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The Past | The Previous

Grind

A while back now, close, I guess, to seventeen years, I completed my final year of High School. I was fairly unimpressed at the time and, for that, it appears I have been punished to experience again and again.

I remember at the end of High School I thought I'd go off and become a writer, which is what I've done, really. I've had a handful of jobs, each as uninteresting as the next, and that does include the current gig of how I make money--I like teaching well enough, don't get me wrong, but High School English isn't really setting my intellect on fire or engaging me greatly, but then that is why I write, after all. Still, I do sometimes wonder how it is that society expects anyone to become interested in literature with the bland, uninteresting material that is given to students. I mean, I don't care who you are, but if you think The Story of Tom Brennan is a novel of substance and worth studying, you're nothing but intellectual waste in my paradise.

I'm always grouchy at this time of the year, though. In part, it is because it becomes apparent to me that the poorly selection of text and understanding what draws people to literature is the biggest threat to the longevity of literature, and in part because in the final months of the HSC, there's nothing interesting or creative at all. It's just a grind to the end of the year.

Ah well.

Back to it.