The Most Unoriginal Teacher

Yes, that’s me. I am a fraudster, thief, and plagiarizer of the worst magnitude. I copy the very styles of classic poets; I steal from Noble Laureate novelists, and I copy words from every and any source I can. And even worse, I steal from myself. If you even dare to look at my journal entries from last week, there is such an uncanny similarity between all of them that I fear my secret is out: I am not an original anything. I am a shameless, old shop teacher using borrowed tools and stolen wood to make a bunch of fairly sturdy sea-chests and boxes–and they are only sturdy because I stole the plans from Captains Bligh, Hook and other Pirates of the Caribbean, and they hold treasure enough that I can still pass as a writer, at least amongst the uniformed and dim-witted.

 

So, yes, take a look at my journal entries, some of which I am quite proud of writing (unless of course you are opposed to my “formulaic” approach to writing). I am not a pirate in search of trinkets, so I will rarely waste my time searching for worthless treasure. I know that you could care less about the events of my day (and, for the most part, neither do I) so I will rarely write about that–unless it sparks a search for a greater treasure–some timeless theme drawn out of some rather common experience that just “might” enlighten, edify, and energize me or some rare reader of my wit and wisdom.

Take a look and you’ll see me doing the same old same old entry in every entry I post. I am like an old fitness buff who does pull-ups on every door jam he walks under.  Why? Because it make me stronger, not weaker. Because it is like a musician practicing scales, an artist practicing brush strokes, or a little kid practicing jump shots from the same crack in the pavement on his or her driveway.  

I simply practice what I preach: Set the scene and state the theme, say what you mean and finish it clean.  

When I set the scene I try to write something that catches your attention and something that helps me get to that last part of my opening paragraph when I state my theme, and at least point you (my reader) in the direction my little (and it is little) essay intends to go.

Then I say what I mean by weaving together some loose tapestry of paragraphs which is not painful, dull, and enervating (cool word: look it up). I am vain enough to want people to like my writing enough to follow it around the track to the finish line by leaving a quick little one liner to think about, but I am also callous enough not to care about readers who don’t really give a damn about what they’re reading; otherwise, (warning: conjunctive adverb in use) I’d go crazy and  could never be good, old, unoriginal me–the guy who cheats, steals, and connives his way into being called a writer.

Try it. Steal from me. I don’t care.