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The english building at school…This place. As soon as i walk in all i see are school shooters and serial killers and spastics and i just know half of them will be in my class. And that dude with the purple beret and girl jeans. I had to walk right back outside and wait for my first class to start. At this point i’m starting to lose hope in this creative writing class i finally get to take. You can’t take it unless you have so many hours of english and i finally had enough of them. Composition and Rhetoric 1 was ok but Composition and Rhetoric 2 was horrible. I hate critical writing and now i hate Shakespeare because of that class.

When i go back in the building, the professor has opened the door and i can wait in the class instead. I was right, it was full of dorks and killers. And not cool killers like on tv, the scary ones like Pyle on Full Metal Jacket or The Nightstalker from the 70s (look him up, the creep). I spend my time in class looking for the impostors, the fake writers, the ones who want to do it for fame or because it’s all of a sudden “cool” to read and write because of blogs like this and e-readers. At least the professor is cool.

He looks and acts like Robin Williams from Good Will Hunting. This is good. If i can tolerate my classmates, this will be a good class. There are no hot girls so far, it’s all obesity and old age. This is not good. I have to ignore all the girls in my math class so i can focus on it and not fail it again. And that class is pretty much only hot girls. Creative writing class is my only hope for beauty and there’s nothing. Pretty girls are my greatest inspiration.

Finally this pretty raven-haired girl with a hidden overbite walks in late and i’m saved. She sits by this guy David who seems like an ok guy but he’s still one of the biggest dorks in the class. Next to him is another dork, this one with baggy dress clothes on and he’s more awkward than the rest of the class. Forget these guys, i want to learn how to write more better.

We have to fill out these little info sheets and list our favorite books and why we took Creative Writing and such. Then we’ll have to say that stuff out loud in front of the whole class. All the crazy social skills i’ve learned and i’m shaking by the time it’s my turn to speak. How the hell am i supposed to read stories in front of these people? Somehow i manage and i tell the class i’m reading The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo and nearly everyone in the class has something to say about it. The book’s not THAT good, i don’t really get the interest.

Anyway, the professor has written a book and he tells us that 2 people in the class have read it. He points to David and the guy in baggy dress clothes (Greg is his name). They do the fist bump thing and it would have been kind of cool except Greg makes this *pop* noise and i almost laugh out loud. LOL.

So we learn and luckily the professor mentions “show don’t tell”, one of my favorite rules of writing. He calls it the golden rule of writing. I’m not a conventional writer, i’ve never read that Strunk and White book or whatever it is and i don’t plan on reading it. Writing should be free and inspirational. “Don’t end a sentence in a preposition” is a dumb thing to think of. Why not? All my favorite writers became my favorite because they wrote their own way, they didn’t adhere to so many grammatical rules. That’s what i want to do. That’s why it’s so hard for me to sit down and write, i’ve put too much pressure on myself.

The writing exercise he assigns is that we have to think of some sensory memories, pick one of them, and write a story about it. Only we have to write it from the perspective of the opposite sex. I have no idea how to do this so i do it ironically, calling myself a woman several times in the story. I made a joke out of it pretty much.

Then people went around the room reading the stories out loud (i didn’t, i’m yellow) and holy crap. These people can write. The big girl next  to me? Her story was about getting stung by a stingray and it was beautiful. And Greg? The *pop* guy? He is one brilliant writer. I was honestly jealous of this guy i was secretly making fun of an hour ago. Sure these guys are awkward and screwed up but damn they could write. I became a little intimidated. I’m gonna like this class. I’m no social dork but i’m still surrounded by peers who love to write and want to be better at it. Hell, a couple of these guys have taken the class more than once. This is the third time for The Nightstalker, not because he failed it but because he “didn’t have anything else to do”.


The second class was pretty much the same except Kendal the hot girl isn’t there. I bet she dropped the class. The only reason i remember her name is because of the Kindle, i promise.

During the break (3 hour class), the spastic black guy i mentioned in the last blog and Diff (WHAT IS HIS NAME) and David talk about video games. And these idiots know the names of characters from Call of Duty. I like video games sometimes but i can’t talk about them this way. Loudly. Across the classroom. Standing (for some reason) over my shoulder. Any second i was expecting spittle to land on me. Then the spastic black guy (i hate his loud voice) starts talking about how he wishes they’d make a decent Spawn game. This gets them on the subject of comic books, Spawn specifically. Diff has taken an office chair from the corner and he rises it as high as it will go and he is sitting on it with that stupid half smile. I fight the urge to walk over and kick the chair out from under him.

“What’s that one guy from Spawn? The one from heaven?”

“Yeah the anti-spawn. He was like a guardian or something.”

“Yes, The Guardian. That’s the guy, he had a cross on his face. I think that was his name. Was it?”


This time for the writing exercise, the professor tells us about this small article he read about this couple who robbed a bank and got busted later at a Target buying diapers. We went around the room adding things to the story until we’d put together the reason why they’d robbed the bank and then stopped at Target immediately after doing so. I don’t contribute much to the discussion except to tell them at one point they were pretty much ripping off Raising Arizona. Then i scribble out a quick story (i’ll put it online when i get a minute) and i like my story enough to read it out loud. I’m ready to face that fear.

Bummer, class is over.

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