I Yam What I Is

I'm not sure how to spell ballsy. I feel like I should know. Not because I fit the bill but more because it's a pretty popular term in pop culture.

I love writing. I've loved it ever since I was 8 and wrote my first " horror" story about a trip to a grave yard gone horribly awry. This was very cutting edge for the She-Ra audience.

In 8th grade I had an amazing teacher. She asked us to write our own twist on The Three Little Pigs. Mine was about how they turned on one that turned out to be a serial killer. They ended up eating him. It was read outloud to the class. The ending wasn't exactly embraced. The kids said " gross" and wanted to know who would " write that". My name wasnt read and the class assumed it was a boy so I was beyond suspect. Still, it hurt. I had been proud of that story.

My teacher pulled me aside and told me it was " very good" and she thought it was funny and creepy in a good way. 8th grade wasn't fun so I walked on air for the rest of the day knowing I had actually done something that was " very good". I felt special and most importantly, seen and heard.

Now days I would have had been forced into a psych evaluation. ( Which might have been warranted ) Instead, the next year I was put in a class with other kids who enjoyed writing.

I thought I was pretty cool. I was possibly good at something that I enjoyed. The class started and within the first month it became very clear I was lacking in the technical part of writing. The creative part I could handle but the rest of it was a mess.

In 11th grade I was still in " advanced" English.( I don't like that term but it's what they called it.) I met my first critic.

He was a pompous ass and he was my teacher. I struggled to get him to like anything I wrote. My teachers had always liked my work. Even a particularly difficult teacher gave me some positive feedback. This guy, just wasn't interested. I finally got the balls ( ballsy? Huh? Yeah?) to ask him for advice on how to improve.

" I don't like your voice in your work," he told me.

I stared at him blankly. I can imagine my silly, 17 year old face looking at him in shock. scrunchy around my wrist, my Crow t-shirt, jeans and knock off Converse shoes. I was so awesome

" Why?" was all I could eek out.

" You write like people speak. You can't do that. It's not literature."

I left the classroom and started towards my locker. I felt like I'd just found out Santa wasn't real. The day dreams I'd had and the pride I'd had in my work was deflated. What I wrote wasn't literature. I knew I couldn't change my writing to fit in that mold. So it was pretty much over.

I obviously continued to write but not with the same goals in mind.

It's funny how stupid we are in high school. While I still think Mr.Assbag was tactless and rude, I completely missed what I should have learned from him. It took me about 15 years to get
it.

He was right. I don't write "literature" on his terms. There was a girl in my class who wrote flowery, beautiful, and detailed pieces. Technically perfect papers. They were advanced and used as example every week. I was envious. That being said, every story made me physically
uncomfortable. I'd close my eyes so nobody would see the eye roll lurking behind my lids.

I wasn't her audience and Mr.Assbag wasn't mine. I do write how I speak. I write exactly what's in my brain. Spelling is tough because I see some letters (and numbers) backwards so that makes it interesting. Technical sentence structure often doesn't match the run-on sentences in my head. I now know a lot of writers have a similar issue. That's why they thank their editors a billion times.

I'm not ever going to be Sinclair Lewis or Hawthorne. I doubt I'll write a book that a sober publisher would take a second look at. I'll keep writing though. Spelling errors, run-on sentences and all.

January, the real test

I dread January for the most part. It's a mix of germs and anti climactic holiday induced family get togethers. We brace for the holidays, hoping that the crazy won't be unleashed like it was the year prior. We always get through it and around the time when we're taking down the tree we realize November and December just flew by. Then comes January.

September school starts ( not fun but interesting), October is Halloween, November is Thanksgiving ( also my birthday, jot it down) and December is Christmas. Then January. It always feels drained, grey and cold. Not just the weather either. People are tired. People are hating themselves for being 4 days in on the weight loss resolution and eating a Snickers bar in the parking lot of the grocery store.

Don't you judge me.

As a teen I hated it because in our school district after the holidays came our new class schedule. Months of knowing your teachers, your classmates and what classes you could skip gone. All in the name of January. Oh sure, some will say in the name of education but I will argue that I have yet to use solder besides in 8th grade metals class. Of course my former teacher would say that's safer for everyone but I digress.

January in high school seemed to bring a rash and break ups. Something about getting over the holidays and being away from their significant other for 13 days made sixteen year old minds either re-evaluate or forget their relationships. It really could have been either. At that age our brains are like etch-a-sketches. If we're disturbed to much you have to start all over.

The halls would be dotted with clusters of crying teen girls and boys hitting their lockers. 32% of them would write bad poetry. 16% would get back together until another screen clearing shake. The rest were causalities of January.

I'm not even going to start about the weather. I'm in MN. I knew what I signed up for. That being said, it doesn't help.

So I sit here, waiting for January to end. On the plus side it's almost over.