In a writing class far, far away.
My prof said something I haven’t forgotten in all these many years and that’s the power of teachers. And learners. And people who say things.

I think of the titles of my stories and poems and novels as little jewel boxes is what Mr. Manners said. In case you’re wondering, that was his actual name. Come to think of it, he might possibly have been teaching under an alias so as not to be detected. Trying to expound under the faux Manners moniker seems odd now only because it sticks out like a sore thumb. I really hate that.

Nom de plume notwithstanding, Manners loved me. No one else in the sloth-filled class had an iota of talent or clue. I did and that’s why he adored me, starved-for-modicum slogger that he was. This brings up an odd scenario that happens all the time.

Imagine if you will a room full of godawfully repugnant men in anybody’s book. Not even approaching Cro-Magnon. In the mix is a man of note, not classically perfect…more, classically imperfect. Just a doll, right? Magnifico! Is GorgHunk thinking gee I’m getting lots of positive attention but there’s clearly no competition for me here so maybe I’m just looking good next to the quasi-neanderthals present but in a real contest I’m basically average or below. Uh, no. Rest assured, CutieButt, you are still golden and hey don’t ask me where all the in-betweeners are ’cause that’s not pertinent to the purposes of this discussion.