Paul looked out over the room full of students. Twenty four attentive UCLA Extension students. All but eight were women. He’d been talking for an hour now. Some of the students were tired. In the front row, a young woman was drawing an incredibly elaborate row of daisies in her notebook. In the someone back was quietly reading a newspaper. A skinny young woman with wild electric hair was quietly unwrapping a Baby Ruth. He’d been droning on about theory too long. He was losing them.

Paul didn’t blame them. It was a hot fall evening. The air conditioning had been turned off hours ago. The classroom had sound absorbent ceiling tiles, formica desks and greenish fluorescent lights. If Paul had been teaching on a crisp late fall day in some ivy-covered brick building in New England with the leaves turning, negative ions rampant and excitement in the air, that would have been one thing. But this was like trying to teach subtlety, grace and wit in the state unemployment office with a fight over a refund check going on in the next cubicle. You couldn’t create a mood and sustain it for more than a minute or two. The only way to maintain the students’ attention was to force the issue. Carry the fight to them. Put them on the spot. And make it personal.

"Okay," he said, stopping in the middle of the front of the classroom.

"We’ve been talking theory and telling anecdotes long enough. Let me give you an assignment." He paused to wait while everyone turned their heads to look at him.

"For next time," said Paul, his voice direct and authoritative, "I want you to write about yourself in the third person. Not the first person. Not ‘I did this. I did that.’ The third person. Now I know it sounds artificial. But there’s more to the assignment than a desire to make your life difficult. One you get the hang of it, it’s easy and unobtrusive. And you may learn something you weren't expecting."

He looked around the room. They weren’t riveted or anything. But at least they were looking at him curiously.

"Now here’s what you do. When you are writing, instead of saying, 'I picked up the book.’ I want you to say, 'Sarah picked up the book.’ Instead of saying, 'I sat in bed reading till three in the morning,’ say 'Sarah sat up in bed reading till three in the morning.’ Instead of saying, 'Then I yawned, stretched and turned out the light,’ say 'Sarah yawned, stretched, turned out the light and slowly slid her fingers under the waistband of her panties."

That got their attention. The pen of the woman doodling in the front row froze in mid-stroke. The woman gazing off into the air above Paul’s head suddenly sat up stared at Paul, her big blue eyes wide and intense.

Paul continued as if he hadn’t said a thing out of the ordinary. "What about dialogue? That’s easy. You handle dialogue the same way. You don’t say, "'Kiss me you fool,’ I said.’’ You say, "'Kiss me you fool,’ Emily said.’’ It’s a simple one-to-one change. But it makes a big difference. When you are writing about yourself in the third person, you become a character, a subject. You report on yourself the same way you would anyone else. But this time, as a reporter you are incredibly lucky. Know why?"

Paul didn’t leave the question on the floor long enough for anyone to answer. "Because you have just conducted the most perfect interview of your short but meteoric journalism career. You looked into your memory and discovered that—miracle of miracles—you know everything about your subject: whether she sleeps in the nude, steals cherries from the food bin at the supermarket, never pays her parking tickets, or once took a shower with her 14 year old nephew. In other words, you know everything about your subject because your subject is you, the most fascinating illuminating person in the world. Your admiration for her is unbounded. You can believe in her without reservation. What reporter ever had it so good?"

"Now remember," said Paul, dropping his voice as if were now about to impart the real inner secrets of the profession. "Just because you’re writing about yourself, when you go to write your stories, don’t fall into the trap of giving us your opinion of your subject. We don’t care what you think about your angst, your heartache, your pain over the fact that your car was stolen, your boyfriend vanished and the rabbit died. You’re a reporter. You’re a professional. What we want to know is what you found out. Okay?"

Heads nodded quietly. An earnest young woman in the back row was writing furiously in her notebook. "Now I’m available to help," Paul said modestly. "If you have any problems, give me a call in the evening at this number." Paul picked up a piece of chalk and scrawled in on the board. "Don’t worry about bothering me. If I’m busy, I’ll tell you." He paused. Everyone he noticed was busy writing down the number. "Any questions."

Paul looked out over the class. He was amazed how well most of the women looked. Hair soft and brushed, smooth shaved legs, clean skirts or nicely faded jeans, white socks and sneakers. A young woman in the front row stuck up her hand. Anne Aversay. She had short neat brown hair and was wearing a puffy white long sleeved shirt that made her look like an 19th century artist. "Yes?" said Paul.

"Well, if we write in the third person, I’m not sure how we convey inner thoughts and emotion. Doesn’t third person force you to be objective. How do we convey intimate thoughts?" She shrugged and raised her eyebrows as if to say, "I hope this isn’t a stupid question."

"No," said Paul, reacting to her expression. "It’s a good question. Think about it a second."

He casually walked over to the other side of the room, and leaned against the door jam. There was 20 feet between them. "Suppose now you came to my house to interview me, because I’m a famous reporter and I have just written this breath-takingly-brave and moving book. And because you are a gifted writer in your own right, you’re not just going to ask me the standard questions—`Do I write with a typewriter or a computer? What word processing program do I use. How wide do I make my margins?’"

Paul paused to give the students time to laugh appreciatively. "No," he continued, looking directly into Anne’s shining blue eyes. "You’re going to go for some insight into my character and personality. A revelation. And one of the things you’re going to do is be open and frank yourself. You’re going to talk about yourself, share confidences and in the process you’re going to ask me to share confidences. Your tape recorder, in which you have just put two new 12 hour Duracell AA batteries, will faithfully record every word. In your 80 page spiral bound reporter’s notebook, you will write down observations about my eyes, my tattered but clean button-down shirt, the comfortable way I sit, the relaxed way I talk, the revealing volumes of George Orwell, Mark Twain and Elmore Leonard you see on the self behind me. And while we are talking, you will ask me intimate personal questions about literature and life. And because I have come to like and trust and respect you, I will answer them all as best and honestly as I can. In the process, you will not only get information for your story, but you will come to know me as a person, and in some small way, for better or for worse, your life will be changed."

Paul strode across the room and stood directly in front of Anne’s desk. "Isn’t that what you would do?"

"Yes,’ said Anne.

"All I’m saying is it’s the same situation," said Paul. "Instead of interviewing a sensitive thoughtful person like me who is obviously in touch with his feelings and able to talk about them, you interview someone even better. You interview yourself.

"Capiche?"

"What?" said Anne.

"It’s slang for `Do you understand?’"

"Yes," said Anne of the shining eyes. "I do."