I sat in the high school guidance counselor’s office yet again, she politely asked me if I was having some sort of breakdown; because of the story I wrote about being a desk in a school that was set on fire, or a tale of Grendel’s mother feelings about Beowuf killing her son.  I had no idea I was actually expressing my teenage emotions in an established literary form – transgressive writing.  When the teacher told me I couldn’t do a strain of conciseness story about a suicidal vampire cause I couldn’t get into the brain of the character, instead of saying yes I can (which got me sent back to the counselors office); I wish I had explained to her that I was just getting ready to join a group of like minded writer who dealt with their life problems and trauma through writing.  I wish I had known about Weird Weather zine and the Cherry Bleeds web site or the thousands of wonderful writers I would later meet back then. I wish I had been aware of the transgressive arts - ‘Optimistic tales by suicidal writers’  - tales of drugs, sex, and dark things penned by people living the life.