Wayne Brown

Editor's note: Wayne Brown, respected Trinidadian writer and former editor of The Sunday Gleaner Arts Section, died of cancer on Tuesday at his St. Andrew home at the age of 65. The following is a tribute prepared by one of the many young writers Brown took under his wings during his impressive career.

When I met Wayne Brown I was not yet a writer. The blank page frustrated and defeated me, the keyboard intimidated me whenever I tried to put my thoughts down.

I met him during my first year at the University of the West Indies. It was the final semester and I was coasting through my English major, twiddling my thumbs while waiting for acceptance into the media and communications programme, reading constantly, devouring several books each week. Up to that point, I knew little of him, a dim spectre behind the Arts publication in the Jamaica Observer, a section of pages filled with the musings and literary voices of Caribbean writers that rather awed me. I had often thought of sending a story to the email address he left on the beginning page of each Sunday's edition, but never had the courage to do it.

After completing a short night-time writing workshop, I decided to send in one of my more successful assignments. A few days later, Wayne Brown called me. I was confused at first, it was close to 9 p.m., and I didn't recognise the voice, quiet and speculative in a way that made you want to listen. He asked if I had ever done his workshop and invited me to participate at a 50 per cent discount. I was thrilled.

easy-going

When I showed up at his home, the gate guarded by eager, yipping Rottweilers, I was fascinated by the group of budding writers there, some of them doing the workshop for the third or fourth time. Wayne was easy-going and his criticism didn't hurt or offend but made you want to try harder. After that first lesson, he caught me browsing his collection of published works, and lent me Landscape With Heron. I never gave it back. I read it and reread it, and whenever I was having trouble getting my words on the page, reading a few of his short stories seemed to help.

Under his eye, my hunger for words grew, and I spent hours in the back of the library at UWI, cross-legged on the dusty floor, exploring books he had suggested or quoted from, trying to find my place in this vast world of writers. Each Saturday, I read my assignment haltingly, with self-conscious pauses between paragraphs, glancing every now and then at him for encouragement or disapproval. Sitting with one leg crossed over the other, occasionally adjusting his glasses, his face was always unreadable, no clue as to how well or how badly I was doing. It made me want to cross everything out and try again.

At the end of the class, he would walk me out to my boyfriend's car, suggesting a new book to read, and with a careless smile he would ask, "Where's Landscape with Heron?" I always promised to bring it back the next week, but I think we both knew I wouldn't.

heated arguments

When he started teaching creative writing at UWI, I quickly signed up for his class. Between writing assignments he would crack us up with anecdotes about his days as a youth in university. Sometimes he would start a topic just for a debate, mentioning things from the news like gay marriage or nude weddings at all-inclusive resorts, knowing we would get into heated arguments. We talked over each other, and yelled, and stomped our hands in frustration, and through it all he sat, mirth in his eyes. Finally, he would stop us and say, "Good. Now go home and write."

He punished late students by making them bring snacks for the next class. At the end of the class he would pull a box of cigarettes out of his pocket and a few of us would berate him loudly, one girl shouting "Have some fruit instead!" Once someone asked him "Don't you know how bad that is for you?" He shot her a pitying look and said, "Listen, when I die, I intend to be sick, not well." No one could think of a quick or witty reply. Defeated, we muttered on our way out the door, his laugh following us down the hallway.

That year, he encouraged me to submit my stories to the Observer's Literary Arts competition, and I won the first prize for fiction. Accepting the award at a small ceremony, I felt like a fraud. I knew I could be writing more, writing better, and I felt he was waiting for me to go ahead and do it already.

I did his workshop a few more times but, oddly enough, I never completed a course. For some reason, I always missed the last couple of classes, and then in a few weeks I would show up for the new class. Throughout it all, Landscape with Heron was my constant companion. In his words, I found a curious mix of cynicism and fondness for life, a slightly alarming understanding of the female mind, and a deep empathy for all kinds of people. Reading his words, I felt I could do anything, write anything, I felt sure I would conquer the world with my pen.

But life happens. My life happened. Relationships ended, relationships began, I graduated, I moved from one job to the next, until one day I saw an ad that his creative writing workshop was starting a new course once again. I showed up, this time married and four months pregnant. His eyes laced with fond amusement, he regarded my slightly rotund belly, and asked, "Is it the same guy who used to drop you off?" I lifted my chin and told him we had broken up and I had married someone else. He laughed and shook his head. "Boy, you young girls are heartless."

start worrying

One weekend he invited my husband and I to go sailing with him. Underneath the unforgiving sun, I faltered and tried not to complain about morning sickness and heartburn. My husband looked a little green but bravely helped with the necessary tasks, and through it all, he sat comfortably in his yacht with no motor, a drink in his hand and a few packs of Nicorette gum in his pocket. He shot a look at my husband smoking a Matterhorn and said, "Tell him he's got about 10 years before he has to start worrying about that."

With the birth of my son, I missed the last class yet again, and sent him pictures and photo montages set to music, like any excited new mother. Gradually, we fell out of touch and I moved to Canada. I stopped writing but kept comfort in the fact that my mentor was only an email away; my talent lay dormant, only needing a word or two from him to come alive once more.

Now he is gone. A generation of West Indian writers has lost a brilliant teacher, and I have lost my mentor. I am left with the harsh disappointment of not having lived up to the potential he saw in me. I am far removed from the Caribbean literary world, ensconced in North America, working in property management, with my writing limited to lease agreements and maintenance contracts. Where is the writer who began to flourish under his tutelage? What do I do with the void that is left by his absence, the yawning gap at the other end of the world? How do I fill this deafening silence? I shall fill it with words.