Today, the Duck felt like recounting a memory that took place when I was in high school. Since middle school or even earlier, I had always liked writing stories. My stories from my ducklinghood were truly abysmal, to be honest, but that didn’t stop me from trying. And then, sometime in high school, I had the opportunity to take a creative writing class. Needless to say, I was really excited to finally learn how to become a better writer, but things did not go as expected.
I have since taken another creative writing class in college, proving that I was not wrong in expecting such a class to teach one how to write interesting fictional stories, complete with well-developed characters and a good plot. In high school, however, my creative writing teacher only allowed us to write essays. Okay, you might be thinking. Were we at least allowed to be creative with our essays?
You see, we learned about a good deal of methods for writing essays, but none of them were exactly what one would call creative. And for each essay type, you had to follow a strict formula, and if you strayed from it at all, the teacher would get rather aggravated and write all kinds of frustrated messages all over my work, reminding me to follow her instructions exactly.
Honestly, I’m a bit surprised I managed to pass that class. (Honestly, I would have never taken it if I had known we would only be writing essays.) Though one could say I was being rather stubborn, I kept trying to be creative with every essay I wrote, despite my teacher’s many objections against the idea of actually being creative in a creative writing class.
Almost as baffling was one of the last essays we wrote, which was to be a written tour of our house. (I know, weird. How exactly is that an essay?) And as usual, though I tried as hard as I could to please my teacher, I couldn’t resist a little bit of creative flair that ultimately lowered my grade. Sheesh, I never knew creative writing was so unforgiving!