Pre-Writing

      School writing and I have a distinct and bitter relationship,  eleven years in the making and not likely to die out soon. Year-in and year-out,  we circle each other wearily, side-step to side-step, like two predators waiting for the other to make the first move. Unfortunately for us, that move is inevitable. Papers must be written, ideas must be framed and grades must be given.  So, pulled together unwillingly, we go at each other with thinly veiled disgust, grinding hours and spitting words, till at last the time comes and I bestow our pitiful creation on whatever unfortunate teacher thought to request it. It amazes me to this day that my teachers are unable to sense the distaste and poisonous sarcasm that veins its way through the dull visage of my papers.
      But why such passionate enmity? Once upon a time, school writing and I got along swimmingly. I'd delight in composing great works of informational and analytical art, spending hours refining each sentence to perfection, forcing my parents and siblings to read and reread time over and again until I was convinced not a single unpolished word remained. I enjoyed it. Truly, I did. So what changed? What happened?
       Eighth grade English happened. That was the year when the noose finally caught and pulled taut. My teacher, who I shall leave unnamed, was a large, bitter woman with a deep rooted vein of sexism (against the male sex) and utter lack of understanding when it came to the subjects of fairness and justice. I have rarely encountered an educator so universally despised by the "Smarties" as she was. She taught advanced class, called Agate at my school, filled with all the kids who either were--or thought they were--the best in the school. And we hated her, me especially. However, our relationship was unique because oddly, she hated me as well. This is unusual, because she reserved her hatred, in general, for the males in the class. She'd pick on them, single them out, sometimes even publicly insult them in front of the class. The girls, on the other hand, were her favorites, praised and complimented and I swear, given easier grades. But not me. I'm not sure why she singled me out for her hatred; it may have been that I didn't readily swallow her every word as fact--as she obviously expected--or perhaps it was because I didn't perfectly conform to what she considered a perfect student would be. I think most of all, she hated me because she couldn't grade me down. I did good work, and even she couldn't get away with marking me down on it--for the most part. On one or two occasions, she unfairly cheated me out of a grade.
      So what does this have to do with me and essay writing? Let me explain. At my heart, I'm a writer. I've been writing since I was eight and first started hen-picking away at the keyboard in my families sun-drenched living room. Since then, I've written stories idiotic and simple minded, epic and far reaching, cliche, unique, bizarre--but always I write. The same enjoyment I had when spinning creative stories translated into my essay writing. I got great grades on them, and I love writing them. I had a freedom of form coupled with a clarity of thought that made my writing actually interesting to read--as well as to write. Unfortunately, my eight grade English teacher was strongly against free-form in any fashion. She taught us a very strict essay format early on in the year, one that outlined everything down to how many sentences of specific function could be in a paragraph. It killed me. It went against everything I knew and enjoyed about writing. It constrained my thought process and imagination, stinted the flow of my words, jumbled my clarity. I was simply unable to write in accordance to that format. Thus began the slow, cold end of my love for essay writing. The teacher and I struggled with eachother all year. She'd assign an essay, I'd write it, vary from the format, then have it be demanded that I rewrite, and rewrite, till my pure ideas were corrupted and lost in the formatting and my mood was foul. Eventually, I stopped fighting. I cookie-cuttered my ideas down into the jello-formed simplicity that I could fit into her rigid molds, and trudged my way dismally through the rest of the year. The unfortunate effect of that one year, however, is I have been utterly unable to write an essay I actually liked since that moment. Essay writing is pulling teeth. I was reprogrammed, and can no longer remember or execute the free-shifting code of my olden days. I dread essays in all their forms, and openly cringe at the pieces I grudgingly create.
      Now, you are likely wondering what any of this has to do with pre-writing. I'll tell you;  everything. I can hardly stand essay writing. I want it over as quick and as painless as possible, and my prewritting reflects that. I don't really brainstorm, or make trees or charts or graphs. I open my mind, and await an Idea. Once my idea has come, I capture it, refine it, and then write it down. Simple as that, and I have a rough draft. That is as far as my pre-writing goes. End of story.