The Tale of a Confused Artist--Metaphorically Speaking

Once upon a time, there lived an architect.

She was not very famous, nor was her work very special. But she loved building things. Since she was a little girl, her favorite thing to do was to take a new, sharp pencil and crisp, clean paper and break through the white monotony with bold lines, curving swirls, and huge arches.

More than anything, she loved making her structures beautiful. Her designs probably weren't the best, or the most unique, but it made her happy to carefully bend metal railings into swooping shapes, or send red and blue flowers rioting over a wall with a paintbrush.

One day, whilst she was working feverishly on a little bridge in her backyard, a man came to visit her. He watched her squiggle her paint brush back and forth for a little bit, then cleared his throat in an important sort of way.

"Ahem," he said. "What are you doing?"

The architect, who didn't know that anyone had been behind her, jumped. The bumblebee springing from the end of her brush suddenly became much more quizzical looking. She turned around to look up at the man, smearing her cheek with yellow.

"....Wut?" She said eloquently.

The man pointed at the bridge in an accusing sort of way. "Why are you building a bridge in the middle of the grass? You're being extremely wasteful.That bridge won't help anyone sitting where it is. And it's much too small. That's very irresponsible. You should be using your talent to help the world. You're being a bad citizen."

The architect was very troubled by this; she really strove to be a good citizen.

"Don't worry," continued the man in a placating sort of way. "Come with me. I'll show you where your talents can be used to better the world.

He took the architect to a large river. "Build a bridge over this river, so that people can visit their grandparents." Patting her back in an encouraging sort of way, he left.

The architect didddled for some time, enjoying the soft sound of the grass and the white noise of the river. Finally, after sketching a bit, she set to work. She worked for a day and a night, humming contentedly. She carved frolicking groundhogs and storks on the railing, and painted them blue and yellow. When she was nearly finished, and feeling very pleased, the man came back to visit.

He frowned and harrumphed in a disappointed sort of way. "This is just silly!" he exclaimed. "No one is going to take this bridge seriously, and it couldn't possibly withstand the wear and traffic of so many cars and people. You must rebuild it. Use this." Thrusting precise blueprints in her hands, he left in a huffy sort of way--but not before sending a crowd of big, burly men to tear down the first bridge.

The architect shed a few bitter tears, but she was still very anxious to be useful to her community, so she set to work on the bridge the man had designed for her. She worked a day and a night, and a day and another night, and part of the next day, and then fell asleep, and worked another day and a night, and finally finished.

She stood back and surveyed her work. The bridge was grey and square, spatting between the two banks and casting a dark shadow over the river. The supports spiked to the sky and dug into either side, and there were no frolicking animals, or painted colors.

The architect blew a giant raspberry, went back to her house, and finished her little bumblebee bridge.


Dear readers, this is how I feel sitting in my English theory class. The primary focus of the class is studying essays on theory, and the key-term is "exigency": which basically means "a problem that we are writing about in an effort to spur people into fixing it." We are always asked to find the exigency of each piece, and make sure we have exigency of our own in our writing.

And during all my lectures, I'm thinking: "Geeze....I gotta have a reason for everything?"

Ironically, the above story is exactly what I just complained about...

I await with great longing the day I start creative writing courses. If I was wondering about what to minor in, I'm sure now.

Naptime!