Earning a B.A. in B.S.

I... Hate... Creative Writing. Actually, no. I hate creative writing workshops. I hate sitting in a circle and reading someone's bullshit and then trying to guess what their symbolism could possibly mean. It's never worth the effort when the metaphor is finally revealed. Or, even worse, is when the author is sitting there smugly while an entire classroom struggles to make meaning of a short story in which a small boy digs a hole for the entirety of the piece. People attach all kinds of Freudian meaning, only to turn to the author for approval who, in turn, says something infuriating like, "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

And then when that's all over, we turn to the works of the greats for more interpretive fun. This wouldn't be so bad if idiocy was not encouraged.

On the first day of class, a graduate student tried to add the creative writing class in question. He came back for three weeks, hoping to add the very undergraduate class to his schedule. Finally, on the last day to add, the professor told him that she's sorry, but there's no more room in the class. I was relieved at that point because he was annoying and offered all kinds of criticism that generally made no sense. He walked out of the class with his head hanging. As soon as the door closed, there was an uproar. "Professor, how could you do that! His input was so great! We need him in this class." Professor-lady said, "I'm doing it to help you guys. If there are too many students, it slows us down and gives us more work to read." Yes. Professor-lady was right. He, in particular, slowed us down with his frequent and unnecessary remarks. Students, practically in unison: "NO OMGZ WE LUV HIM HE IS DA BEST!" Professor-lady: "Okay, if it's unanimous, go get him!" At that point, I was in absolute disbelief. Was this a college classroom or a circus? A student ran out and herded him back into class. He looked truly touched. He lifted his arms triumphantly and the classroom cheered. It was a circus.

I knew it was a loss for me, but despite my cynicism, I am an optimist. I decided that he will provide excellent blog material for the next 12 weeks. The first anecdote follows:

In my last class, we read a short story in which a young man gets shot while driving, and then loses control of his car and hits something. Brilliant Graduate Student is quiet for a long time. In the last few minutes, however, Professor-lady looked at him and said "You've been quiet for a while..." B.G.S. counters with, "Okay, I just gotta say one thing cause I'm disappointed that no one else has brought this up! It says here "the police pointed out my place in the angels that separated the living from the dead..." He's talking about angels here! He is talking about life and death, salvation and damnation, the man is a wealth of binary opposition! And he's a believer, all I gotta say is that there is so much subtext here, people!" I looked around the room and saw everyone following the passage with their eyes, and then looking up to nod in frenzied agreement. Even Professor-lady looked so delighted that she was reduced to bobble-head status. I looked down at my book and was shocked to see that it said, "The police pointed out my place in the angles that separated the living from the dead." Angles. Not Angels. GOD! DAMN IT! How is it that no one corrected this blunder? How is it that they cheered him on, instead? Fine, FINE, interpretation is not the art of construing but the art of constructing. BUT HE IS LITERALLY REWRITING THE TEXT! Yo, STANLEY FISH, can he do that? AND THE WORST PART IS THAT NOT ONLY DOES CSUN VALIDATE MEDIOCRITY, IT TAKES STUPIDITY--ABSOLUTE SHIT--AND PUTS IT ON A SHIT-SMEARED GOLDEN PEDESTAL. IT RAISES A SHIT IDOL AND WORSHIPS IT WITH SHIT-LADEN WREATHS. SOMEONE TELL THIS IDIOT IT SAYS ANGLES! But no. Professor-lady tells him, "You're big on symbolism, aren't you!" And he says, "I have to be, I have a B.A. in this stuff!"