Armed with my natural opposition to au- thority and my completed homework, I iden- tified the systematic boundaries and quickly tested them. When I reached middle school, my passion for getting kicked out of class remained undiscovered, submerged beneath the façade of satisfactory report cards; unfortunately, my passion for writing also remained undiscovered, submerged beneath the crust of unbearable complacency. Though my writing was saturated with emotion and ego, a spark was needed to ignite my ambition.

I walked into Mrs. Spickler’s classroom in seventh grade and immediately saw my writ- ing strategies crumble. My mind went from a blaze of boredom to an inferno of infuriation. Sure, I wrote my papers on the bus the morn- ing they were due, but who did this lady think she was? She gave me a B when my writing was infinitely better than my

buddy who received an A-. I was determined to master these new standards, to manipulate them to best suit my goals. I predicted that I could simply refine my writing to satisfy my teacher’s expectations. Instead, I discovered that the words creativity, intelligence and potential were not being used to describe me, but were being used against me; they were precisely her expecta- tions.

It was only after I came to this realization that I focused my attention on the system of writing. The “authority figure” became the English language and its op- pressive guidelines. I experimented with concoc- tions of tantalizing wordplay with an aftertaste of intrigue. Through writing, I was able to dis- sect, analyze and construct my thoughts as I did my words. I found a new enemy in the system,and conveniently, a more construc- tive display of my smoldering emotions.

Outside of school, my battle with w r i t i n g conven- tions, my nemeses, soon turned into a complete disregard for them. It no longer satisfied my un- rest to simply work creatively within some proverbial box. I wrote for myself, where I determined the rhythm, the meter, the rules. I controlled the relationship between my writing and me, between my thoughts and myself. I encased my aggression in metaphors and figurative language, my masterpiece of words, and paint- ed vivid mental images. I crafted my words, dis- obediently structured, strategically mysterious, beautifully disturbing, though I did not allow others to behold my art.

As my thoughts materialized on the page, I thought I had won, had taken my rightful place as an authority. As historians, scribes and even cave dwellers have documented, and conse- quently, shaped human existence. I vowed to become a contributor to this cycle. I was truly equipped to change readers’ worlds, their views of reality, with my words. Though the world is substantial, I believed it pos- sible for a lone individual to set it ablaze.

I descended upon Drake from the pedestal I had erected in my mind, emotional, egotistical, equipped with a four-year supply of fuel. I did not consider my reader as an authority, did not care how my reader was translating my words. If I was the only one capable of comprehending the thoughts burning in my mind, it was my reader’s loss. Appreciation for my style was a matter of preference, but the unique connections between myself and my writing, between my writing and my reader, I thought, were separate.

After only a short time, I once again saw my writing strategies crumble; the process of read- ing was missing from my design. I was aware of my difficulties in interpreting my thoughts onto the page, but misplaced the importance of how the words I selected would be interpreted by my reader. If I wanted to change people’s percep- tions of reality, to have my flame scorch its mark on society, I had to be equally, or even more, concerned with my reader.

Reading has prompted me to rethink my writing philosophy. I call myself a writer (and perhaps an aspiring reader). I have become quite self-conscious about my own writing, even as I reread these very words. Indeed, I do have some form of power over my reader, but my reader has an equal, yet distinctly different, power over me. I wonder how my message is being interpreted, how my thoughts are being translated by my reader.

Of course, I must continue to strive to pro- duce writing that draws on emotion and ego, to represent my personal originality in my writing. But as I have recently discovered, I must also remember that if my read- er does not perceive my words the way I intended, I will not succeed in communicating my message.

If I am the only one capable of comprehending the thoughts burning in my mind, it is my loss. I must consider my reader when writing, for my flames may be extinguished upon my death, but it is through my reader that my words will spread like wildfire.

HOPPER’S “NIGHTHAWKS”

The Des Moines Art Center is displaying some of Edward Hopper’s original work on loan from the Seattle Art Museum and a private Seattle collection.

Edward Hopper was an American artist in the 1920s. Two common characteristics in his work show facets of American life, such as gas stations and theaters, and seascapes and rural landscapes. Because feminism was strong in the 1920s, many of his solitary figures are women.

Hopper once wrote, “It takes a long time for an idea to strike. Then I have to think about it for a long time. I don’t start painting until I have it all worked out in my mind.”

Influenced by film noir and other aspects of urban life, the majority of Hopper’s works are “modern in their bleakness and simplicity,” while “also full of nostalgia for the puritan virtues of the American past,” according to a book by Edward Lucie- Smith.

There are a variety of works showing his different styles and views. “Automat,” a permanent piece of the Art Center’s col­lection, and “Chop Suey” are anchoring pieces of the exhibit.

There are also events planned that are planned around Hopper’s work. A film series, art discussions and music of the period are scheduled in conjunction with the exhibit.

The exhibit is on display through April 23.