This is a post where it’d probably be best if you tune it out, especially if you consider yourself a writer. It’s bound to be filled with elitist, holier-than-thou assertations which have no basis in reality outside of my own warped brain.
One of the thinks [sic] I’ve been having of late about writing is going back to a lesson that I received somewhere around the age of… somewhere in the area of 1983-84 [whew, dodged that bullet]. I had a humanities teacher (which is really a fancy way of saying he taught us something other than all the part of speech normally assigned to “English” classes, but still fulfilled that requirement). George, I think, was a hippie back in the day — a published poet and insisted on being called by his first name and always grimaced when you slipped and called him by his surname appended with the common honorific of “Mister”. He ended up in later years being my creative writing teacher for two hours a day, something that I still wonder how we got away with (two hours a day of largely free creative writing and getting credit for it? OMFG!).Continue reading