Boys Don’t Read |

Let’s get humble.

Up until recently, I held the unshakable belief that I was born to write. That some as-yet-unidentified higher power had chosen me as the 6’3″ long instrument through which to trumpet its message. If I did my part, surrounded myself with the right influences, and hammered away at my craft, I could create an unobstructed airway through which these words could be blown across oceans, translated into 50 languages, shouted from atop the peak of the New York Times Bestseller list. I’ve felt this since high school.

So I went back to what I wrote in high school, and unearthed a gem: an anthology project from my senior year, sealed in a black notebook titled “Steps in the Twilight.”

This phantom staircase leads to mediocrity.

And she's buying the stairway to heeeeeeeaaaaaaavennnn.

Surely, this collection of my poetry, fiction, and essays would be the keystone in my claim to divinely-ordained natural ability. Who would this young, unpolished intellectual remind me of? Shades of Dave Eggers, perhaps? Jonathan Safran Foer? Jonathan Lethem? Pshaw. Stop. No, no. Not a young Mr. Lethem . . . yet perhaps.

No.

A firm no. I read it twice, just to be sure.

Nothing in this black book screamed “GENIUS.” It didn’t even whisper. Compared to student work I’ve read at the high school level, the material only excelled in using an excessive vocabulary and being distinctly pompous. But don’t take my word for it.

Strap on a pair of rubber boots, and prepare to take a few STEPS IN THE TWILIGHT:

Poetry
Umm.

“Nonesuch” is the best poem in the notebook. Probably because it’s not supposed to make sense. Note the nice penciled in the margins. Nailed it.

Fiction

Excerpt from “A Lack of Interest” by Jeff Geiger (age 18)

Michael Davey slumped in his seat and prepared to endure eternity. He glanced furtively around him, observing his helpless brethren who, like him, had been saddled with the unavoidable situation. He saw his emotions mirrored in many around him, but was only able to hold their attention momentarily before they darted off again to desperately hunt for a pair of orbs that showed less desperation, apprehension, and dread. Micheal tilted his head slowly backward and felt the muscles in his throat pull taut under his unshaved shadow of a beard. The humidity seemed to shackle the unfortunate in the room, and Michael continued to lean his head backward. A small rivulet of sweat slid from his nose and plopped in his eye.

I’ve cashed in “orbs,” “unshaved shadow of a beard,” and “rivulet,” and this is only the first half of my first paragraph. It’s twenty-six pages long, and someone had to read all twenty-six pages. Think about that before you malign a language arts teacher.

Essay

Excerpt from “Democracy: Above and Beyond” by Jeff Geiger (age 17)

It can be argued that nearly every American citizen that gives commentary on the U.S. government is being a bullcrit. A bullcrit is someone who criticizes something that he or she isn’t familiar with; giving commentary on a topic on which he or she severely lacks knowledge or understanding. I, for one, do not want to be a bullcrit. You see, I am fully aware that America is the best, the brightest, and the happiest country in the world today.

I won an award for this essay. It was ranked the third best essay in the tri-county area. They were pretty small counties.

What have I learned?

Lesson one: High school language arts teachers should be required to use Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style in every creative writing course.

Lesson two: I am a beautiful and unique snowflake. But not the way I thought I was.

Lesson three: We need to redefine creative potential.

I wasn’t born to write. I was born with a lot to say: creative thoughts, voice, and persistence. But it was the writing that made the difference. Work, not genius. Not even a little. And this realization doesn’t depress me. It gives me hope. For me, and students I’ve taught and will continue to teach. Being a genius is something you’re either born with or not. The work is something you can control.

So let me step up to the lectern for the shortest and most effective creative writing lecture I’ve ever given:

*ahem*

Want to be writer? Listen up. Sure, natural born geniuses are out there. But most of them suffer from psychotic breaks or die tragically before they’re 30. So if you’re not uncommonly talented, don’t sweat it. Time is on your side.

Here’s what you do. Read one book a week. Don’t use adverbs. Find someone who can tolerate you, and read your work to them out loud before you send it off to strangers. Revise and write more. Do this for about 10,000 hours.

If you can pull it off, you might get mistaken for a genius at a dinner party. And you’ll probably live to be 30. If you’re 18 now, you’ll need to clock about 16 hours a week until then. That’s what you get for not being a genius. Stop complaining. You’ll need the energy.

Now get the hell out there and start writing.

Anyone out there a brooding hunk?

Just curious. Having been cursed with an easy smile and the inability to shut up or stand still, I find myself woefully unprepared to write a blog post about them. My immediate social circle is no help. My male friends classify themselves by genre and degree of geekdom and have never been mistaken for hunks – no matter how dark the basement they happen to be gaming in.

So most of what I know about the Brooding Hunk is what I’ve read in young adult books. And I’ve read plenty.

You know the type: quiet, prominent-cheekbones, scowly lips, pale to the point of translucence, half-mast eyes that flash and glint, but never twinkle. Don’t see him? He’s right over there, lurking hunkily in the shadows, reading an appropriately subversive book, fixing his motorcycle, or turning invisible. Because most hunks these days have superpowers, including the ability to have sex with your girlfriend while you’re out of town.

Did I mention I f@#*ing hate this guy?

Most of us do. That’s why he’s a loner. He’s not a team player, he’s too cool for sports, and he doesn’t even know what it means to “level up.” Also, he’s not so much a real person. That’s because Mr. Brooding Hunk narrowly defines the desirable male the same way television, movies, and the media at large have narrowly defined the desirable female for as long as men have known how to whistle like jackasses.

Don’t get me wrong – I understand the reasoning. Readers want protagonists they can identify with. As such, they want romantic interests they can identify with wanting to bang. Or at least second-base it with. And who, exactly, is the perfectly desirable man?

According to a recent study that ruined my life, women have been scientifically proven to be more interested in guys who DON’T appear to be happy.

That’s right, boys. Looks like the emotional characteristics most appealing to women aren’t happiness but: 1) Pride and 2) Shame. Shame? Really? Yes, really. And it’s unfortunate for us as a human race that most revolting male behavior occurs in the eventful gap between these two emotional states.

But I digress. Let’s assume the desirability of the hunk has roots in empirical, scientific fact. Is that enough of a reason to write him? Maybe. Perhaps the brooding hunk is the ideal man, and there’s nothing wrong with indulging in a little fantasy now and again.

On the other side of the coin, what’s wrong with a swimsuit issue or two? The occasional scantily-clad female host of a Mexican game show – or newscast, for that matter? Guys like boobs, right? Low-cut shirts, blonde hair, and big smiles. There must be a study out there to prove it. Maybe I should write more girls that way. Better yet, I can DRAW them! That’s the answer to flagging picture book sales, I –

Is this a fair comparison to make? Maybe.

To an extent, I’ll argue that in the same way tasteless images can beget distorted sexual expectations in men and unnecessary deposits of silicon in women, the YA hunk on a pedestal can make guys feel like there’s something wrong with them. After repeated exposure, a nice young man may just pick up a cigarette and get himself a Brood Job. Get his stubble on. Take up the South Beach Cheekbones Diet, or go out and do something he can finally be ashamed of.

And since this post is supposed to be about heroes – we need them. Romance-worthy drama kids and basement gamers and non-pretentious athletes and, more importantly, REAL GUYS. The ones ladies will eventually want to be with after the Brooding Hunk ditches them for a fellow stereotype with blonder hair and a more subservient smile.

I go too far. Women have suffered much more sexualization and objectification than men, and here I am, grinding my own ax because I played too much Magic the Gathering and therefore failed to get laid in high school. Oh, God. And now I’ve given you too much information.

*sigh*

I’m ashamed of what I said. But too proud to take it back. So if you want to talk, that’s me — lurking in the shadows. Squinting behind my sunglasses. Standing stock still. Tall, dark, and biting my tongue until it bleeds.

Tag Archives: Boys Don’t Read

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