The following reflection was written in 2003, when I was between 25 and 26 years old.

The playwrighting/screenwriting class I signed up to take in the Fall of my junior year was supposed to be the best class on my schedule. It was an afternoon class on Fridays and it seemed like it would be the perfect way to end my week when I signed up for it earlier in the year. However, it turned out to be the most ridiculously awful class I took in my four years at Bradford.

The instructor, whose name I can’t remember, didn’t seem to have a clue. He wasn’t a bad guy but God was he lost in terms of teaching. I don’t remember learning a damn thing in that class. I remember watching snippets of movies he thought were interesting and then not even really delving into the process of creating them. We would watch this shit and then not even really talk about it.

I was more interesting in playwrighting anyway, so I suppose his endless focus on the screenwriting side of it was annoying to begin with. The exercizes he gave us didn’t intrigue me. They didn’t challenge me. In the end, I ended up turning in second-rate shit for class while I focused my real attention on a play I was working on during my work-study hours at the computer lab. We’ll get to that later though.

All in all, there was no class in the whole of my college career that was more disappointing to me.