When people find out I went to school to be a writer, they suddenly think of me as this deep essayist that writes in nothing but metaphors and similes. Well, I did have to sit through those classes in order to get my fancy little Bachelor of Fine Arts. That doesn’t mean that I enjoyed them 100% of the time…
I am a simple person. Yes, you are permitted to make your jokes 🙂
I was never into deep books. It’s sad, I know, because I’m missing out on the joys of many great American novels. It started in eighth grade with my English class reading To Kill a Mocking Bird. Now this is a favorite among many of my friends and family. However, this book was forever ruined for me. Every word, every sentence, every page was dissected bit by bit by our English teacher. Every object had a purpose and we were going to find out what those were and be graded heavily on it. If we were wrong, our grades suffered.
The other part I absolutely HATED was having to construct an illustration of the town of Maycomb based on details in the book. Now, I’m sure some people would think of this as a fantastic project. It might have been an awesome freshman college writing course project. For this eighth grader who barely kept up with the rest of the class, it was a creative nightmare.
At first, I did alright. About four chapters in I had five or six pages marked explaining town details. I was pretty proud of myself. However, the chick who sat in front of me dug out her novel and revealed 23 bright pink post it notes marking all the town details she was able to find….crap!
Her fancy poster with perfectly traced drawing got her an A. My crappy poster with pieces of mangled construction paper glued to it got a C. Hey, I would have taken my time to make it look nice but I wasted a lot of time trying to find detail. I hashed together a rough idea the night before class.
Like I said, it was a nightmare.
Luckily, this wasn’t enough to turn me off from reading. However, I haven’t touched that book since. One day, I’m sure I will pay it another visit.
When it comes to my own writing, I never pay strict attention to ‘the other meaning’ behind the objects and scenery in my stories. Most of the ones my professors complimented me on were completely accidental. The novel I’m working on right now only has one symbolic object in it: windmills. I wanted to use them as a symbol for change.
I never wanted to write strictly for the smart and the highly knowledgeable. Quite frankly, I never got along with those folks. I simply want to write stories about people and events rather than write ten pages describing a lake to my readers and hope they understand how it symbolizes the fluidity of…AAHH! I can’t even B.S. that!!!
Let’s just say my writing method is similar to how I live my life: I am not interested in things. Things have no real meaning in my life, they simply assist me in living it. What matters the most are my experiences and who I share those experiences with.