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.
I never knew the whole story on that one...but I admire the fact that you can tell it now. At least you were writing. I don't have the confidence in my writing to even put it on a bathroom wall. You go, brother. :)
ReplyDeleteI've been making a living as a writer for 17 years and I still have a crisis of confidence every time I start something. Just keep writing and keep reading and screw everything else.
ReplyDeleteAnd, Rory, doing a damned fine job of writing...and also raising my grandkids and taking care of my daughter....
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