Sometimes, when I'm alone and bored, I get this overwhelming urge to write. Most of the time, it's all a ruse to make passers-by think that I'm busy and somewhat important. I get a lot of silly notions of becoming an acclaimed writer. I don't mean in the sense of becoming an international best-seller (although raking in that much dough would be nice) but rather in the sense of being known to have my own style, my own unique way, of telling a story.
But I can't, for the life of me, write anything worthwhile. In a quest to cure myself of the curse of remaining a newbie writer for life, I determinedly enrolled myself in a creative writing class (CW 10 to be exact). My professor said I had "good command of the language" and that she "appreciates my effort at trying out new and creative ways of presenting time and plot." I think it was her way of being nice while trying to tell me that I'm a genius at dotting my i's and crossing my t's but at the end of the day, I'm the only one who has any idea what I'm talking about.
To complete the course I had to write something to be workshopped by the whole class. Being workshopped meant making a zillion copies of your work, and preparing yourself to watch it be torn apart by the rest of the would-be writers who enrolled in the course. It would undoubtedly be placed under the guise of "constructive criticism". Our professor kept reminding us not to take whatever words were to be exchanged personally. Uh-huh. Sure. As if complete strangers (okay, maybe not COMPLETE strangers) telling me that my work wasn't worth the paper it was written on isn't personal. However, I was willing to take her advice no matter how misguided.
I came prepared on the day my piece was to be workshopped. I was confident. I was more than just a little bit excited. I had written the best piece of literature since the Bible. I was ready to shine and be hailed as a master.
Nobody booed. Nobody made a snide remark. Nobody did much of anything except stare at their desks and think of new ways of shuffling their shoes. Nobody had any idea what I was trying to talk about. Of course, my professor came to save the day with the brilliant question, "How many characters do you have in here?"
It's kind of sad really when all I've ever wanted is to see something I've written truly move somebody.
And so I find myself here with a half-eaten donut and a half-full glass of iced tea, writing to look busy and maybe just a wee bit important as passers-by steal a glance at my direction perhaps wondering what I'm being so intent on. Ha! If only they knew that I've already put Mona Lisa'a smile into words, that I've captured the essence of our existence on paper, that I have created the supreme masterpiece and that after my hard work all I drew from the rest of the world was blank stares.
This is my true story.