1. Jenna Christophersen
November 2012
UC Davis Nonfiction Creative Writing Class
Sharing the Mighty Pen
Printed in dark, bold letters, this warning sign greets me from the other end of the hall as
I round the corner. I wade toward the writing room through a river of sprawling legs, open
binders, loose papers, and glowing MacBooks. It‟s finals week, and students, some supported by
tall cups of coffee and some barely keeping their eyes open, line the hallway, waiting with
essays, personal statements, and journal entries. A few watch as I pick my way through the
obstacle course, occasionally even moving a backpack or book so I can get by. I lift the wait-list
warning sign and count the names on the sign-in sheet underneath. Twenty-five. I take a deep
breath and thank the Lord for my co-workers, two diligently working with students and one
arriving just behind me. She and I exchange glances, and I smile and shake my head ever so
slightly to say what we‟re both thinking: “If only some of these people had come in earlier…”
The first name is familiar to me. Marcus is one of what I call our “day residents.” He
comes in early, works with a tutor, and the moment the first session ends he signs up for another
one. He knows the drill and doesn‟t waste a second as he barrels in the door, dropping his
backpack behind the chair and scrawling his information on my sign-in sheet before I can say
much more than “hi.” By mere force of frequent exposure, the paper he has been working on has
become the personal project of each and every one of the tutors. His sentences are fragmented at
best, hopelessly garbled at worst, and take a good deal of patience and brainpower to unravel. I
mentally prepare as I settle into my chair, asking if “we‟re still working on the obesity paper.”
“Actually, I have these,” he responds, building a stack of papers on top of the desk. “We
have to do peer evaluations,” he continues, sliding the stack over to me. I flip the corners with
my thumb to see how many pages he has. “And I just don‟t know what to write. So if you could
help me, you know, know what to write, I just don‟t know where to start. I don‟t know what‟s
good or bad, you know.” He rambles on in a highly suspicious way. I look at what he has placed
before me, then raise my eyebrows at him.
“Marcus,” I say sternly. “Have you read these peer essays?” He looks down with a guilty
smile, putting his elbows on the desk, and admits he has not. “Marcus, I will not read these
papers,” I say, looking him square in the face. “You did not write them. I cannot do the work for
you. You must read them yourself. Come up with some critiques and then bring those to me. I‟ll
be happy to read your evaluations and help you strengthen them, but I will not read something
you didn‟t write!” I shake my head at him – he knows better – but I can‟t help smiling at his
deviousness.
“Okay,” he says, his naughty grin still on his face. “Let‟s work on this, then.” The obesity
paper replaces the stack before me.
“Okay,” I agree with a chuckle.
***
My next student‟s eight-page paper is due at two o‟clock; it is nearly one-fifteen.
Attention:
Due to the high demand for
writing tutoring services today,
expect to wait 30 minutes to 2
hours for a tutor.

2. Jenna Christophersen
November 2012
UC Davis Nonfiction Creative Writing Class
“Okay,” I say to him, “we have a thirty-minute session together. What can I help you
with?” As we begin working, I discover this fact: my tutee doesn‟t really want help. He discounts
any problems I see as mere details.
“I‟m a chemistry and English double-major,” he informs me, “so I know it‟s solid, I just
want someone to look it over.” In my mind, this translates to: “Just tell me I‟m wonderful.”
I hand him my pen and use my finger to point to the next sentence, asking him, “Okay,
here you say „he‟ to refer to the author. Here I think „he‟ is referring to the character. And in
these two places I‟m not sure who „he‟ is talking about. Can you clarify?”
“It‟s talking about the reader.”
“Okay, can you just say, „the reader,‟ then?”
He looks at me with a severe expression of superiority. “That‟s dangerously informal.”
I am taken somewhat aback. “Well – actually, it‟s not. That is a common practice widely
accepted in the academic field. I‟ve never had a professor tell me not to say „the reader.‟”
He continues to insist on the “dangerous informality” of this technique, so I decide to
move on. “Over here, you say „the affect,‟ but you mean the noun „effect,‟ with an „e.‟”
“But ultimately, the decision is up to me, not you.”
I blink.
“I‟m the author, so I can say what I want to say.”
I try to keep the defensive edge out of my voice as I tell him, “Yes, that‟s true, you get
the ultimate choice.” He looks smug, and I shrug my shoulders. “Sure, I‟m just giving you my
opinion,” I say, even though the difference between “effect” and “affect” is hardly a matter of
opinion. I feel my time is being wasted, but he is entitled to his full half hour, as I‟m sure he
would be the first to remind me. I glance at the clock and wonder how long the next twenty
minutes will seem.
***
Finally freed from Mr. Arrogance, I go to the list and place my initials beside the next
name, one of Japanese origin which I apologetically stumble over as I call it out. I notice she‟s an
international student, and that she signed in three hours ago. Many students leave after an hour or
so, but this young woman, admirably, has waited all this time.
As I read her introduction to a review of Rob Reiner‟s movie The Bucket List, I ask
clarifying questions to help me decode the collage of Japanese sentence structure and English
words. Her answers come so softly and haltingly that it‟s difficult to have even the vaguest idea
of what she‟s trying to say. In fact, the long pauses between each word tempt me to wonder if
she‟s trying to say anything at all. But as we work further, I realize she does have a message and
plenty of great ideas. I keep my voice calm and low, my words clear and even, and offer her
encouraging smiles as the words come, slow as the drip from a rusty faucet. Gradually, her
words flow a little more easily, in more of a trickle than a drip. I can work with a trickle.
I skim the sentences, reading out loud and explaining errors as we go along. Suddenly, a
sentence causes me to do a double-take. I bite my lip, but half a laugh escapes me. I quickly
cover it up with a cough and try to swallow the rest of it. My tutee looks at me quizzically. I
cough again, then point to the line on the page, praying the humor doesn‟t get the better of me.
“Do you know what the phrase, „kick the bucket‟ means in the English language?” I ask.
She shakes her head, but says, “To hang out?”
“Well, actually it means „to die.‟ So, here, you probably don‟t want to say, „They spend
the rest of the movie kicking the bucket together.‟”

3. Jenna Christophersen
November 2012
UC Davis Nonfiction Creative Writing Class
She stares at the paper for a second, and then starts laughing, a hand covering her mouth
as her shoulders shake. I take this as permission to let my own laughter loose, feeling grateful for
the release. It takes us upwards of a minute to recover enough solemnity to rework the sentence
without laughing again.
Half an hour disappears too quickly, but having discussed some of her common pitfalls, I
think she will be able to take care of most of the rest herself.
“Your content is great, and I think if you just clean up some of these tense errors and
make the other changes we discussed, you should be fine,” I tell her.
“Thank you,” she laughs, shouldering her backpack with an air of relief, “It help me very
much.”
***
By the end of the day, my head is heavy with the shrapnel of a dozen essays lodged into
my brain. The other tutors and I gather our belongings, nattering about the overwhelming volume
of students, the strange encounters of the day, the frustrating moments, the funny unintended
meanings of certain sentences.
I look over at one co-worker and say, “You know, we have the best job.”
She nods without a hesitation. “Oh yes. We do.”