Mentor

Odysseus--or Ulysses, if you will--was away at war for ten years, and it took him another ten to sail home. While fulfilling his destiny in a foreign land (and being captured, seduced, tricked, and flummoxed on the return journey), his wife, the faithful Penelope, remained home with the couple's son, Telemachus, who was only a baby when his father left. Telemachus was left in the care of Odysseus's friend and advisor, a man by the name of Mentor; he watched after the youngster, probably taught him about sports and girls and maybe even a little about boys and men, nudge nudge. The goddess Athena also sometimes appeared to Telemachus in the form of Mentor, urging him to seek out his father, and at one point casting upon him an "enchantment of grace" before he addressed an assembly of citizens. Mentor was his mentor, get it?

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Last night Teddy and I spent an evening with P. T. Anderson. You know him, you love him, the man's a fricken genius. He did a Q&A session up on campus and was completely charming and delightful and, in his words, "so fucking nervous; I hope I don't shit my pants." His honesty and forthrightness and personable demeanor were overwhelmingly endearing, and he was so thoughtful in answering questions and he shared so many wonderful insights and stories (e.g., Ricky Jay = big-time whiner; Robert Altman = big-time stoner) that I wish I'd recorded the whole thing. (I'm sorry I didn't ask you, Internets, if you had any questions for Mr. Anderson. I should have, but I didn't think about it until I was sitting in the audience and by then it was too late.)

The best moment of the night was about halfway through, when a shaggy haired kid stepped up to the mic looking and acting and sounding not unlike a young Cameron Crowe, as portrayed in Almost Famous. I wanted to pinch his little cheeks he was so clearly eighteen years old and on the verge of, well, absolutely everything. He started out like everybody else--"Paul Thomas Anderson, you're my idol"--but then he followed with "I saw Magnolia in the theater when I was twelve years old [ed note: heavy!] and it changed my life and from then on I knew that I wanted to be a filmmaker. So last night when I heard you were going to be here, I got in my car, drove 400 miles, and went from office to office all over campus to find a ticket to see you just so I could ask this one question: So. Can I be a production assistant on the set of your next movie?"

The crowd clapped and cheered. Paul laughed and ran his hands through his hair like a frenetic raccoon cleaning behind its ears. And then he said, "Yeah. Sure." Chills, people. Cutie Graham Whatshisname is going to graduate from high school in May and then spend the summer working on Oil! with Paul fucking Thomas magicbrain Anderson. Yes, I'm overdramatic, but it felt like history was being made right there in front of me. It doesn't get cooler than that.

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Several weeks ago I was interviewed at my office by a fourth-grader named Colleen. She was assigned to do a research project on something she was "passionate" about, and she'd picked book publishing. (Actually, she picked editing in particular, but her teacher decided that it was too narrow a focus, the jerk.) A little internet research later and Colleeen had found my company and me, and several adorably formal emails later--Ms. This and Ms. That--and we'd arranged for an interview.

When she showed up, she was not the sullen, school-is-for-dorks type of kid I'd expected (and feared). I probably wasn't the bifocaled, bun-haired, flower-print-dress old biddy she'd expected either. I almost wore my topical T-shirt, but I decided I should try to be at least a little professional; when she arrived I made sure I was wearing shoes.

It turns out she was bright and energetic (and red-haired and freckled!) and so totally into fixing other peoples' spelling mistakes that right then and there her tiny 4-foot-10-in-one-sock self validated my career choice. We gossiped like girlfriends about how, Oh, don't you just hate it when you see a sign advertising "french fries, hamburgers, and hot dog's"? Ugh, I know.

I shared my best piece of wisdom after she finished a mini-rant on how, this one time, she had to correct the paper of this kid in her class and, oh my gosh, he so could not spell, and it was really annoying. "You know," I said, "one of the hardest things about being an editor is finding ways to correct people without hurting their feelings. Learning your grammar rules is only half of the job; the other half is playing psychologist to authors who have usually spent years and years pouring their souls onto the page. When someone has worked that hard, you have to be really sensitive when you need to tell them they did something wrong." Finesse and tact, an "enchantment of grace" maybe? I learned it from my mentor, and Colleen, I hope, learned it from me.

The interview proper was fun. She had some pre-written questions about what I do all day and how much I have to talk on the phone and what is the best part and the worst part of my job. I babbled on and on and loaded her up with a stack of marked-up manuscript pages, proofs, unbound galleys, f&gs, review copies, advanced copies, and finished books. I was just as excited to give them to her as she was to receive them.

At the end of the interview, I took her around the office and introduced her to the rest of the staff and told her a little about what they do to help make books. In the very back of the building, I found our marketing director, our art director, our acquisitions editor, and our publisher in a meeting over what to title an upcoming children's picture book. We poked our heads in the door just so I could illustrate for Colleen the part of publishing that involves heinous meetings, but before we could leave the publisher called out, "Hey! You're a kid. Get in here."

For the next twenty minutes or so, Colleen became the star of the show as she told us all quite candidly what she thought of the book and why all of the previously proposed titles sucked. She suggested we use a brainstorming cloud, which is something her teacher, Mrs. Bogue, uses to help students come up with ideas. She was smart and thoughtful and funny. And wouldn't you know it, she came up with a real winner of a title, although I warned her that sometimes those things change at the last minute and you never can be sure until you see it in print.

A few weeks ago I received in the mail a package containing a thank-you note from Colleen's mother and a copy of the book Colleen said had piqued her original interest in publishing. She said she'd read all the books I'd sent her home with and couldn't wait until the new one came out to see if the title she'd devised passed muster and stuck. I don't know what else to say about this without getting too gooshy and precious, but the circle of influence is just goddamn inspiring. We all know what that's like to look up to someone and then hear them talk about who they look up to. Paul got downright misty talking about Robert Altman. Mentors have mentors have mentors too.

But then, every once in a while, you find yourself on the other end of it--you get a Telemachus of your own and he looks to you as to a father, and you are the reigning influence in his life. Man, what a privilege and a burden. And sometimes, if you're really lucky, you're not just a father or a friend, but a goddess. Just like that your armor turns to gold. Heavy.

wrote Leah at 6:40 AM | Comments (11)