Creative Writing

When I was in elementary school, Tuesday was the day we had to participate in ... Creative Writing. I hated it, not because I hated writing [obviously, I like it now -- and always did], but because we always were ASSIGNED topics. Aside from the first week of school following summer-vacation essay on "What we did during the summer", we always had some stupid topic the teacher had plucked from the depths of her "How to Teach Creative Writing" teacher's edition book.

When I was in third grade, we came back in from recess one afternoon to find the following written in the large, flawless script we recognized as our teacher's: Creative Writing Topic: "What will you be doing in one hundred years?" Being the type of kid to take everything literally, I thought to myself, "How stupid is this woman? Nobody lives to be THAT old!"

It never occurred to me that the purpose of the creative writing lessons was to encourge us to use our imaginations; to allow us express ourselves. Of course, burried in there somewhere was their plot to force us to practice our grammar, spelling and penmanship. For reasons I cannot explain, this particular topic offended me to my core.

Resentfully, brought out my trusty number 2 pencil and my ruled journal, meant to be used only for creative writing. I flipped slowly past the pages of previous topics, [and a few pages of cartoon drawings of spaceships, aliens and other things]. With each page, I would remember how grueling it was to churn out most of these stories. To me, "Creative Writing" was a mini-sweatshop not unlike those we had read about in Social Studies with the little kids forced to sew garments for pennies. The way I saw it, most of my entries were not written in graphite, but in my very own sweat, and blood. (At that point in my life I would have denied any tears resulting from having to agonize over writing the essays).

I stopped momentarily on one I had written the week after my dog had died. I think it was one of my best works to date. The teacher had even written a note across the top, which read, "This shows great maturity and insight on your part. I knew you had it in you!" I stared at this briefly, wondering why none of my other pages of prose ever warranted such positive remarks. Usually, she would simply make note of my grammatical errors or note that I should put more effort into my work.

Lost in thought, I neglected to notice she was standing behind me. WHAP! Startled by the sharp rap of the yardstick on my desktop, I dropped my journal and let out a girl-like shriek. This was found amusing my my peers; even though most of them were as surprised by the break in silence as I was. The teacher sternly reminded me that the creative writing segment of our day was limited in time and I should get to work.

I looked back at the topic board, "What will I be doing in one hundred years..." I thought--and I thought--and I thought. I was really not in the mood for creative writing. I wanted to be back outside playing kickball since our team was winning before the whistle was blown to come in from our afternoon outing. I got lost in thought, reliving what I felt was an ultimate moment in athletic history. Again, I was reminded that if I "had that much to think about I had that much to write about." She also asked why my page was still blank.

Looking at my page, I thought, "It isn't BLANK, I wrote the title." This jab of encouragement on my teachers part only firmly cemented my reluctance to write about such a stupid topic. I decided that I didn't care if I did get a zero for the assignment. I wrote:

Punctuated with a large, dark period for emphasis. I proudly set my pencil down and continued my daydreaming right where I had left off.

I noticed her, making her 'teacher-rounds', lurking from desk to desk. Peering over the shoulders of her little sweatshop workers. Giving input where she felt it was needed. As she approached me, I (unsuccessfully) tried to become invisible. She whisked my notebook from the desk and scowled."Maybe you did not understand the assignment," she said.

She summoned a boy in the class come sit with me to assist me. He had horn-rimmed glasses and a crew cut - and looked very much like today's comic strip character, Dilbert would have a child. He prattled on about flying cars, metallic shoes, flying jet packs, and food that was just in the form of pills that once you added water to would be full course meals.

I was staring at him, in awe of how ignorant he sounded. I said, "She didn't say to write about what the world would be like. She asked me what I would be doing in a hundred years. I am NOT going to live to be one hundred and eight!" With that, I refused to write any more.

I ended up taking another envelope home to my parents that day; but I did it this time without any fear.

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10 July - perotheus.com
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