One of the reasons why I no longer try to write

Instead of writing about my bad day on the job, or how all work and no play makes NotStyro a boorish old sop, I thought I'd write this anecdote regarding one of the reasons why I no longer try to write professionally.

One day I was bored and dealing with bit of writers block, so I decided to go to a writing class held at a local school. This is one of those evening adult learning classes that are free or low cost, and attended by bored senior citizens with nothing better to do (having long ago worn out their welcome at the senior center, shuffle-puck court, library, various doctors offices & shopping malls, and, of course, the dmv).

The class had some sort of free thinking/writing group feedback idea going for it. For a set time, one person got sat in front of the class and told a story or idea. The group could stop the person and give criticism and help at any time. Usually the front two people acted as chief reviewers, with the rest of the crowd creating chaos, as needed.

Since I was new to the class, I had to take the stand.

Male reviewer: Will you be giving a story or plot, or...

Me: Short story.

Female reviewer: What format? Fiction, biography...?

Me: Fiction.

Me: May I have your first names?

FR: Why would you need that?

Me: Conflict of interest. I don't want you personally affected in the story.

MR: Hmm.

Me: Think of it as your AA meeting – first name only, please.

MR: OK, Jack.

FR: Diane.

Me: Thank you.

(“little ditty 'bout Jack and Diane” briefly bounces off my consciousness, leaving a small welt, before returning to parts unknown)

Me: Catherine awoke to a start. Her alarm clock has signaled that is it 5 am and time to rise and meet the new day. She reached out and punched the top of the alarm clock until silence again overtook the din. She covered her face with her hand briefly then struggled to lift herself upright. A yawn, a short stretch and she looked about. A bedroom, her bedroom, same as it has always been. A bit dirty, a bit grungy and the lack of light certainly didn't help.

Me: With the gracious assistance of gravity, Catherine managed to set her feet and slowly stand from the bed. As she started stumbling toward the bathroom, her hand, seemingly of it own accord, found its way to scratching her balls. She then...

FR: Stop

Me: reached...

FR & MR: stop

Me: umm...?

FR: I don't think she could have those.

Me: Those...

FR: Things...

MR: Balls.

Me: Oh. Umm, I said that? Sorry. I'll back up a bit and try again...

Me: With the gracious assistance of gravity, Catherine managed to set her feet and slowly stand from the bed. Her long beautiful hair swept down and forward as she took her first tentative steps of the day. The hairs briefly tickled Catherine's ample breasts with each step, and eventually caused her to stop to brush the hairs away. After brushing away the offending hairs, she thought one of her nipples was a bit sensitive. She tentatively licked a finger then slowly started gently rubbing the nipple so ...

FR: stop

Me: ...that she...

FR: stop

Me: What now?

(looked at the FR and her face had gone from human to an ashen/crimson color, the MR was trying to hide his amusement, and I decided that maybe focusing on the rather poorly attempted trompe l'oeil picture hung on the back wall was not a good idea)

FR: I really don't think that material is appropriate here.

This started a discussion about what should and should not be appropriate material in the class. The discussion took a serious turn for the worse when the natural order turned to whom should make the decisions for the class.

I took off for the restrooms and a stroll around the grounds. I returned about 15 minutes later and found they were still going at it. The class organizer, coming in late, joined me in the doorway and asked what had happened. I told him that I was simply giving them a public service announcement about the importance of breast cancer self-exams and certain people took moral offense.

The organizer went in and dismissed the class. As the people were leaving I received the last bits of criticism. Generally the women thought I was some sort of pervert. The men, without wives in tow, almost all wanted a copy of the story once I had completed it. The remaining thought I had a good start, but I just needed to rework the story or find a better therapist.