Other Things Worthy of Your Time
My Plea
1/16/04
A few years ago, I realized I had a bit of a talent for putting things into words. At the time, I didn’t think it was merely a bit.
I used to criticize anything written before my time. Fewer people had the skills for writing back then I said; the competition wasn’t as fierce. I had, who would become, one of my favorite teachers willing to give me the time of day to debate on the matter. I said I could say what I wanted because that’s what critics do. He said I hadn’t lived long enough to have an opinion on anything, especially considering the exaggerated one I had of myself. He was right, for the most part. It just took a long time for me to realize it.
Still, he saw something in my work that I don’t now, looking back. Maybe he had some odd faith in the concept of potential.
He married a knockout from a town far away and left our school to sell tires at Wal*Mart or something. It didn’t matter as I had plans to move back east and the only other person who he regarded, possibly in terms of genuine talent, was graduating.
The three of us parted ways the last day of school in my Sophomore year. “Well we can’t just stand here with our thumbs up our asses,” he said. “Give me some skin.”
He was smooth like that—had a receding hairline and a pitiful need for glasses, liked Metallica and defended the sexuality of one such Lars Ulrich, which was the source of most of the tension between us—but smooth like that.
I saw him once after, at a football game, and was with my friend who happened to be the third part of the trio in that last acknowledgement we had that fateful day. Didn’t mean much though, as he’d drifted out of my life and turned the page on his place in my story. The importance he held, as a teacher, had to do with the effect he had on me. My story has always been about me.
The only competition I ever had in school came from the good friend, and third of the meaningless trinity, who graduated that year. Much of my development came from the time we spent distracting each other from actually being productive. Strangely, when the duo was severed, and we were kept from working together at school, I evolved faster on my own. People told me he held me back. I think he instead helped me find the person no one could.
I was immortal. We were unstoppable.
It’s been awhile since I’ve spoken to him too though, after being inseparable for years. I suppose it’s because I needed to progress further, and so needed the independence. Maybe he did hold me back in a way. Because his opinion was the only other that ever had any weight in changing my mind. Many times he was the mind that ruled the mass—a controlling personality worthy of regard.
How nice for him, and humbling for me. How fitting.
With a new year would come a new teacher—that was a given. I just didn’t know it would still be in Montana and still within the criteria of biased Western ideology, and that he’d be a ‘Great Western’ quack himself.
Dr. Bridger was his name. He’d been a college professor in different institutions across the country (we heard)—and had the lifestyle to show for it. Somehow he retired to the ranks of online tutoring (for hundreds on the hour, as we also understood) and found his way to our corner of the world.
He was the waning relic of the times I ridiculed the year before. He preached the success of authors and minds that had come before—just as everyone else, for the sake of blind immortalization of the past—and probably because he could have been one of them, in terms of coming from another time.
Just so I don’t emanate the same sort of insolence I’d tried so hard to pry myself away from, I’ll say this: there should certainly be a degree of respect reserved for the past. The minds and times that came before us govern the way we go about proceeding any further, not to mention are completely responsible for the fact we’re where we are anyway. But having said that though, and because of those details, I’ve learned to believe that you can’t blindly immortalize the past without first weighing the improvements of the present, and the possibilities of the future. It’s faulty to neglect looking back at the things we’ve done, but equally dangerous to only look behind, when the idea is to continue moving forward.
I learned the art of flattery that year, writing two essays (in particular) praised for their subject matter—things I’d happened to always question. One was a piece about the minds of history withstanding the tests of time, in any era, regardless of the Populous to impede them. It was probably the first step in what would eventually result in a Heissey Award—which was given to the single-most ‘impressive’ male and female student in school. It came with a $150 paycheck, which I was more interested in at the time. Sadly, I think I ended up blowing most of it slowly on “celebrating”…every single night off, every single weekend, and eventually even in-between, if you know what I mean. Funny how an honor supposedly bestowed because of intellectual effort directly aided the constant killing of brain cells that would ensue.
The other work was a short ‘epic’ about the advantages and accomplishments of Montana literature and personality—blatant kiss-ass material. It was published later in the year, at my teacher’s request, of course.
Both were well-written I suppose, but written to please, and didn’t really mean anything to me. Along with flattery, I learned the art of humbling myself, and how the two go hand in hand.
I did get one thing from Bridger though, besides the ability to find respect for people who might hold authority: he indirectly introduced me to, what had been, the nameless course my life had resembled. It was the idea of Objectivism.
"My philosophy, in essence, is the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of this life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute."
-Ayn Rand
One day, Mrs. Bridger’s little boy, as he liked to call himself, pulled me out of class because he said there was something that came up I might be interested in. It was the Ayn Rand Fountainhead essay contest, and the deadline was approaching. He said that it was a respectable institution offering a very respectable amount of prize money. He said he wasn’t telling just anyone about the contest, because he thought it would be flooded with entries anyway, and didn’t want the sort of crap that our school would probably produce, contributing to the congestion. He didn’t actually say this, but, you know, in so many words. There would be an 800 page novel I’d have to read in the next couple months, on a topic that I might not find all that interesting, but he knew I’d be motivated well enough simply by the possible earnings: 200 $50 semifinalists, fifty or so $100 finalists, ten $1000 third places, five $2000 second places, and a grand mack-daddy of ten grand.
He lied, or changed his mind or something, and told the rest of the class the next day—to avoid accusations of discrimination or something. He did, however, add the stipulation that he would grade all the papers to be sent, and that they would have to be ‘A’s to his standards.
Just for the record, as his standards go, out of probably twenty large-scale writing assignment (essays, stories, poems, etc.) turned in for grades over the course of the year, I received probably only three or four ‘A’s. Never a B, never anything less, but a plethora of A accompanied minuses. Oddly enough, the Fountainhead essay I compiled wasn’t one of the three or four. Not long after getting into the pages of The Fountainhead, it became my goal alone, and my project. I’d finally let him get a copy of my final draft on the last weekend before the week of the deadline, for some much needed revision on a topic I’d come to feel so strongly about, I was having trouble saying what I wanted to say, at least so to do it justice.
He never did get around to reading it that weekend anyway, as he was like that. Instead, I spent the weekend developing the ability to self-edit better than probably anyone could do otherwise for me, without having to first change the methods I applied in writing anything. It’s an ability, along with my chronic tendency to procrastinate dangerously, that I’ve come to live by.
The day before it needed to be sent out, I brought him a sealed copy, ready to send, and a copy of the revised edition, for him to see. He would send the sealed copy, un-graded, and have little more to say than, “Nice essay, man,” accompanied a speechless grin, about the essay that I had succeeded in bringing the quality he requested, all by my lonesome.
We weren’t as close after that, as he became more of a vessel to me to get new contests and opportunities, and I became more of a vessel to him to go and do them—as with any teacher, his name would accompany any accomplishments, so I suppose I could relate with his motives. Being one of the self-proclaimed ‘American Critters’ he was though, I’m sure he was also happy to help. Whatever the case, I’d gotten to where I felt like I wouldn’t really need him anymore, and I’m sure he took wind of the vibe, because I’d become blatantly obvious about it.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s still respect involved for other people, especially for authority figures, but I fully feel like I’ve come to the point where the only direction my development can go is its own. I’ll also say that even if I don’t need the likes of Burgoyne or Bridger anymore, I never could have done anything without them initially. That’s wherein lies the value of the past.
Now there’s still the matter of the only other person on the planet who still holds face at influencing me in terms of productive achievement. It’s been a couple months since I’ve talked to him in real time, and a mere e-mail in that time as the only exchange between us whatsoever. He’d been amidst deciding what place he had in his family and his own self in the world—or a procrastination to the matter of equal effect. The last I talked to him we’d been at a new summit of questioning the motives of one another and if we even had a genuine friendship at all. When I’d first moved back east again, I’d gone on certain foray in finding out what his thoughts were of God and the great Ever After, perhaps in an attempt to secure a friendship I felt was worth at least preserving for eternity. You know, just meant a little to me. Just before we stopped conversing though, it had gotten to the point where he was challenging my integrity with the same old cheap shots he knew that could cut me: questioning my talent, questioning my ego. The last time we spoke, it was on the same note as any day would be, laughing, ridiculing, and confiding, as normal, with only the miniscule amount of tension that always went along with it. I’d sent him a copy of the newest addition to the only subject matter we’ve combined our efforts on, which he was to finish. When we spoke in the e-mail, he’d lost the copy or something.
Far from staying away for the sake of a bad note, we’re still colleagues, still peers, still friends. It’s just another usual lapse I’ve used to move forward—call it a break. I won’t say I don’t miss the escape from the real world I usually got when we did…whatever the hell we did…but I can’t say I didn’t need the time off from it. It’s like he said once: “Don’t change your plans for my sake. Go find your life, and I’ll live mine. They’ll be time when we’re done.”
Or in so many words.
So that’s where I was at when I came here, to this place, and this class. I hoped that it would be evident that I wasn’t a virgin to the concept of writing, but, since this still doesn’t seem like the case at times, from the people around me, and as the title of this paper itself can help to clarify: this is my plea.
As far as Creative Writing classes go, this is the first, but I’m afraid it wasn’t what I was expecting. I thought I’d get to come in here and be spoon-fed different topics or genres, and be asked to see what I could come up with. I guess I wanted to turn it into another other petty competition for myself. Instead, I was really being taught the things I’d already seen and known. It wasn’t so much the terminology—which was new—but we’ll never use that anyway unless we seek some career in teaching other people the same terms that they’ll never use, unless they seek some career in, etcetera. It’s just that when you light-heartedly pursue a certain thing long enough, you start to notice things, even if you haven’t necessarily been taught them. There is such thing as learning by doing after all.
This was the first time I actually got into a Writing class too. I missed both of Burgoyne’s (well, made it into one, which was then strangely transformed into ‘Montana Literature’ after we’d all signed up), and Bridger didn’t have any. I don’t know how much they could have offered, as they were both preachers of how people with something should do it their way, as long as it’s right. They always let me be, so I’m not sure what that means.
As far as learning new things, it was the same old: I learned new things to disagree with. I don’t see the sense in using words that only the exclusive understand versus using figures of speech and forms of phrasing everyone can relate to. I’m not against vividity (my word, thank you very much), and find it more bearable as my vocabulary grows, but I still don’t think using a resplendent word can make already beauteous phrasing any more svelte than it already is. And utterly repugnant prattle can never be rosy anyway.
I also don’t see the direct path between good writing and good thinking. Sure, good writing can get you thinking, but I’ve found the route to getting productive thought down on paper to be one that’s entirely too rocky. It has been getting easier though, so I won’t say this class hasn’t done anything.
As for entry level experience, that’s that. As for where I am now, I’ve been finding myself as a writer for years, and dealt with most of the things other people in the class are expressing in their personal reflection presentations, so the problems and solutions are nothing new to me—as of quite awhile ago.
There are still imperfections that plague me just like anyone though, and the fact they may be more advanced difficulties mean I’m having more trouble than anyone. Now if I start to sound like I think I’m on some higher level than most of my peers, well, it’s cause I am. I think I put it best with Kristin when I asked: how would you feel if you were a musician, or an artist, or an athlete, or something, and had put in that much extra work to be ahead of the game and ahead of the competition, yet still included along with everyone else around you, that hasn’t come as far, or at least not put in any of the same work? My arrogance is entirely undirected, because the arrogant truth is, I don’t concern myself with the people around me. Besides my teachers that is, and that’s why I may have a less than pleasing aura about me towards them, of which I apologize. As with teachers in the past though, I mean no disrespect, it’s just that teachers, while I’m ready to admit are much more experienced, and, yes, even sometimes more talented, I feel closer to them, and maybe willing to perceive them as competition, because of it.
If you look at it, I’m a high school senior, in mere days an adult, and in mere years a college graduate, perhaps more. And when that’s the case, I’ll be a part of the working, competing Populous, and suddenly worthy of at least asking the question of who I’m really better or worse than. Think about it: when it’s time to ask that question, we—the teacher and the pupil—will suddenly be equals, at least while the answer is pending, and you never know who’ll be humbled or flattered when we find out the results.
That’s what took me this long to realize: there are very few of us that truly mean something as high school and even college students, and, out of those, even fewer that will—or even should—be recognized. Who we are now is a generation of prep-society people, just like the generation before us, and every generation before them collectively educated and searching for the same sort of general improvement of the population as a whole. We really are meant to think and not speak, because, even if we can, it’s a waste of energy, and any sort of matured arrogance is pointless, for the time being. We’re an organism that needs to develop to a certain point before it can be of any value. We’re still developing. We’re part of a living machine that needs all the pieces to function. We’re still being assembled. That’s why we as peers, as much as I’m bothered to admit it, are, nevertheless, equals, regardless of any extra individual work or God-given advantages. Where we are now, we’re given the same opportunities to grow just as fast as everyone around us, and sometimes more. There’s a much larger-scale rat race out there beyond our boundaries and ‘equal opportunity’ though. I guess I’m just waiting for the signal to go.
There is something different about this year, and it affected the way I approached the class. Looking back at any of the things I wrote, even last year, they seem forced, like they’re purpose was nothing more than a grade. Now, to write something is to mark it as the best I can bring: the best of my talents, the best of me. Anything less offered is an insult to whatever audience I have, and to myself. Youthful arrogance is turning into pride, and the combination of the two only kindles my confidence.
I look for the opportunity to showcase myself now, whether it’s in the classroom for the sole purpose of showing off my writing, or in some other setting, getting something off my chest, impressing my opinion, using words and speech that I put together. Good writing can make a hearty presentation, and that does wonders for what others have to say about you.
Even though I’m trying my best not to listen.
NOTES
There were a couple of things that mattered with this: one was when my good friend that I eluded to in the piece read it and told me he'd been mad for a good ten minutes before he embraced it accepted it because he wondered when I'd become a 'better writer than he was'. I appreciate the notion. The second thing was the feeling of the presentation in the class altogether. It felt like everything was coming full circle, in so many ways. People all over--whoever read the paper--were gaining respect for me almost automatically, and sometimes even jealousy. I once told someone who had been in the class with me that I enjoyed it because we'd just gone through a class telling us how to write, and it would finish off with everyone getting shown how it's done.
I included a bunch of stuff with this, quotes, excerpts, and what not. I'll include them here too:
- - p; - - -
Finally, a few of the favorite things Yours Truly came up with over the course of the Semester:
“(Regarding online journals and diaries): Many of them are the normal ‘I walked my dog today, so now I’m going to go buy the new Beach Boys album and hang myself’.”
“Even if you start writing something for yourself, the fact that you’re writing it automatically makes it something more for someone else. Just because your dusty, old notebook has stayed locked in a chest all your life doesn’t mean it’s not going to see the light of day after you’re gone. Words are just words, and they rarely do justice to the thoughts that precede them. Thoughts are what will always be yours—and only yours if that’s what you want. Words belong to the world.”
“Remember: it’s the whole pride and ignorance is my greatest weakness thing—it’s all about me and I’m not even sure about myself.”
“(Regarding the power of public opinion): Whether it’s righteousness, writing, acting, reading, or whatever, there are things that have become good, not because they are, but because they are said to be.”
“(Regarding Robert Ruark’s The Old Man and the Boy): Well-written for a hick-author by doing best what hick-authors do best: tell a story through ‘swirling fish’ and ‘lonely swamp rivers’.”
“Must have been a crack dream.”
“Oh how I love to please others, as pleasing others…pleases myself.”
“Pure independent thinking is a myth, and true independent action is realizing that.”
“(Regarding death and Vonnegut’s stories about coming ‘unstuck in time’): In a matter of speaking though, it’s a good way to look at life. When someone is gone, why concentrate on the time they’ll never be around again? but instead think of the moments they’re still around, by remembering.”
“Cruise control works best in smoothly-flowing traffic.”
“As a true poster child of ignorance, I can truly say that one of the best feelings in the world is knowing you’re right, and one of the worst is finding out you’re not.”
“(Regarding the Red Sox): We may complain about management, hopeless roster moves, and failing farm teams. We may flourish through good times and give up when we should have a long time ago. We may sit on the Monster and pay a hundred bucks for a crappy seat believing there are no crappy seats in the whole park, and do it every single day of every single season, knowing, after this long, the fat kid with the annoying close-up was probably right when he said, “the Red Sox will not win a World Series in my lifetime.” That doesn’t mean we won’t raise our fat little kids to be Red Sox fans and not see it in their lives either.”
“(Regarding the Wayne Lyon character from Life in a Cardboard Box): Those were the nice places, the places he had what he needed and could still be alone with his contentment. He wanted nothing more from life than what he needed, and sometimes even that was too much.”
“You can still fill half a brain with thoughts, and no one’s ever failed to find a passion in their life at least half-heartedly. You know what they say about a love lost. Well then isn’t loving something just a little better than never having loved it at all?”
“He wanted to live, not only past that point, but finally, for the first time in his life, for the rest of his life.”
“It's poison, like spiders and snakes show God's subtle forms of control.”
“By way of the usual schoolgirl grapevine, we got together.”
“Not nearly the celebrity in my own mind that I am now.”
“Shoots himself to the tune of a song.”
“I’ll find you in the stars.”
“They were long gone too and any fishing holes left were covered by ten feet of thicket on every side, like a testament to keeping the place sacred.”
“It wasn’t till I met up with the best saved for last that I found myself realizing I’d really missed anything that much at all. I remember she was driving off in a new car she’d gotten while I was gone and I only realized it was her in time to catch a glimpse of her catching a glimpse of me.
The next time she’d drive by, we made sure we knew we saw each other. Locked eyes, slightly driving onto the curb, cute little wave, unbearable smile. Yeah, I see you too.”
“ ‘You’ve changed. You’re not like you used to be.’ ‘Yeah, but back then I wasn’t who I thought I was’.”
“I listened to the music, and think it was some Madonna song. Actually, it might not have been, and probably wasn’t. Whatever the case, it was a slow song, because that’s the only kind to dance to. There’s no way to look like an idiot when you’re swaying back and forth like the elegant tree branch in the breeze that you are—a tree branch that happens to be swinging to the tune of a song… What a talented breeze this must be.”
“Ah, yes, lack of grace should be punishable by death. Not really, but, you know, really.”
“(Regarding Mrs. Bane): Explicate…I lost you at explicate.”
And, lastly, words of wisdom I also came up with, in the same time:
“Self-pity is the wrong kind of selfish.”
“Love in life, not in high school.”
“Shallow is being judgmental of the quality of someone based on how good they look in pictures.”
“It’s not a matter of what you believe, but how faithfully you believe in it.”
“Tomorrow may never come, so sleep while you can. I am.”
“The key to success is breaking the bonds of circumstance. Beggars will stay beggars, and kings will remain kings, but the ones who mean something are the beggars who became kings.”
“The real world is much sweeter, and a lot more tragic.”
“The things we’ll never know are the most amazing of all.”
“Patience is the greatest virtue, because it lets you wait for all the other ones you’re bound to like better.”
“Life rules, and boobies.”
- - - - -
I’m in my happy place now. Leave me alone.