One reason I love to write is because of a comment written by an English professor on an essay I wrote on Kate Chopin's The Awakening in one of my college literature courses.
"Not focused. However, I love your writing style. Read a couple of times because I enjoyed it. Find it hard to believe you may not have read the book?"
I had not read the book.
For you The Awakening fans, I tried, but I wasn't in the mood for it. Too woeful for me at that moment. That moment certainly being a night or two before the essay was due, I'm sure. I may or may not have been drunk at the time. Freshman year and all. No shame. I've always meant to go back and read that damn book. However.
The power of constructive criticism. This was some of the first feedback I had received on my writing and I just adored that line "love your writing style." I didn't particularly like this professor, so I got a kick out of that comment all the more.
My goal immediately became to be able to write about something I knew nothing about and to do it in such a way that my writing style would be enough to camouflage my ignorance. I always love a challenge:
Learn how to write out of my ass and do it with such flair that you don't notice the smell.
How'm I doin' so far?
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By the way, I just walked into the living room and Pants is playing some kind of game with Cheeks involving three overturned cups and a handful of dice that looks suspiciously like Three-Card Monte or the Shell Game.
Er, do you think it could be possible that I'm teaching the wrong value system here?
Let me guess: Pants is the dealer. Cheeks is the shill. Mom is the mark.
Welcome to the first day of the rest of my life.
Writer. Mother.
