"Today, class, we are going to learn about the writing process." Mrs. Shaver stood in front of the blackboard, her hands were stained with chalk dust. They looked to be too big for her body like she went home and spent her evenings pounding coal. I imagined that her palms were knotty and calloused. She was an attractive woman otherwise, at least she would have been if she had not chosen to become an English teacher. Her profession apparently dictated that she had to dress in long dark skirts, and shoes that could hammer nails. And, of course, reading glasses were a must. For all I knew she might be able to pole dance and bulls-eye a fly at 500 yards, but the school district had decided to make her into Nurse Ratchet.
"So, before you write you have to 'pre-write...'" I still have no idea what the fuck pre-writing is. As long as you are "writing," something even if it is on a napkin with ketchup you are writing...right? I was to learn, however, that writing was a sacred ritual that involved dozens of steps and checks. It wasn't something you could just do. It was not composed of thoughts and feelings and experiences as much as outlines, note cards, and red pencil. And it certainly was not fun, oh no, writing was serious business. In fact, it was so serious that an entire body called the Modern Language Association presided over it imposing their own draconian rules as to how it was done. Fie on you if you included another's thought in your paper and claimed it as your own! Thoughts are unique, dontchaknow, no two people have ever had the same one. If you have an "original," thought you had better make sure that no one has had it first.
Everything I had written up to that point and everything that I have written since I have written in the same way. In front of a keyboard start to finish. Once I finish I read it over and make changes if necessary, sometimes I skip the last step. Too much editing makes it feel inauthentic. When Mrs. Shaver asked me to start making note-cards I laughed and began to write my paper. When I handed it to her the next afternoon. She refused to read it. "It's not ready," she said as she dusted the chalk off of her dry "old lady," hands. "Where are your notecards?"
"I didn't really need them Mrs. Shaver," I replied confidently "I just sat down and wrote it."
"I need to see your note cards first, go ahead and write them out. Make sure you include no more than three 'thoughts,' per note card." She said dismissively.
I stood there flabbergasted as I looked at my completed paper. I had read it and I thought it was pretty good. A couple of my buddies had read it and they thought it was pretty good...even if it did make me queer. I was open to constructive criticism, but she had none to give. "Aren't you even going to read it? I would like to hear your opinion?"
She looked back at me as if to say "why are you still here?" "Note cards." was all she said in reply.
I sat on my ass in protest for the remainder of the term. We had weekly turn-ins. Notecards, then outlines, then revised outlines, then rough drafts, then second drafts, then final drafts, then final drafts with MLA citations. They were teaching us how to execute a process, but they certainly weren't teaching us how to write. They were teaching us to hate writing. Students hated that class. Hated, hated, hated it. I could see the other students slowly becoming good little automatons as they were carefully prepared for careers as accountants, contract managers, and salesmen. The lesson was not about writing. The lesson was that you did what the fuck you were told and kept your mouth shut or you got an F. I didn't turn in a single note card.
On the last day of the term I handed in my final paper, it was the same one that I handed her at the beginning of the term. She looked it over and returned it to me the following day. I got an A on the paper but I had failed for the term since I had refused to do her busy work. The fact that my work was good, in fact, better than most was incidental. I decided then and there that I hated to write and I never did it again unless I absolutely had to. When I did I did it "their," way. After college I stopped completely. Someone had to get a bullet in the head before I picked up the pen again.
...
"...I don't rejoice in anyone's death, but you have to admit that this feels right..."
The DJ droned on as made my morning commute. I was hardly listening as I sipped my coffee.
"I disagree, Jim. I thought it was fantastic when I heard that he got shot. It was 10 years coming and all the people who lost loved ones can breathe a sigh of relief that justice has been done."
That piqued my attention as the gears in my sleepy head began to turn. Could it be?
"Osama Bin Laden, is dead." the radio confirmed.
I would like to say that I sat there and gave a stoic nod of approval, but I did, in fact, scream and honk my horn all the way to my office.
...
As soon as I got to my computer an urge rose in me that was unlike anything I had ever felt. I couldn't contain it. I looked at my computer screen like I wanted to fuck it. The keyboard was the only release from the tension. It took me barely 10 minutes of clicking before I had finished the letter to the editor of my local paper. I emailed it off and thought no more of it until I received a call that Saturday.
"Hello," I said as I picked up the phone.
"Mr. Phazzle, this is the editor of the letters section of The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. We received your letter about Osama Bin Laden and we would like to feature it in tomorrow's paper. We usually don't include letters that are more than 200 words but we do make exceptions. Yours is a little long at 420 words. Do you mind if I cut it to 380?"
"...sure," I replied with surprise.
"Thank you, it is very well written. Look for it in tomorrow's paper."
And sure enough, there it was the next day in print in a nice little box with a picture of Osama. I became a published author in less than 15 minutes. My grandmother sent it to the president, and he replied! Even if I knew it was an aide it was still pretty special. I told her he signed it personally, it made her feel good I suppose.
And I didn't stop there. I continued to write. I cruised message boards and wrote about my life, all in the first person. I wrote about my daily struggles, about my hopes and dreams, and about my World of Warcraft character. It was amazing. People actually liked to read what I was writing. I was floored. I had been told my whole life that I didn't have the chops to be a writer and now complete strangers were asking me to start a blog so that they could read more of my work.
I wish I had started sooner. If not for the Mrs. Shavers of the world, I might have. I am well aware that the above and much of what you will read on this blog should you continue to grace me with your readership will be mistake ridden, misspelled, and grammatically incorrect. What do you expect though? I didn't use any note cards. I hope you enjoy it anyway, though.
