An Exercise in Straying Off Topic... you'll see

So... today my assignment is to write about my obsessions. This seemed fairly easy yesterday, but now, when I am far from being in "writing mode" the idea just seems depressing. Oh well, a writer's life is full of misery! So I must forge onward! Perseverance! Fortitude! Condoms!

So... what am I obsessed with?

Teachers

I still don't know why. I just find this profession to be as sexy as all hell. I think about my teachers constantly. I romanticize them, speculate about what they are like outside of the classroom, analyze and enshrine every word they say, and look at their existence with a very peculiar kind of affection. People who I probably would not like or notice in any other situation become objects of my attention and scrutiny. Even if I do not like or approve of them, I cannot help but feel a certain kind of fondness for them. Maybe it's because I'm a suck-up, show-off bitch. I'm eager for adult approval and affection, because I didn't receive it from my parents. I need someone to look up to and idolize. Or I'm a whore. Or both. Either way.

I don't really think that this started happening consciously until high school. I always had liked school, and liked doing impressive, elaborate projects that impressed my teachers, whoring myself in general. But I don't remember ever wanting them to like me for any other reason than the fact that it meant that I was going to get a good grade, and that I wouldn't have to deal with them bitching at me. Not that I was a goody-goody or anything. I didn't aim to be a teacher's pet; not really. I got written up loads of times in my younger years for disrespect, talking in class, sarcastic comments, and emotional outbursts. I liked being appreciated for my brains and creativity, not for my subservience. Probably the reason that I didn't really like my teachers when I was younger was that they were too focused on what I saw as stupid, arbitrary rules.

But when I went to high school, that pretty much changed. Suddenly, teachers had senses of humor. They confessed to being human, they laughed at their mistakes and their laziness. They encouraged us to voice our opinions in class, and didn't expect us to be "on our best behavior." They wanted us to be individuals, not robots. And they all had personality. And they like me, even though I was a giant loser.

It was all downhill from there.

I feel so weird and stupid writing this. My obsession with Jansen, Parks, Hein, Cataneo, McClain, Holinko, Leone, and all the others is simply embarrassing. The degree to which I took this isn't really frightening-- I didn't stalk them or really act creepy in any way. I just thought about them. A lot. I found their personalities fascinating, and hilarious. They were the subjects of constant jokes between my friends and I. House of Orange actually originated from an inside joke between me, Sam, Fallon, and Rikki about how Mr. Jansen and Ms. Cataneo would make a great couple, and how it would be awesome if they could raise a kid together. His name would be Glenore, I decided. Later, that was extended to Lord Glenore Horation C'tansen. I blended this with the theory we had once purported, freshman year, that Jansen and Hein were gay lovers. I added our extreme dislike for our valedictorian (we shall call her Dandy Candy, to protect the not-that-innocent) with a dash of the insanity and Napoleon Complex of Mr. Leone, and my everlasting love for Theodore Roosevelt (I used to eat Teddy Grams in class, and liken them to the Great Bull Moose... my friend Yelena and I even made up a song for them!) and the result was Glenore, the play that would form the basis of House of Orange. The writing of this play was a very public affair, and I showed it to my friends, who made requests to have characters based on themselves added into the mix. The result was that soon the plot became too burdensome to be contained in one play. I decided to make it into a novel.

Okay, while we're on the subject, I guess I will do my best to explain the plot of House of Orange. I was talking to Professor Conway today (more on that later) about my paper, and he asked the question I've always dreaded hearing: "What exactly is this book about?"

"Uhhh..." I said stupidly, "There's a reason I didn't include that in the paper. It's super complicated. Like, twenty different story lines and character arcs intersecting and crashing into one giant climax."

"Yeah, well you're going to need to be able to pitch that to editors in a concise way."

No shit, Sherlock, thought evil Mei. Nice Mei said ever-so-carefully, "Yeah, I know it's a problem. I've got to find the heart of the story, and get rid of the unnecessary stuff."

"Yeah," says Conway, stroking his red little beard-thing pathetically. "450 pages is too long to get published."

Evil Mei was thoroughly ticked. Did he even read this paper??? (I always get this sinking feeling that teachers don't really read my papers. It might be paranoia. Then again... they always seem to miss fairly evident passages. Like the two paragraphs I spent talking about how editors aren't going to want a book this long!!! Actually, the whole damn essay was about the shortcomings of my manuscript, and how to get it up to snuff to make it viable for publication. I felt like he was just re-posing all the questions I asked myself in the fucking thing. Jeeze. Paranoia, you say? I'll post the paper later. You tell me what you think. Paranoia my ass.) Nice Mei said, ever so tenderly, so as not to hurt Conway's soft, pink professor feelings,"I did try to address that issue in my paper. From what I read in all my research, a slightly longer novel is acceptable in Historical Fiction and Fantasy genres. And my story is a blend of the two. But it does need work. That's why I wrote this paper." I kept the bitch to a minimum.

"Yeah," Conway asserted weakly, "You won't have much luck publishing something of that length as literary fiction."

"As I concluded in my paper."

"Yeah."

"Yeah." Then I laughed, this stupid little half-nervous, half-frustrated laugh. I fidgeted with my sleeves. They were green. Green sleeves. Haha. Henry the Eighth was fat. And red. Like Professor Conway. I gave another short little grunt/chuckle.

"What?" he asked, looking vexed. And pink. So very pink and red. Like a flaming, embarrassed pumpkin drenched in the blood of a ginger kid. All these shades of red.

"I don't know," I said. It was true. I didn't. I had no idea what was going on. I was babbling. Kind of like now.

So yes. As red and oblivious as Professor Conway might be, he embarrassed me into facing reality. Even though I had already told myself that my book was not publishable for all the reasons listed above, having him say it kind of drove home that fact. In a very uncomfortable way that made me squirm under his bored, laconic gaze.

So, I figure I'll practice explaining the cumbersome plot of my not-so-magnum-opus to you peeps. Because you care. Oh so much.

This post is too long. I'll start a new one. Especially since we're going on to a very important topic that merits its very own Grand Post of Postage.

See you on the other side.