Stephanie Meyer, Watch Your Back

My first day of fiction writing went like this: I sit down next to a blonde kid with an afro and sports jacket, the kind with elbow patches that professors usually wear, and an expression on his pasty face that says, "I am a self-proclaimed writer, a professional. I don't need this class. I'm just taking it for pure pleasure." I'm surprised he wasn't smoking a pipe or something.

Then the teacher announces that we are to write non-stop for ten minutes, just make sure we use the words, "broken," "angst," windshield," and "bucket," in the writing exercise. Then he says "Go!" and 30 pens hit paper with a mixture of angst and excitement. We all scribble away anxiously and the silence remains unbroken except for the sound of our concentrated breathing and the scratching of words flowing onto the surface of our future novels.

Ok, I can't think of a way to use windshield and bucket, but I can say that, while the exercise was fun, I am not too confident in my creative writing skills. Therefore, when afro kid turns to me and says (in an annoyingly sophisticated voice), "May I?" and makes to reach for my paper, I am taken by surprise. Normally I try to be nice and tend to make excuses for myself in my insecurity, but I was so surprised by his audacity that I just snorted (with disbelief in my voice), "No." His surprise was written all over his face. He couldn't believe that I had turned him down, and dejectedly turned back to his own scribbles.

The teacher goes on to tell us that, while he hates to put restrictions on our creativity, that is just what he is about to do. He further explains that we are to restrain from participating in genre writing: no thrillers, mysteries, romances, etc. In other words, no vampire stories. Darn. I am no Stephanie Meyer, but I considered walking out right then and there (I'm kidding).

Edward's cousin will just have to wait for my next fiction writing class.