Cribbing

When I was at school, I was pretty good at writing stories. I actually looked forward to writing them. As I hit my teens and averaged 125+ films and videos a year, homework that involved making stuff up was almost as much guilty fun as watching an R-rated film. Whatever the topic, I created exciting and vivid tales littered with the minutiae of tyre pressure fluctuations at 150kph and tactical applications of Glaser ammunition. I toiled over those stories, ensuring their technical perfection. I got good marks for them.

When the essays were marked and returned to us students, we would swap and share our work, checking out the competition and squeezing out as much praise and positive feedback as we could. I like to think I cornered the market on muscular writing. I like to think I had a following – sure, my fans were more the sporty types – a few of which would strongly suggest I write their next essay for them in exchange for my continued existence on this planet – but hey, they liked my work.

The stories that got the girls, however…. They weren’t as technically proficient as mine. They lacked my obsessive attention to detail. Instead, those other stories took a point of view that was confrontational or confounded the reader. Some of those other stories were shockingly vulnerable and personal. I hated the writers of those stories. I envied them and their work. I particularly envied the attention they drew.

Sean Molloy‘s blog, Why I Write has been scratching at my high school PTSD lately. It’s his honesty. With posts like this, I can’t just visualise him as faceless competition who’s half the country away that I can just make nice with. He’s a blogger. And a screenwriter. Just like me.

And so I’ll do just like I did when I spotted real talent in the classroom.

I’ll be very nice to him.

I’ll read his work.

And – very, very quietly – learn.