Thursday, June 1, 2017


One of the jerks who taught me 'writing' always wanted
specific localized details put in. As if it was his idea
to begin with. He didn't know anything. I introduced
the concept to him. The jerk. All that writing workshop
crap, where the fine little girl from St. Lawrence Place
starts to critique your work aloud because she takes 
offense at your portrayal of female freebooters on the
old Nebraska plains. I'll give her some dust in her
teeth. Boy do I detest workshops and the people who
deal them. Like a sunny-boy Summer camp for wiselings 
to learn from others aloud about what they really want.
So bogus, the whole game is a scheme. Anyway, this
instructor guy  -  who for all I know was better at
basketball or badminton than ever at writing, steals
my very basic, plain and simple idea, and starts
glomming it off onto everyone else like it was his.
Cheats and bastards, for pigeon's sake, can do better.
He constantly kept a salt-shaker on his desk, which
was another thing that bugged me, and he would eat
cold, boiled potatoes like they were apples, which was
okay, I guess, but he should have shared  -  or at least
brought in ten or twenty  -  with others. But, anyway,
he'd sprinkle salt on them as he ate them. So that each
new mouthful had a new coating of salt. Well, I guess 
I understood, but why bother. Enough with the salt
already. Then one day I spoke up and told him, aloud,
for everyone, as an example of 'putting curious, local
things into what you write,' about how heroin addicts
I knew, back when I did know them, would use those
same sorts of cold, boiled potatoes to practice with a
needle, how to shoot up. I guess they were like veins
or the body and all. I don't know. I always wanted to
eat them, but they'd always begin shooting up in them
instead. I guess it was water; I don't know. These were
serious addicts and all, you know, emaciated as it was,
and they sure could have used some potato ingestion
themselves. Anyway, the rest of the silly workshop
thought it was a great idea, the way I'd presented
something like that which they could gasp. The
teacher-workshop guy, he didn't seem impressed one
way or the other  -  just kept sprinkling his damn salt.
Probably just to bug me. Boy did I dislike him.

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