I’m majoring in creative writing at Purchase College because I’d rather learn more about something that defines me than guarantee myself a high paying and meaningless career. I won’t say that the majority of the people in my classes created little besides awful, hollow, pseudo-philosophical stories about, like, 'life', but I will say that I am a vastly better writer than most of them. Of course, they could easily be better human beings or better guitarists. It's just that they suck at writing.
I don’t play any musical instruments like an artsy fartsy college schmuck is supposed to, but instead I like to write. I don’t like to write poems (or songs), either. Just regular old stories. Most people I come in contact with don’t understand, even though it’s a very basic form of writing. That fact may have something to do with how most of them don’t read, anyway. I made this collection of stories I wrote with a fancypants ‘zine’ cover, and whenever I gave a copy to someone, after they ask what it is and flip through it a little, they’d invariably say “A book?” with no attempt to conceal their savage disappointment. Watching the disappointment of a college student confronted by a new book is something I’m going to cherish for as long as I live.
They shouldn’t be complaining, though, reading is the fun part, that is, if only they could tear themselves away from their “I-pods” and “internet video games”. Writing is the part that sucks. I mean, I love it and am objectively unable to live in a world where I don’t write stories, but writing really winds you. I don’t mean writing in your trifling little blog, either. I mean writing a story, with an end, a beginning, and that third part in the middle that's called something I forget. Where you make up a bunch of jerks who talk to/have sex with/kill each other as the plot may require. Where you eventually die in poverty so society can enjoy your work by giving money to some ghoulish publisher instead of you. I can’t wait to make all those disappointed college students rich when I buy the farm and my work suddenly becomes immensely famous (all the college students who didn’t throw out my “zine” a little too early). And of course, they’ll all say, “Oh, yeah, I was great friends with Peter. In fact, he actually wrote this story based on something I told him!”
More things to read with no pictures