An old friend of mine sent me this Calvin comic and reminded me, well, of me back in our high school “Honors English” days too many years ago to even think about. Yes, that was me, all right - long, complex sentences, exaggerated vocabulary, confusing twists and odd angles - yet my writing style, if you can call it that, impressed my teachers, winning me frequent accolades and a dependable stream of “A”s in written communication.
But my aspiring novelist bubble was about to burst. Fast forward to my first college English class. Focusing on literature and writing, it carried steep prerequisites. I foolishly thought it would be four easy credits given my stellar academic credentials, especially with two years of high school debate team experience tossed in for good measure. So I wasn’t worried when our first assignment, intended to ensure that enrollees possessed the necessary skills to succeed in the class, was to write a short essay on a favorite novel.
I decided on a comparison of Melvile’s Moby Dick and Conrad’s Billy Budd, contrasting the authors’ writing styles. I’d read and discussed both in high school and believed I was sufficiently well versed to dazzle my professor. So confident was I in my writing skills that I hastily cranked out five double spaced pages late Tuesday night for my Wednesday morning class.
The essays were returned Friday morning as the professor began her verbal assessment. All were interesting, she told us, some even quite good. I was certain mine had impressed. Continuing, she explained her cryptic notations at the top of each paper. A “check” mark indicated you were in the right class and she looked forward to helping improve your writing skills. An “X”, however, meant the class would likely prove too challenging and you should immediately transfer to a lower English. The latter group, about a quarter of the class, quietly gathered their materials and left the classroom as the professor returned to her desk. I sat in stunned silence. There was no mark on my paper.
Had she forgotten to mark it? Had she even read it? Finally, I mustered the courage to raise my hand and asked what the lack of any notation meant. “Ah, Mr. Arrington,” she replied with a blank expression I later learned to recognize as a smile. “That’s to let you know it’s harder to bullshit a college English professor than a high school teacher!”
There it was. I’d been put on notice, outed, called out. My days of skating through writing assignments had come to an abrupt conclusion. For the remainder of the semester she challenged, blue penciled and embarrassed me into producing some of my best written work. I was glad when the semester ended, but I’ll remain forever grateful to her for showing me a better way to weave the written word.
I should mention something else my high school friend, Alex, noted in his email after reading my blog: “I see you haven’t changed.”
I know, Alex. Thanks for remembering.