Pants. Pants. Pants.

 It should come to people’s attention that I’m a well off and non-closeted pantser when it comes to writing.  There are writers out there who plan longer than they write in a day.  Then there’s fellows like Stephen King, Jerry Jenkins and me, who identify as pantsers.  Writers who write by the seat of their pants; we virtually pull words and paragraphs and books out of our pants, slap them on paper and expect it to be good.  With the well known writers, they’ll always do fine, but the little guys—like me—are left behind in the dust.  A lone, musty dust that clouds my eyes and sprinkles my hair with particles.  Staring blankly isn’t easily avoided if you’re a pantser or not, it’s a known fact that writer’s block is bound to hit the best of us.  I’m not the best, but I consider myself enough of a writer to experience it fully.  That’s fair.  What’s next?  Maybe he’ll go into a bar and shoot that couple dancing and slamming martinis down.  I wrote that line in and it melded so fluently, it was like Christmas in July.  I wanted to run down the beach with a strand of lit Christmas lights, a red hat and a white clip-on beard.  I’ve learned that there’s nothing wrong with being a pantser; if anything it makes you more imaginative and adventurous to the study of writing.  I crave knowledge for it everyday.  Jokes on me, I always wear blue jeans, so no luck there.  My head has enough space for a few books or two, but to actually use my brain for something useful is a skill I have yet to master at all.  It’s like I have a clock and the instruction booklet in my left hand to set it up, but I’m right handed so I ignore my left.  That’s my sense of logic when it comes to writing fluently and writing in my style.  Every style is “unique” and “distinctive”, but that's a fatter liar than some of the things I’ve heard.  It’s a sense of pride and encouragement from supporting members of your cliques.  They want nothing more than for you to feel mediocre about yourself and your writing.  That’s fair.  It’s amazing how I can’t write an essay anymore.  I hate prompts with more burning passion than I have for any poem.  The paragraphs, I can’t help it, are repetitive and notoriously boring with incorrect grammar and too much evidence.  It’s dripping in bias and oozes raw talent easier than dissection in Bio.  Is writing the perfect essay impossible?  Of course it is, because you can only write a good essay—at least in my eyes—if you are in favor of the topic up for debate.  Or have reasons to disagree with the claim.  A page and a half of four paragraphs repeating the prompt and restating the evidence said in the speech by Madeleine Albright or Barack Obama.  Makes coherent enough sense, but at what cost would it hurt you to fixate on it a little more and clean it better.  Not that much of a cost except missing that ball game you’ve been looking forward to for a month.  Yanks and Bears.  What a beauty.  “Now I want those essays revised by tomorrow.”  “I got a ballg-“.  “No excuses.”  Shake your head and say “yes, Mrs. Robot Overlord.”  You write as a pantser with everything after you discover yourself as one.  Pretty easy to tell honestly.  “Distinctive.”  There’s that word again.  Is it really that noticeable? You do have a crumb on your face.  I’ll get it, dear.  Thanks.  Essays become short stories.  Short stories become garbage.  Garbage gets picked up once a week and taken to the city dump.  My case in point.  Not too bad to write like that, but being a pantser, like everything else, has its consequences.  And when you’re unprepared, it’ll hit you harder.  Enough to leave a goose egg on your forehead.  College professors will have a few good laughs in your face if you become a noticeable pantser.  Don’t get caught, fellow Pantsers.  You just missed the initiation ceremony, but there’s a cocktail party after.  Cheerio, good fellows.