Waiting Hurts.

Before I begin, I just want to warn you of hyperbolic language.

Waiting has got to be one of the dullest activities on the planet.

Waiting wouldn’t be as bad if I was at home, with a television or less people surrounding me. But, there are twelve other people in this room that I am in, yet none of them are here for me.

I am sat in college, with a room full of college employees, rather than college students, who are doing their own thing. Of course, I am not in my lesson. Not because I don’t want to be in there. I want to be able to go to my lesson and have a lovely teaching session, and be taught something that will benefit me for these God awful exams I have in the next two months. However, I would be waiting in my classroom, just as much as I am waiting here, for the disastrous teacher to get his words out. Even when he does get his words out, they are more disastrous than the waiting game.

I take back my initial statement. My “teacher’s” “teaching” is the dullest activity on the planet. It is also the biggest waste of time. It is also so horrifically suicide-inducing.

Of course, I have not been in the classroom for many weeks – six or seven teaching weeks – but I am still so positively scarred from the stress. But, I am sitting up up up and away from his teaching, waiting for work that he “sets” for me (which is so bad it hurts; it is does not inform me of what I have to do; it does not educate me in the slightest; it does not entertain me: that one does not need any explanation).

Oh wow, as I was writing this someone came to give me a wad of paper that they call “revision”, or “work”, or, as I call it, “two hundred pages of shit just waiting to wrap themselves around my tonsils until they snap”.

Here is a huge great teeth-puller of a task that I am going to share with you:

‘Considering different forms of text and how they convey meaning –  A poem, an article, a blog, a short story, a novel extract etc.’

That is just the first part of the question, which I would like to vent about, if I may. I am a CREATIVE WRITING A -Level student. I do not need to be told that “a poem” is a “form of text”. I also do not need to be told that they “convey meaning”. That is just like telling a dog that they shit in the street.

Here is the next part:

‘Mind-map all the broader differences you can think of, then narrow it down.’

Oh. My. God. You know what, a CREATIVE WRITING A-LEVEL STUDENT cannot know that an article is different to a novel extract. “Excuse me, I appear to have mixed you up with a monkey, or a ginormous transformer, as you must have transformed into an unbelievably irritating cough.” *Cough cough*.

I do not understand how I, and the rest of my class, can be degraded so much. It hurts my conscience, a tad. I feel like I have “the insane kid” scribbled across my forehead, in his callous handwriting to go with his callous speech.

I honestly feel completely useless when I am given this work. He evidently has no idea what our exam is going to be like, otherwise he would actually give us work that is the same as our exam.

Just a brief overview of the exam: We are given five sources of texts in different forms – they could be prose fiction, prose non-fiction, poetry or script. Then, we pick one source and write our own creative piece influenced on one specific theme from the text. The exam gives you the theme. Then, you write a commentary on your piece; why you did the things you did based on your text etc. etc.

And now, refer back to the task that I was given. Is it at all similar to the exam? I was also given six thousand ‘texts’ that are just photocopies of random parts of poems or prose, and just says “write a piece using one text”. OK oK OK oK. That is not going to work.

If you do not understand most of what I have just said, I apologise. I feel very mentally frustrated due to this ridiculous course that I am on. I am sure that, anywhere else – any other college – this would not be happening. And of course it is going to be this bad here. It is typical.

Thanks for being my the audience to my muse.

ps there are now eleven people in the room with me. People are sinking into the quick sand here.

-ALWright.

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