For me, high school was friends, fun, and learning, maybe heavily weighted toward the first two. While I always knew the purpose of friends and fun, I sometimes questioned the same with regard to things that required study time, such as Algebra, World History, and Nineteenth Century Literature.
Possibly the time I spent doodling on my notebook during class accounts for why I missed important information that might have lead to being a more informed individual. I thought I was saving my sanity.
Although I loved reading, “studying” literature was not the same. From my first introduction to Edgar Allan Poe, I considered his writings to be dark and chilling. Not great reading during the daytime and downright frightening when tackled as late night homework.
My take on learning about nineteenth century authors could have been summarized with one question: Do I care about dead authors? My lack of interest, I’m sure, screamed to my teachers that I was not a serious student. I did learn enough, however, to earn grades that would not produce frowns from my parents, and for years I could quote a large chunk of “The Raven.”
Now that I write, I’m much more interested in the lives of those dead writers and what made them tick. What I have come to realize is that possibly all writings somewhat reflect the lives of the authors. No doubt Poe’s dark writings reflected the darkness in his life.
While I’ve had people ask me if my novel is about my life - perish the thought - it’s worrisome to think that maybe someone out there is analyzing my story and assigning me a classification from the DSM - III. Yikes!