I know what you’re thinking: “That Lindsay is really slacking; she forgot to write something last Wednesday and it looks like she is going to fail us again this week. For shame.” I offer my sincerest apologies to anyone who genuinely had that thought process. I hardly expect anyone to follow with such faithfulness (except for my mom, Hey K$!!) but I must beg your forgiveness and understanding. It is quite difficult to come up with an entertaining and somewhat original thought process, much less every single week.
This is one of the main reasons I never thrived in the art of creative writing. Quite the opposite, . I took one creative writing course in my English-degree-obtaining college career and it was way too much pressure. First of all, the professor was a creeper (and he had that disgusting white spittle accumulation in the corners of his mouth when he spoke too enthusiastically) who seemed to think that only our innermost secrets were worthy of an A. Secondly, aside from being dumped at prom (yes, readers, that Lifetime special actually happened to someone), I have lived a relatively trauma-free life so I wasn’t exactly brimming with inspiration for the class assignments. I expressed my “vanilla lifestyle” hesitation to the teacher and he adamantly argued that there must be something, some story deep within, wanting to be told in my own special way.
Well folks, I thought and I thought, and then I thought some more. With the help of my creatively like-minded friend, Josh, I decided to write my poem about the train that passed by my house in Remerton. His name was Oscar. Oscar was ridiculously loud. I knew this not because of my house’s close proximity to the train tracks (because after about a week of living next to the train tracks, I didn’t even notice Oscar go by anymore), but because everyone who ever came to my house thought it necessary to exclaim how loud the train was, as if until that moment I’d been completely unaware. However, I decided that, in order to add a twist to the otherwise mundane, by omitting the fact that he was a train and just writing that “Oscar” comes by my window at night and wakes me with his constant screams, the ultimate result would be far more interesting than “that poem about the girl who lives near the train tracks.”
Ultimately, I was right. My teacher thought I had some intense peeping-Tom issue in my neighborhood and gave me an A. I was pretty darn proud of my poem and I still have a copy, which I go back and read sometimes when I need to remember how to embellish a story in order to add a little spice to an otherwise mediocre situation. I use that technique today still. I work 40 hours a week, pay nearly all my own bills, am building a 401k, and go to bed by 10 p.m. nearly every night, all at 24 years old. I live a relatively vanilla life. But boy howdy, do I know how to add spice to the moments that matter!