Adventures in Writing, Part 1

    If the pen is mightier than the sword, why is it we give our children the ability to write? In the wrong hands, a clever turn of phrase can cause nothing but trouble. There is power in words, which is why we spend countless hours huddled over notebooks and computers writing and editing and reading and doing it all over again in the hopes that someone might read what we've written and possibly give us a five-star review on Amazon.

    We like the idea that our work can move people, but we weren't born with this knowledge. It took an audience to plant the seeds of our calling. Just as a lawyer can tell you about the first case she won, or a doctor can tell you about that first baby he delivered, a writer can tell you about the first time his writing got attention, when the reactions of his readers sparked that switch which made him say, “Wow, this is really kind of cool.”

    Or in my case, “What the hell have I done?”

    Ah, the plot thickens. I've made my introduction and now I'll tell my anecdote. Afterwards I'll tell you what I learned. Pretty standard stuff.

    I first learned the power of literature when I was a sophomore in high school. I did not write a scholarship-winning essay of what the Constitution meant to me, I did not write a letter to the editor that sparked the outrage of a nation, I did not write a best-selling teen novel about a special school for witches and wizards. I wrote on a the wall of a stall in the boys bathroom, and while the style I chose – long form prose – was new to this venue, its subject was that best left to toilet stalls. Yes, I wrote four chapters of soft core porn on the wall with a No. 2 pencil.

    The incident is still embarrassing to me, but, at the same time, taught me about the power of writing.

It starts when the principal of my small high school came up to me and asked if I wanted a part-time job as a janitor after school let out every afternoon. I would be locked in the school and for two hours I would sweep the halls, empty garbage cans and clean the bathrooms. For this, I would be paid minimum wage. Of course I said yes, not even wondering why I had been chosen out of just about everyone for this job. (I suppose now that my father may have had something to do with it, which makes my embarrassment even stronger.)

    One other guy was hired, but only for an hour after school. Yes, I got the work done and I think I did a good job. But we also would do things that probably would have been frowned upon by our boss; namely, the development of Hall Hockey in which a roll of masking tape served as puck and the giant brooms were the sticks.

    After the other guy left, I had the whole school to myself. This is a power that should not be granted to any 16 year old. I was a good kid, I was responsible. I also had, like most teenagers, a capacity to get myself in trouble.

    One day, I found myself in the boys bathroom in the science hall of the school. I was bored cleaning and I had a pencil in my pocket. So I took to writing a short story on the wall about my imagined sexual exploits, which was a joke because I was at least several years away from losing my virginity. Not thinking, I used one of the prettiest girls at school as my narrator's conquest. I didn't think about her in any way except as a character in a soft core porn story. Which means I didn't think about her boyfriend, the large football player.

    The next morning, there were a few murmurs about the story on the wall and I went along with everyone's enjoyment of the story. That evening, I wrote the second chapter on the same wall; again using one of the girls in the school as a character. Now my story was gaining traction. Guys were going out their way to make it to the bathroom to read my work. There was speculation about who was the author of this wonderful work. I remained silent, but it wasn't easy.

    I took a day off writing and there was a clear disappointment among my adoring public, so I wrote a third chapter; again, starring a girl at the school. By now, everyone knew of my writing, including girls who would sneak in to read it. I was the most popular kid at school, and I couldn't even enjoy it. I could remain silent no longer and confided in my fellow janitor assistant that it was me who was writing this grand porn novel on the wall of the bathroom.

    A fourth chapter was added, but this time I didn't use anyone's name. I actually introduced a conflict with the intent to develop a true story. But it was my last chapter, my cover had been blown. My compadre had told one person, who told another and soon the whole school knew it was me who had written those things on the bathroom wall. This brought me attention, but not the kind I wanted. Girls I had liked now looked at me different. At the time, I couldn't tell if that was a good thing or bad thing, but I knew it was a thing that made me uncomfortable. I also had to deal with the consequences of three girls who were the “stars” of my writing. These were real people I had hurt and I made my way to apologize to each one, and getting different reactions from all three.

    More worrisome were the boyfriends of these three girls, who had enjoyed my writing until their girlfriends were included in it. The boyfriends' reaction were less friendly than the girls themselves. “I'm going to kick your ass,” was a common theme among them. Although it should be noted that my ass was not kicked by any. Even then, I could talk myself out of that situation. It did matter, though. The damage was done. I was an odd kid to begin with and now everyone threw pervert on top of that. I already had problems talking to girls, and this just made it worse. I would always wonder if what I had done would be in the back of their minds every time they saw me, I knew it was in the back of mine.

    Even now, I see this as a low point in my life, but it also taught me some very important lessons. The first is that if you are doing something of questionable morals, ethics or legality, you should keep it to yourself. The second is that when you write about real people, you should always stick to the facts. Third, there is power in literature to make people angry.

    And lastly, sex will always sell.