Mary Robison, critically acclaimed author and Briggs Copeland Assistant Professor in English, met her present spouse, James, when he "offered me a lift on his motorcycle between states somewhere, on the way to Motor City."

A pretty typical incident in Robison's life, her early years being spent "all over the map, getting married, having children, being a hobo, a socialist..." Robison even looks the part of a carefree bohemian. "I love the way she looks like what you would imagine in a stereotypical writer: she smokes nonstop, she drinks lots of black cofee, has wild hair and funky bracelets," says Elizabeth L. Buckley '87, a first-time student in Robison's creative writing course.

Writing, however, was one art that "did not seem to me to be plausible," Robison says. "I had wanted to be other things, but I am at an age where I'm narrowing my focus. I am probably not going to be a rock star or a nuclear physicist."

Then one day a letter arrived from novelist John Barth asking her to come to Johns Hopkins and study with him, which she did. A friend, it turns out, had sent some of her work to him. "That was the first idea I had that my stories were of any interest. It was very exciting. I thought it was a mistake--this letter over what seemed to me journal, a girl's diary, and not conceivably of interest to anyone."

Now, almost 10 years after getting her first short story in The New Yorker, the tables have turned, and it is Robison who is teaching young people the craft of writing fiction in English Car and Cbr.

Reaction to her teaching over the years has been "universally, hysterically enthusiastic," says Professor of English Monroe Engle, who hired Robison for the job. John T. Zilcosky '87, a three time veteran of Car, notes that "She gives the class a relaxed atmosphere. She seems to stimulate conversation--a lot of laughing and joking around that lead to productive criticism."

"I'm impressed by the fact that she's encouraging even when she's critical of your work," says Buckley. "She lets you know she doesn't like your work in way that doesn't shatter you."

But after five years at Harvard, with a year teaching at Oberlin in between, Robison is about to hang up her red pen. "There simply isn't any extension on their side, and I have two books five years overdue, so there simply isn't any extension on my side. I reached a point where I was a better teacher than a writer."

Giving teaching up "is a considerable sacrifice," Robison says. "Actually, I sort of prefer it [to writing]. It's easier. It comes more naturally."

You wouldn't know it from her writing, however. Robison writes with the same ironic precision that's in her speech. Witness this dialogue from her early short story "Bud Parrot":

"You're the bride's sister, aren't you? Aren't you Evaline?

"Yeah," Evaline said. "Which side are you on? The bride's or the groom's?"

"Both. I know both of them," Bud said. "I'm older friends with Dean than Gail. By about thirty minutes."

Evaline stood over bottles of various kinds of liquor. She stirred up a warm martini and handed it to Bud Parrot.

"One for both hands," he said. "Thanks."