Through many years of schooling, I had suffered the criminally terrible book choices and assignments as one of many in a hollow crowd who may otherwise have been primed and eager to soak up all that could be read. The public education system left many with an insidious parasite, the false idea that reading and writing are for nerds who have no sense of quality beyond the cover picture and the “New York Times Bestseller” endorsement. I used to believe every last word the parasite whispered into my ear, refusing to read anything for my unwillingness to suffer the worthless feelings of countless non-existent men, women, and children, all abominations of their real life counterparts, each tarnishing the banner of literacy, burning it in full view of all classes. This Anti-literature was only the tip of the iceberg. Behind the initial barrage of humorless comedy were the assignments that each and every last demoralized soul had to wallow in for fear of failing. I sat through all of this attempting only just to survive the vollies of refuse at each paper, turning it in with only the expectation of C’s and mediocrity.

One example of such an assignment came in 7th grade in which I had to write a short story using some specific type of narrative (First-person, Third-person omniscient, etc). I had no designs on writing well or, for that matter, succeeding. I just wanted to grind out a paper and be done with it. Whatever plans I was going to have were in the future, merely a series of distant blips yet to come into the radar horizon. With no real aim, I inevitably squandered the opportunity to improve as a writer and as a student by writing the most unintelligible drivel possible. I scored a C- with no personal fanfare or surprise and carried on with my day as if this were entirely acceptable. I did not care for writing; it was a skill arbitrarily forced on me by a worthless school system with enigmatic policies. I learned to hate reading and writing because all of what I had been told to read was painful to the point of being unreadable, therefore the writing, by extension, was painful to the point of being un-writable.

Every assignment held some new barb waiting to cut down my will to type at any second with one terrible book and subsequent paper after another flying forth in a seemingly infinite stream which would annihilate whatever good feelings I had had that day. If I had previously found something amusing my humor would wilt and crumble when I would remember that there was an English teacher with an eager inbox waiting to receive the latest papers with a decrescendo of enthusiasm. Time marched forward and the mushy anti-literature droned on. I could only grow impatient and wear paths in the carpet every time there was a writing assignment to do. For me, however, the synapses would soon align and the details click.

One day I emerged from the ruins of my morale to see a great aurora beyond my immediate obstacles. My senses had burst forth from the pit of my gut to behold the objectives of a future in which I envisioned that I would serve my country. I realized that I could not simply accept suffering through the same old tango every time that a paper or assignment of any type had come. I learned that life will throw its worst at me wherever I go, near, far, and on all fronts. I wanted instead to make those papers vanish into the gradebook with stellar marks and to develop a moral ethic of treating writing assignments, big and small, terrible and tall, as if my future depended on them. If I wanted to succeed in the world, I first had to realize the qualities of a good writer. From then on I knew that it was imperative that I learn to walk it off and plow through every last bristling heap in order to write the best possible papers. I began simply to put my mind far out of reach of the tendrils of morale drain. From one dastardly assignment and book to the next, I learned to write better, seeing beyond sight a glorious future! My grades in English only ascended as it dawned on me that, if I am ever to succeed as a writer and person, I must avoid thinking too hard about how loathsome the assignments are. After that point, I had deciphered the writing portion of the life success matrix and realized that writing doesn’t have to involve pulling teeth or fingernails; it only needs a little patience, to focus on my long term goal of commissioning in the US Military, and to start typing regardless of whatever mental anguish is being experienced.

One book, however, would test my will to the last ounce. “A House of Sand and Cards” was the title on the front, there to greet any and all unsuspecting readers who might just think that it’s some B grade fiction that is as half decent as the “critics” say so on the back cover. Deeper within however lies a behemoth, composed of half baked and fully frontal sexualization and a lack of inspired storyline.. When I received an assignment to write about it I knew that, no matter what it was, it wasn’t going to be a bed of roses but a bed of rose spines instead. Fortunately for me, I was at least motivated enough to start. It was not that the assignment was difficult or that it had any special requirements, merely that it was tedious, scouring the putrid corners of the book’s pages just to find the right quote to use as textual evidence or to piece together why one of the characters had done something so insanely stupid as to be worthy of a Darwin award many times over. After the dust settled, I had completed the required rough draft (which had the consistency of sandpaper) and a final paper, in which I had mostly overwritten my previous draft to make something intelligible from its ashes. I managed to finish the assignment with an A- and was sufficiently pleased that I had survived the mental torture of mushy fiction once more and that I had triumphed in spite of a lack of morale. Terrible assignments have not bothered me since.

It was incomprehensible to my former self, but it wasn’t writing that had caused my many disappointed groans and ruinous headaches, but my inability to ignore how terrible the assignments were. In order to smash through them in such a way that victory would only be a matter of cranking out a paper, I had to ignore the pain and revise each paper down to its bones and then back up into a fleshed out work of uncompromising brilliance. I had embraced the suck so thoroughly that it had become fused to the core of my being, ready to consume all bullshit so that it may be predigested for my viewing pleasure, and sanity. Whatever my end goals were, to improve as a writer, to get good enough grades to get on a commissioning track in the US military, I came to know that good writing was something far too important to shirk, however dull or agonizing. Many more however, even in college, still are painfully unaware of this critical fact. Some still struggle the way that I did and fail to grasp just how important it is to be able to write and communicate professionally and creatively. However someone may feel about a writing assignment, one must have the ability to deal with it professionally so that they may carry on with life without being hassled by whatever doors the assignments guard. In order for one to succeed in life, it is imperative that they be able to put up with less than favorable conditions so that they can absorb the necessary lessons and apply them to future job or social life related work.

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