This is not an article on how to write. I don't think that I could really help much with that, at this point in my life. I want to write about writing sometimes, and about myself, but not about how you should do something. Self-centered, but not narcissistic.
This is about creative writing class.
I had already started trying to write in a more serious sense once I had started high school. I dallied around with fan fiction, then migrated quickly onto ideas fit for comic books or graphic novels. That quickly became furry as I burgeoned into my current creepy furfag self. Or blossomed. Maybe it was a burgeoning blossom.
I didn't take advanced placement classes my senior year, so I ended up with enough spare time for two fluff classes and a study hall. Creative Writing was one of those fluff classes, not because creative writing is fluff, but because the class was.
Most of the kids in the class were there because they needed to take a class; their parents probably hoped they were 'creative' and not just 'dysfunctional'. I found this irritating because I actually wanted to write about things. I quickly found that I loved to write poetry, which I have completely left behind in my teenage years. I would rather not subject the world to that particular talent. It's 2011. Poetry has, aside from song lyrics, remained as only an overly-artistic anachronism. (Gentlemen, prepare your rotten tomatoes.)
When tasked to write in our writing journals, the class spent the time chatting and gossipping. I wrote rambling, philosophical, sociological rants about my classmates, about how they were going to fuck themselves by screwing around so much when they could be learning something. I felt like an old man, but I really felt it. I resented the fact that they all had nice houses and lived in an upper-middle class white neighborhood, even the ones destined for alternative high school. Alternative High School is kind of like The Democratic People's Republic of North Korea, in that the name does not describe the state.
I did manage to squeeze out a story that got into the school creative book thing that came out with yearbook every year. It was about a guy who turned into a werewolf, and was going to be taken away to some sort of institution to spend the rest of his life (presumably this happened routinely.) On his way there, the man assigned to chaffeur him had a change of heart and threw away his cell phone instead of handling the transaction that would seal the werewolf's fate. That was a plot device we had to include; something about a phone call.
My mom read it and told me, "That's totally your life!"
I found that very weird.
Sex, Death, and Other Bodily Obsessions
I got into college because I was a white male with a good grade-point average, although the fact that most of my father's side of the family either went there or graduated from there certainly helped.
In my freshman English course, we read, "Brokeback Mountain".
In my junior year, I took "Creative Writing 223: Sex, Death, and Other Bodily Obsessions". It was taught by a hipster MFA student who always wore a scarf and rode one of those old street bikes that you see all over college campuses, or perhaps in countries that don't require cars. Unlike most creative writing courses, it had a defined theme.
We would be writing about porn.
In smaller print, we would be writing about body horror and similar things, but I think most of the people who signed up were caught by 'sex'. I wrote a werewolf transformation story that involved graphic sex and violence. I also wrote a long followup poem that the class said was confusing. See comment on poetry in first section.
One memorable book that we read was, "Frisk" by Dennis Cooper. In it, a young man named after the author develops a fetish for torture and snuff, and moves to Holland. The story climax comes when he kidnaps and kills a teenage boy. It is described in such unflinching detail that I fainted while reading it. It turns out, though, that he did not kidnap and kil anyone, and simply wrote about it in letters home to a friend that he had wanted to date - but had not been able to.
That transgressive fiction made a mark on me.
Now, when I write porn, I make sure a character reaches for a rancid packet of mayo for lube; or shoots off in a beaten man's mouth and makes him sneeze it out onto the wall in a hail of blood, semen, and mucus; or defibrillates a breath-play victim and then uses the paddles to deliver impromptu amnesia-causing electroconvulsive therapy.
It's just fun to make erections go up and down, up and down, up and down, that way.