ABOUT THE MENTOR

JASON TOUGAW is a professor of literature at City University of New York. He is the author of The One You Get: Portrait of a Family Organism (Dzanc), The Elusive Brain: Literary Experiments in the Age of Neuroscience, and Strange Cases: The Medical Case History and the British Novel. Excerpts from The One You Get have appeared in Boys to Men: Gay Men Write about Growing Up, Electra Street: A Journal of the Arts and Humanities, and Out Magazine. He blogs about the relationship between art and science at Californica.net.

Mentorship sessions are available at a cost of $20 for one hour, $35 for two hours, or $50 for four hours. All payments are processed through Submittable at the time of manuscript submission.

To book a mentoring session with Jason, please select one, two, or four hours (depending on availability) from the product menu above.  Please continue clicking through the checkout process; though you will not be charged at this time, finishing your purchase reserves your hours with this mentor.  Though you will need to provide a billing address, you do not need to enter a credit card at this time.

Once your purchase is completed, a Dzanc staff member will be in touch to help you submit your manuscript and your payment through Submittable.

SAMPLE FROM THE ONE YOU GET

“FUCK THE BABY,” I shout from the toddler seat of the shopping cart. It’s my first sentence, announced with glee at Jonathan’s, San Diego’s most expensive grocery store. Nanny is taking my mom shopping to celebrate our new life without Charlie, my father, who’s probably in prison by now.

“Fuck the baby,” I shout again. My mom and Nanny are quiet at first, but they give in and let their laughter splutter.

Jonathan’s is huge, a chaos of clean light. My sentence bounces off the jars and cans that line the polished aisles.

“Cathy, shut him up.”

“Why me? Just find the Grey Poupon and let’s get out of here.”

“Because you’re his mother, for Godssake.”

A pair of women in their sixties round the corner. You can tell they belong from their penciled eyebrows, pearls, and pocketbooks. “Fuck the baby.” My mom presses a hand over my mouth. The women have stopped their carts to observe.

I yelp a muffled four syllables. If you’ve heard me already, they’re unmistakable.

I don’t remember this, but I knew what I was doing, they’ll tell me later. I was conscious of their embarrassment, egged on by their blushing and laughing.

“Let’s get out of here,” Nanny says, and the laughter bursts through their ribs again. The women with pocketbooks push by, careful to avert their eyes.