TALES FROM THE MADHOUSE

TALES FROM THE MADHOUSE

BRENDAN IRVING

PREFACE

The art of writing is in fact the art of selling. People write to be heard. If no one read anyone’s work there would be no reason to write it down. I highly doubt people on deserted islands write their “Great American Novel” — scribbling everything down on coconuts using squid ink. Ultimately, we want as many people to read and enjoy our composition as possible. It’s pretty narcissistic. The better you sell it and convince them it’s good, the more accolades you will be receive.

Before you know it, The New York Times will be knocking down your door and Steven King and George R.R. Martin will give you an abundance of high fives.

Writing anything worth reading takes time, patience, and demands a limited social life. Sometimes it’s cathartic, other times it’s downright Morrissey-esque. Either way, it’s an expression of one’s ideas and a glimpse into their creative soul. This book is just that. It’s a culmination of short stories that were written both out of necessity and out of love. Some are narratives, others take a more journalistic approach; however, all of them mean a great deal to me.

I hope you enjoy reading them and I hope you love them, because I have a horrible self esteem and I need the validation of others to feel good.

Enjoy, Brendan Irving

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

The sky was cloudless. The sun was about to set. The weather was perfect. A pink-orange hue covered the New York skyline. The skyscrapers looked like a Georgia O’Keeffe pastel painting. Dreams were being achieved. Desires were being fulfilled. Happiness was running rampant; infecting everyone who crossed its path. This orgiastic feeling gave the city a pulse that it had not felt in a while.

The majority of New Yorkers were on cloud nine. Max was on the Empire State Building and was about to propose to his girlfriend, Karen. He had planned this day for months, meticulously taking every detail into consideration.

Proposing on the Empire State Building was cheesy and not original in the slightest, but Max knew that Karen loved the movie Sleepless in Seattle -- it was the movie they watched together on their first date.

Max looked around the observation deck. To protect depressed assholes from jumping, the floor was surrounded by a nine-foot Art Deco fence that curved in on the top. The enclosure seemed like a very classy prison for fanny-pack-riddled tourists. Paparazzi would be impressed with the voracity and intensity of the pictures being taken.

Karin was scheduled to arrive in one minute. Max had asked Karin’s best friend, Winnie, to take her to the top on the pretense that Winnie wanted to do a photo shoot with Karin.

To make the whole experience more like Sleepless in Seattle, Max had found a backpack that looked like the one Tom Hanks’ son had in the movie. He had filled his backpack with: a Teddy Bear, a Photoshopped picture of Sleepless in Seattle with Max and Karen’s face superimposed on it, a note, and the ring. The note read:

I can’t imagine spending my life with anyone else. You’re the best lover. Best friend. Best companion I could ever ask for. Just like Sleepless, we were meant to be together. I promise to be the man that you want me to be. Will you marry me? Max

Max just got the text from Winnie that they were on the elevator. He put the backpack down under the designated tower-viewer binoculars and hid around the corner. He saw Karin coming out of the door. She looked

amazing. A red ’60s dress that had a low back held closely to her body -- complementing her curvaceous physique. Her hair acted as a movie screen -- projecting the impeccable sunset, giving her dark brown curly hair a bioluminescence. Karen’s presence made Max wash away any of the anxiety and clamminess that had plagued him for months. He knew the conditions were perfect for a positive, beautiful proposal. Now he just watched in anticipation and delight. This was going to be OK.

“Bomb! There’s a bomb!”

A woman in a fanny-pack and ‘I Heart New York’ tee shirt was pointing at the backpack. Max’s dreams melted away with the sunset. People started to panic. This was gonna be a problem.

URBAN SAFARI

The sun came up over Central Park. Dew that carpeted young green grass sparkled like rainbow-colored prisms. Trees celebrated the warm weather with young leaves and flowers. Daffodils and daisies joined in a triumphant trumpeting of hues. It was Spring -- a great time to be homeless.

Carl woke up from under his park bench. His “home” was located directly behind the Imagine mosaic in Strawberry Fields. Thousands of tattered newspapers surrounded him and a threadbare Army surplus blanket covered his old, weathered body. Used Santa Maria candles that had burned down long ago protected and marked Carl’s property. In front of the candles was a metal bowl filled with a can of beans, some pot, and a 40oz of Colt 45.

Every day, Carl went through everything he had in his metal bowl.

Every morning he woke up to find it replenished. He didn’t know who his benefactor was but didn’t like to ask questions. Homelessness had taught him that. He only knew that he had to play his guitar, wear John Lennon sunglasses, be happy, and go through his supply of food and drugs.

After a baked-bean breakfast, Carl smoked his pipe. The pot put him at ease. It made him forget the horrible nightmares he had every night. It made the bad people get out of his head. Carl picked up his guitar, put on his glasses, and started to play “Beautiful Boy” by John Lennon.

“Close your eyes, Have no fear, The monster’s gone…”

“Stop singing that trash! They can’t understand you,” Crazy Charlie yelled out from behind Carl’s shoulder. He pushed his grocery cart of cans and old books. He stumbled over a purple azalea bush, leaving flower petals in his wake. “Play some CCR or some Cream; you play the same shit every day.”

“I play Lennon because that’s what people want to hear.”

“You need to stop taking your drugs. They feed you the drugs and booze so you won’t know the truth!” Crazy Charlie went over to the Imagine mosaic, got to his knees, and whispered.

“Let me ask you something, Lennon. Why do people never talk to us? Why are we the only people actually IN the park?”

Carl looked around. He saw people across the street. Business people. People with homes. People he had learned not to talk to or bother.

“What about those people?”

“Those people aren’t real.”

“What about Sam, Gracie, and Rochelle?”

“They’re homeless, like us. Only homeless people are in the park.”

At that moment, Charlie shook his head, took his grocery cart of cans, and ran over another azalea bush. “I promise that you’ll know the truth once you stop taking the drugs.”

“But what about the dreams?”

“The dreams are the truth.”

Carl didn’t believe him. He took another hit and started to play “Instant Karma.”

BRIDGING THE GAP

Across from Atlas’ steady gaze, in the center of the Big Apple, stood the magnificent St. Patrick’s Cathedral. A masterpiece in Gothic architecture and stone masonry. A 135-year-old time capsule of prestigious weddings and funerals. The universal purveyor of sacrament and sin.

The two main spires reached up into the sky. They looked like a grandmother’s pious praying hands. Covered with old knots and bruises and worn down from carpal tunnel. But they still looked beautiful. Happy.

Sanctimonious.

Maryam stood outside St. Patrick’s Cathedral, staring at her hands.

She couldn’t believe these hands had made it so far and through so much.

Maryam decided that before she died, she would visit St. Patrick’s for her late husband. On his deathbed, he asked her to visit the Cathedral and give a special gift to Cardinal Dolan. Her husband was in dire straits during the 9/11 attack and, when all else failed, he found refuge in the Church. Cardi-

nal Dolan gave him shelter and food.

Maryam came from a small village halfway across the Earth. This village suffered greatly in the past two decades. War, famine, disease, and instability plagued her small town. Her body would always be covered in the residual blood and memories of her past, but for some reason she now felt solace.

With a handful of other tourists, Maryam went inside. If this experience were a movie, the Church itself would be the protagonist. Hundreds of tourists from all different nations and religions moved around as mere background players to the beautiful cacophony of sound and light that filled the space. Camera clicks and whispered Hail Marys filled the hall -- creating a white noise that would put a rabid dog at ease. The roof of the church resembled a giant fish’s backbone, its granite ribs spreading down to the stained-glass windows that made its translucent gills.

Maryam went to the help desk kiosk right below the massive organ.

“Excuse me, do you know if I can talk to Cardinal Dolan?”

The woman at the kiosk looked up, slightly taken aback. “The Cardinal doesn’t usually meet visitors unless he knows them or there is an appointment, and I don’t have the authority to get him. I’m just a volunteer.”

“I really need to see him. I have traveled a great distance to give him a present from my dead husband’s hands.”

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t help you. Would you like to buy a candle and light it for your husband?”

“Your candles are beautiful, but in my husband’s memory and by my life, I cannot. Prayer is my means of remembering.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“May I leave the present with you to give him?”

“I don’t think that would…..”

A priest who overheard the conversation interrupted, “Excuse me, I

am actually going to meet with the Cardinal tomorrow. Would you like to give me the gift?”

“That would help me so much. Thank you. Thank you.”

Maryam reached into her bag and pulled out a very old Koran.

BRUNCH AT BERGDORF'S “Where are you going?”

“Where I go every Sunday afternoon. Bergdorf.”

“What’s the point? You can’t afford anything.”

“Well, you took out that life insurance policy 50 years ago, and you’re looking pretty long in the tooth.”

“Very funny, Roseanne. Don’t forget to pick me up the Post and an everything bagel with lox.”

Roseanne looked at herself in the mirror. Her silvery-blue hair was perfectly curled and it accentuated her light pink lipstick. Although her face had seen better days, her aquamarine eyes still glistened with the fountain of youth. She grabbed her old beat-up mink jacket, and a Starbucks to-go

cup, and walked out of her rent-stabilized railroad apartment. For the last 40 years, Roseanne went to Bergdorf Goodman at 12:30 every Sunday.

She felt that Audrey Hepburn could have Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but she would always have brunch at Bergdorf’s.

Roseanne stopped by the liquor store and picked up a small bottle of Veuve Clicquot. The owner, Frank, knew her and was used to her Sunday ritual. He opened the bottle and filled her Starbucks cup. “Hope you enjoy that Venti-Chinese-Carbonated-Latte-Tea.” Frank gave her a wink and a smile. She then went to the local deli and bought a cucumber sandwich.

Roseanne had heard from someone that that’s what true ladies ate.

After a brief train ride, Roseanne came to the front door of Bergdorf Goodman. The outside looked dignified. Pristine. Every inch of cement, glass, and metal had a divine purpose. A purpose that was both functional and aesthetically pleasing.

A rush of excitement filled Roseanne as she went into the 116-yearold store, and headed toward the recently renovated shoe salon. When it came to fashion, shoes gave her the most happiness. They were a status symbol that could take you to the top, both literally and figuratively.

Roseanne went into the Salon and sat in her usual seat, a ’60s Swedish blue-velvet chair. The chair surrounded her body with the warm embrace of a World War II GI coming home to his separated lover. It reminded her of when her husband came home. The best day of her life.

Beams of light fell on her face from the eastern windows overlooking Fifth Avenue. The ceiling, carpet, and furniture was designed to accentuate the shoes. The beautiful, magical, mobile pieces of art. Gucci, Jimmy Choo, Valentino, Tom Ford, Prada all screamed out to be looked at like beautiful models with horrible self-esteem. Roseanne sipped her cup and thought about how nice it would be to just own one pair of those shoes.

How many millions had been spent here? How many wives had pissed off their husbands? How many husbands had tried to make up to their wives? The whole place just seemed so fantastical and serene, yet regal and unrealistic at the same time.

Roseanne kept sipping her Champagne and thinking of long summers past.

THE FREEDOM OF THE PHOENIX

Just like the mythical phoenix, One World Trade Center was born from the ashes of its predecessor. Given the daunting task to bring life into the city that lost so much, architects Daniel Libeskind and David Childs accepted the challenge with the confidence and perseverance of a pregnant Alaskan salmon. Built on a 16-acre graveyard for 2,753 unexpecting souls. A mausoleum of brave American businessmen, firefighters, policemen, mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters. The One World Trade Center memorializes the lost in the only way New York knows how to — by building something better and more expensive over it. Like the Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn Bridge, and Flatiron, this building not only represents red, white, and blue ingenuity, but resilience and strength. It’s a statement. That we will never back down. Never give up. And, most importantly, never forget.

The Freedom Tower is located in Lower Manhattan, in the heart of the Financial District and the world economy. Where bears fight bulls

over billions of dollars. When looking at the tower, you become humbled by its sheer size and indomitable strength. It’s intimidating. The base of the tower is a 185-foot windowless fortified wall, surrounded by metal-teeth checkpoints. This is not only a functional business building, it’s a defensive outpost. A castle from feudal Europe providing commerce and protection against barbarian raiders.

Once you get close to the Freedom Tower, you start to feel like an insect staring at a giant oak. It resembles a shimmering quartz crystal that spent the last million years forming deep under a mountain, only to be chiseled out and methodically polished before being majestically planted for all to see. The tower is the tallest structure in the Western Hemisphere and fourth tallest in the world. It patriotically stands over a quarter of a mile into the sky — symbolically 1776 feet. 1776, the year we as a country rebelled against the British and demanded our independence.

The Freedom Tower opened on November 3, 2014. With 104 floors, 2.6 million square feet of rentable office space, and 74 elevators, it’s the most prestigious, pragmatic pillar of commerce and construction ever built.

The exterior glass and geometry of the tower make it a giant mirror to the sky and skyline. This architectural design symbolically acts as a window to New York’s soul. It reflects the city’s true sentiments, strengths, and weaknesses. Like Dorian Gray’s portrait, the tower lets us see each other for who we really are as a city. Strong, stubborn, and daunting. The tower reaches up to the sky like the Tower of Babel. Getting closer to the cosmos with every floor — almost daring God to try and knock it down.

Whether you’re a New Yorker or newcomer, One World Trade Center is a must-visit. In a city that rarely looks up from the ground, the sheer number of tilted heads is a testament to its jaw-dropping design. The Freedom Tower is the phoenix. It flaps its beautiful glass wings up into the sky and blows us away from the pain of the past.

It brings us closer to fulfilling our dreams.

Our dreams for the future.

SHAZAM

Music is the universal language. Regardless of ethnicity, gender, religion, sexual orientation, or economic status, music is appreciated and loved by all who hear and play it. It makes you cry like a baby, laugh like a hyena on nitrous oxide, and dance like a glow stick in Ibiza. It’s nostalgic, vicarious, and visceral.

The only downside of music is hearing the perfect song and not knowing the name of it. Maybe it’s a song you have never heard. Or it’s one you heard a long time ago. Either way, you don’t know the name of it and it gnaws at your very soul. Drives you to the steep, jagged edge of insanity.

Makes you feel like Daniel Day Lewis in between movie parts. Crazy.

This was a serious problem -- until 1999, when Shazam came out.

Shazam is a British-based app that identifies songs with the elegant push of a button. It not only lets you “fingerprint” your favorite unknown tracks, but it gives you links to the songs so you can listen and purchase them. Shazam’s identification software is so acute it can even recognize songs that have been sung by drunk tone-deaf assholes in a busy bar. This

I know from experience. The app keeps track of every single song you “tagged” and keeps a neat, well-chronicled account of everything you have found Shazam-worthy. It also tells you what songs have been trending and are the most popular. Now you don’t have to awkwardly troll Urban Outfitters to hear what young millennials are Tweeting about.

The app design is sleek, self-explanatory, and simple. As soon as you open it, the beautiful blue and white logo appears in the center of the screen. It has an amicable Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey feel and presence. Virtual intelligence seems to be spewing out of the simple two-halfcircle insignia. Outer layers of the logo breathe in and out while it subserviently obeys your commands. It feels alive. This might be the precursor to The Matrix, but for now this program is as willing and content as a business exec at a dominatrix dungeon.

Since its inception, Shazam has been used to identify over 15 billion songs. That is more than double the amount of people that live on Earth today. The Shazam app has over 100 million monthly active users and has been used on more than 500 million mobile devices. In 2013, Shazam was ranked as one of the top 10 apps in the world.

The point of an app is to make people’s lives easier and more accessible. It makes the world smaller. Brings humans closer together. Apps unify humanity in the same way music does. There is a direct correlation between music vocabulary and empathy. With that in mind, Shazam can be looked upon as the glue that binds all of us. It helps us turn into a human race that can peacefully coexist. That loves music. Loves knowing who’s playing it. And loves finding that song for free on YouTube.

Thanks, Shazam.

PANORAMIC EUPHORIA

In a city that is filled with congestion, smog, and incessant honking, it’s nice to find a place where you can actually hear yourself think. Everyone lives in New York for the hustle and bustle, but after a harsh winter of binge drinking whiskey and dancing to dubstep, it’s nice to get out of the ash tray and into the aromatic ecstasy that is the West Side Highway bike path. A place where urban vistas and botanical landscapes collide into an explosion of panoramic euphoria.

If you enjoy riding a bike, this is the perfect spot. The Hudson River slowly churns its way to the Atlantic, sending small fish into the fast highway that is the ocean. Small house boats bob up and down like children on Teeter-totters, never wanting to stop, going tirelessly into the night. An old aircraft carrier — The Intrepid — stands watch, protecting antique airplanes like a stubborn mother grizzly defending her cubs. Chelsea Piers stands proudly with giant nets ready to prevent yuppie golf balls from hitting random tug boats. The breeze hits your face like the caress of an old lover.

Reminding you how good life can be. Flowers and trees blend right by you, turning into a vanguard of colors that would make any artist salivate.

The Hudson River Greenway goes all the way from the southernmost end of Manhattan in Battery Park all the way up to Fort Tryon in the north. It is the most heavily used bike path in the United States, however, at no point will this congestion feel claustrophobic. The path is easily accessible all the way up. Whether it be for work or leisure, the bike ride will get you any place quickly without any problems at all. If you want to haul ass and really work on “those thighs,” you will probably make it downtown faster than any other means of transportation. It’s also very nice to ride your bike without the fear of being “doored” by a valium-induced Upper East Side stalagmite.

Sunset is the best time to ride. Being on the West Side, you get to enjoy the mango sorbet sunset from ringside seats, as it douses its illuminating dessert all over the NYC skyline and NJ wannabe-skyline and fills the city with a breath of fresh air like a deep sea oyster diver coming up from the depths. It’s nice. Its otherworldly. And it’s refreshing.

A bike can be looked upon as an extension of one’s self. It moves with you, turns with you, stops with you — obediently following all of your commands like a rookie Madonna backup dancer. It feels very Zen. You can move quickly from any place you desire, but do it silently. In New York, quickly moving noiselessly through a beautiful park during springtime is a much needed break. It reminds us that the world is beautiful, serene, and it actually exists in NYC.

VINTAGE PIZZA

Dough, cheese, and sauce. The ingredients to one of the most treasured meals on the planet. Pizza. The idea is so simple, yet that simplicity resonates with our tastebuds, creating a euphoric explosion in our mouth that will deeply satisfy anyone, from a drunken NYU student to a sober stiletto starlet. Regardless of the elementary components, making an amazing New York slice is no easy process. The tomato sauce has to be perfectly balanced with its acidity and sweetness. The mozzarella has to be low-moisture and aged. The dough has to have the most effective heirloom yeast. The pizzaiolo has to have the right amount of salt on his hands. And the oven has to convect the precise temperature for the exact amount of time. Pretty much, you have to make it the way they do at Joe’s Pizza in New York City.

Located in Greenwich Village on 7 Carmine Street, Joe’s Pizza has been an NYC staple since 1975. It has been labeled “Best of New York” by New York magazine and listed as one of the “Best 25 Pizzas On Earth” by GQ magazine in 2009. It has been featured in many walking tours of NYC and was used as the set for the college job of Peter Parker in Spiderman 2.

When you walk into Joe’s, you feel a burst of nostalgia. The décor is vintage — like a place Scorsese’s mom would be OK that you skipped Church for. The smells are amazing. Pepperoni, mozzarella cheese, and hot pepper flakes fill the room like an olfactory disco ball. You feel as if you are in New York before Giuliani and Bloomberg made it a corporate theme park. A time when New York was a little rougher around the edges and didn’t feel like a Mormon birthday party. A time when CBGB’s, Bleecker Bob’s, and Limelight still existed.

The best thing about Joe’s is that everybody walks in. Whether you’re a college student, homeless punk-rocker from Seattle, or Lesbian nurse from the Bronx — every one is at home.

There is a certain mind frame around New York — independent, open-minded, perseverant, and stubborn. Joe’s holds all of these qualities and lets you enjoy them with their pizza. In the same way a grandmother’s perfume brings back tranquil and soothing memories of childhood, Joe’s pizza hits a nerve that is enjoyable and relevant. If you don’t know the past, how can you persevere and triumph in the future? If you don’t respect and admire the simple things, how can you ever truly be good at something?

These are the questions Joe’s asks through its slices. And it does it so damn well.

DAYDREAMING DESTINATION

Governors Island. An island that is intertwined in American history like the ancient roots of its inhabiting trees. The original European settlement of New York — paid in full with two axe heads, a string of beads, and a few nails. An Army fortification for the first American Continental Army and the headquarters for the U.S. Coast Guard. A beautiful getaway. A wildlife preserve. A relaxing state of mind. A 172-acre oasis. And it can be visited for only two dollars.

In a city where transportation is very expensive, two dollars for a beautiful boat ride seems insane. The claustrophobic, bed-bug-infested NYC subway is $2.75. Not only is it a cheap boat ride, but the destination is spectacular. This is very different from the Staten Island Ferry.

The view from the ferry is picturesque. You can see the skyline of Manhattan, Brooklyn, and New Jersey. If Ansel Adams were alive today, he would almost surely vacate Yosemite and set up an Instagram account solely for Governors. The ride itself takes only seven minutes, and the ferry leaves from both Manhattan and Brooklyn locations every half-hour on the hour from 10 to 6 on weekdays and 10 to 7 on the weekends.

The island itself is gorgeous. Carpeted with a pristine promenade of colonial houses that date back to 1701, worn-down battlements, and ancient hardwood hickory, oak and chestnut trees. The old Coast Guard grounds have been turned into a park and thousands of trees have been planted there, accompanied by hammocks, sculptures, and baked hippies.

If you own a bike, it is highly recommended to bring it for a ride around the circumference of the park. Riding a bike on a perfect summer day is the best medication for a New Yorker who is filled with the anxiety of honking horns, crackheads, and cigarettes. It reinvigorates the soul and brings back sanity that is so easily lost in the city that never sleeps.

Up until 2003, the historic parts of Governors Island were not accessible to the public. New Yorkers and tourists alike had no idea what beauty lay a stone’s throw away from Manhattan. Unless you were the U.S. Coast Guard or some government official, it was impossible to experience this amazing historical landmark. Thankfully that has changed, and there is no acceptable excuse not to visit.

Two axe heads, a string of beads, and a few nails.

That measly gift is the main reason we New Yorkers are here today.

It’s the price the Dutch paid for Governors Island from the Lenape Indians in 1637 — a great deal considering all the waterfront property. Without that stronghold, New York might have been a very different place. With all of this amazing history and scenic beauty, it makes no sense that New Yorkers and tourists alike visit this day-dreaming destination as soon as possible.

It’s cheap. It’s close. And it makes you appreciate the Big Apple’s story in a whole new light.

CREATIVE COPY

Uprooting your life and blindly jumping into a new career path is tough. It demands faith, perseverance, and confidence. You feel like a lone paratrooper jumping into unknown Nazi territory with only your wits, a pack of smokes, and an M2 rifle to survive. (To all the real paratroopers reading this, please know I exaggerate. A LOT.) It’s especially tough because you are saying goodbye to your old life. This can be a great cathartic experience, but it can also bring a sense of sadness. I felt this melancholy greatly when I decided to leave acting and become a copywriter at the Miami Ad School. Doing anything for ten years and then abruptly stopping is tough.

Imagine saying goodbye to masturbation. Thankfully, my apprehensions quickly evaporated when I began my first copywriting class with Corey Rosenberg.

Unlike most “colleges,” my classroom consisted of an actual bona fide boardroom in a prestigious ad agency, ACD — located in the heart of the advertising world in the Flatiron District of NYC. The agency looks more like a manicured man-cave then a place of capitalism. Ping Pong tables, NERF bows and arrows, and Pilates bouncy balls scatter the open twofloored agency like a kindergartener’s bedroom. Each floor has its own fully functional kitchen with fridges packed with Vitamin Water, Corona, and Red

Bull — the ideal broke college student’s hangout. Extremely powerful Macs stand at-the-ready on desks just salivating to make the next CLIO. Hipdressed creatives fricassee around the area like caramelizing onions in hot butter. I had never seen more casually dressed rich people in my life.

This class was also different because it was so small. A motley crew of seven brave souls ready to take the challenge to open our minds, dig deep into our subconscious, and churn out stories that represented who we are and what we think about. The Magnificent Seven, The Seven Samurai, and us. The Seven Copywriters — it has a nice ring to it. A group of writers who save the world by learning how to write persuasive copy for Summer’s Eve and Dentyne Ice.

From the very first class, I knew I was surrounded by talented writers. People who were from all walks of life and ages — all creative and not afraid to give criticism and jokes when needed. My teacher -- Corey Rosenberg -- was a big reason for this comfortable atmosphere. Corey made the class an enjoyable experience regardless of the workload. Each week, we were asked to go to a location in NYC and write a 3,000-word story, then turn it into an edited 500-word story. This exercise was extremely beneficial. First, to write about something well, you need to experience it firsthand.

You have to smell it, breathe it, hear it, touch it. Make it tangible. Relatable.

There is a reason books like To Kill a Mockingbird and In Cold Blood are such memorable pieces of literature -- they are both based off real-life experiences.

This practice of researching your subject material was extremely useful and applicable when writing copy for an advertisement. How can you truly write great tag-lines and body copy if you don’t know everything there is to know about the product and its competition? In a cheesy Zen cliche, you have to become one with the product.

In the first four weeks of the class, we were given free creative rein to make any kind of story we felt inspired to write based off of the designated location. Allowing a person to write anything is so fun yet challenging at the same time. It’s great because you can do anything. You could write a Film Noir musical about the Empire State Building or a soft-core robot romance set in Central Park.

Every week, I competed with my other classmates for the best

iambic pentameter, alliteration, metaphor, and rhyming scheme. Corey also pushed us to write as grammatically and poetically as possible. One class we spent researching punctuation marks. That was the day I popped my em-dash cherry. Corey always told us that the best material is quick, to the point, and edited as much as humanly possible. This advice was crucial to my appreciation of copy and growth as a writer.

After the first four weeks of writing fictional narratives, we were then asked to write our next assignments with an advertising angle. In a way, the location not only became the scene of the story but the product. Although these assignments were a lot dryer than the others, we were able to make them as fun as possible with our own poetic styles -- which had been manicured and honed.

Teachers teach, but the great ones inspire and motivate. They show you how to think for yourself, justify everything you do, and drive you to become a master in your craft. These are all the things that Corey Rosenberg did as a copywriting teacher in Story Writing class. As I was a first semester student, Corey’s class was my first glimpse into what it meant to be a creative copywriter. From the first day to the last, Corey pushed us to be the most eloquent, concise, grammatically correct writers we could be. His love of words and punctuation marks — especially the em dash — created a much deserved air of respect for writing as a science and an art form. He never gave up on us and was always willing to lend a hand when we needed the additional help. Because of Corey’s inspiring class, I realized what it meant to be a copywriter and I also became aware that this is what I want to do in life. Life is nothing more than a bunch of decisions and actions. With that in mind, I am thankful I made the decision to start a new career and that I took the action needed to say goodbye to my old life and embrace my new life with open arms. Soon, I will rule the world!