances his uncompromising responsibility as a writing instructor with his natural decency as a human being. In 1982, Wharton did a stint in Japan, where he was disappointed with the highly organized way of life. He had gone there expecting to find his true home, “where people had this incredible artistic relationship with life, but it’s more like, okay, today is the day we go to look at autumn leaves,” he said, looking at his wristwatch, “between 5:30 and 6:15. It wasn’t really my true home,” he said, grinning as he took on an old codger’s persona. “I found out my true home was here. Right here.” Judging by his mastery of useful instruction, Wharton belongs right where he is—teaching creative writing at Douglas College. page 17 © u