The class was tweleve students,. me and eleven girls.
You know, I hate to say it now, but I think I loved that class and not for the subject mattter. I think pink fuzzy sweaters might have had something to do with it.
But I digress.
During the poetry writing section of the course, I vividly remember being dejected. Moody, even. Morose.
"Anthony, why the sad face," asked Mrs. Reid, the English teacher asked me while I was at her desk.
"My poetry sucks. All of it."
"Just yesterday the entire class loved your last poem."
"Oh yeah, look at what my girlfriend sent me in the nail." I handed her the poem.
Mrs. Reid read the poem and sighed.
"Look, some people are just naturally talented."
Another student snatched the poem from me as Mrs. Reid was handing it back.
She read it. "Oh geeze, excuse me while I go burn all my poetry in shame. Thanks, Anthony."
The rest of the class was very interested in the scene unfolding in front of the room. Mrs. Reid, in charge of the a dozen teenage angst-y writers, thought pretty quickly. "Class dismissed, we're done for the day."
I learned two things: In creative writing, no matter how good you think you are, you can, and will, run into someone better at it.
Also, some writing is just so damn good, it's a weapon of mass destruction. Use sparingly.