I avoided creative writing, philosophy, and otherwise angst-ridden classes as much as possible in college. I was already sobbing in the halls at least once a day, didn't seem to be much point in seeking out extra reasons to cry and hate myself.
I slipped up and took a screenwriting class, something for credits' sake. It was senior year, and I'd already gotten enough credits to a)take whatever classes I wanted, b)pare down my usual 20-minute-essay time to 5 or 6 minutes a pop and c) tell the teacher to more or less go fly a kite.
My screenwriting teacher was nutzo. He would play episodes of Beauty and the Geek to show us examples of raw dialogue and emotion. He loved every film treatment that involved rape, murder or dire consequences. He also said this stupid bullshit statement about 3 times a class:
"The day you declare yourself an artist is the day you become one."
Yeah, you're right, sir. Fuck dedication.
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