The Fat Lady Belts it Out

The final few minutes are ticking away and my kids are ornery, tired, and yelling at each other as they struggle to stay awake until to midnight. They're also Wii-ing and coming within fractions of inches of nailing each other and the TV with the controls. Ah, sibling rivalry.

There are plenty of things that I could blog about to fill this last post of the year. For instance, I could be thankful that my upstairs toilet flooded a few years ago. Why? Because my dad was able to help me fix it, and today I was able to fix the downstairs one by myself. And I didn't even learn any new plumbing words! Or use some of the ones I learned last time. Heh-heh.

I could be thankful for ward clerks who save me hours of time because they know how to do their job.

I could be thankful that I didn't slide off the road like those dozens of other cool 4x4 off-roading idiots.

I could be thankful for a new niece.

I could be thankful that this New Year's mayhem only comes once a year.

Without a doubt I could be thankful that this is the last of my penance posts.

However, what I am most thankful for right now is the fact that for the past thirty-one days, I have done a little writing for me. It's just a start, and IO hope it will grow. Even though I'm not going to post every night for the whole world to see--okay, the three of you who waste your time on this site--I'm going to keep writing. I'll probably revisit the goals I've set, especially for writing. I know I need to make the time. All my writer friends say so, so I guess it must be true. (Just like the Internet!)

I'm also thankful for Amy and her support as I pursue my degree, as I "fix" toilets, and As I write and do all of those other geeky things I do. She definitely wins "Mama of the Year" in my book.

So, yeah. I guess this is it...or is it? (I hate that ending, especially when students use it in their fiction.)

Stop Laughing (Now)!

I need to send mad props to the twenty-something-year-old tech geeks in my life. More specifically, today, I am thankful for the two dudes who hooked us up at the phone store. Gracias to them, I sent my very first text message E.V.E.R. in my life. In the past year and a half I have started this blog, joined Facebook, and now I've joined the world of texting. Welcome to the decade, Jose! Any suggestions as to where I go from here?

Could It Be Blogger's Block?

My posts lately have been a bit on the lame side, or so it seems. It's a little taxing to try and produce every day. Today, I'm thankful that my penance will be up in two days. Then I'll reduce my musings so I don't overburden my couple of deluded readers with senseless drizzle.

Young Consumers

The season of Christmas TV specials has finally limped off into the sunset, and I, personally, couldn't be happier. No, I really like watching the Grinch's heart grow to the point where the Whos invite him to carve the roast beast. (I've often wondered what the beast tastes like.) Rudolph and Frosty, although cheesy, are classics. But it's those darn commercials that pop up every three and a half minutes that chap my hide. Even little Brook complained, "Mom, please turn it (the show) back on." She didn't want the loud, obnoxious advertisements either. I am thankful for children who are becoming educated (and somewhat critical) consumers.

Case in point: on our way to run a few errands, i.e. spend gift cards, we drove past RC Willey. As we hit the speed bumps in front of the store, Zac blurted, "Your home, your way. That's about the stupidest thing I've ever heard." He continued, "I've heard it, like, a thousand times on TV. It's like their motto or something." He has gone beyond catchy jingles. Nice. Now we just have to get Ally to stop whining about putting something else on NEXT year's list every time she watches TV.

Whatever the Weather

After watching the news tonight, I am truly grateful that all the airlines jacked up their ticket prices so high that they drove us away from flying back east for Christmas. Seriously, I've driven through fog and blizzards and hurricanes, but I do NOT want to be out in all that crap that's blowing across the states right now. My apologies to anyone who is stranded or delayed; I've played that game before, too. So...a big thank you to Delta, Southwest, United, and every other major holiday rip off. You saved me a long, cold, boring layover.

We felt the storm last week. See the post from 21 December.

Fire and Brimstone!

At the beginning of 2010 our Stake President challenged us to read the entire Old Testament from cover to cover. Now, for the second time in my life I have read every single begat, every ritual sacrifice, every cubit, every hellfire and brimstone thundering against the boneheaded Israelites who couldn't remember their God from one minute to the next, and every single prophecy. The last time it took me two years to trudge through it. This time I've done it in one. Now, don't get me wrong, I love the Old Testament and its stories and teachings. But let's face it; most of the Bible stories the Christian world hears come from a small portion of what's actually in there. Most people would rather get a root canal than read the rest.

I'm thankful for my own stubbornness that drove me to finish the OT. I think about how it parallels my own life. No matter how many boneheaded things I do, no matter how stubborn my will is, or how long it takes me to figure things out, His hands are outstretched still. See Isaiah 5:25. Heck, read the whole chapter. Or the entire book. It's good for you--and not just in a broccoli or soy or cardio sort of way.

Although an arduous task, I am thankful to have surmounted the challenge and gained a deeper appreciation for this ancient book of scripture, a firmer sense of my relationship with God, and a stronger testimony of the Savior and His love for me (and all you other peoples, too).

And now that I've done and gone all churchy on y'all, I'll be thankful if anyone else keeps reading this blog.

Christmas Day

You know, I could be really Cheez-Whizzy and sentimental here, but I refuse. It was a good day. Let's just say that I'm thankful that Santa got everything right this morning.

Christmas Eve

I am thankful I am not a last-second shopper. Instead of rushing in a frenzy through the mall or standing in line with the rest of the freaks at Wal-Mart, I was able to enjoy a great day with my spastic kids. We continued our Noche Buena tradition with a trip to the movies. The kids loved Tangled; even Sam liked his experience on the FRONT ROW! Sidenote: I have a crick in my neck. We then continued on the the Brick Oven, where all five kids ate well (Christmas miracle), and despite my food arriving after everyone else was finishing, it was quite delectable. The Christmas "pageant" with the Smiths was complete with a several giggling wise guys (Zac, et al), a bashful angel (Brook), and a Mary (Ally) who enjoyed snuggling into Joseph (cousin Skyler). Finally, the Christmas jammies and slippers appeared, and it was all I could do to hasten the sugar plums' visit. Tomorrow we'll see what the fat man brings.

SImple Pleasure

Tonight I am thankful for the simple joy and pleasure a smoky bacon and cheddar cheese ball brings. Oh, yes, and crackers, too.

A Rare Breed

So for Scouts tonight, we had a white elephant exchange, pizza, drinks, and video games on the big screen. I am thankful that I don't have six ravenous, odoriferous, pyromaniac teenagers to look after every night of the week. Love the boys, but I'm glad I can send them home at the end of the activity.

P.S. For those of you keeping score at home, this is twenty-one days on a row.

Snow!

So, after I spent the early morning digging out from under (at least) 18 inches of snow, and arriving at work late, school was canceled. Apparently, this is the first snow day Nebo School District has taken in 25 years. What a Christmas present!

I am thankful for the superintendent and his decision that allowed me to play in the drifts with my family, gave me a sore back, and created Freddy the Snowman and his baby Diamond the Snowbaby. (For some bizarre reason it tickled my funny bone like Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby.) Everyone but Sam got in on a little snow action. Zac also learned that it's not wise to upset a snow-shovel wielding wookie. He also learned how to inadvertently fly off jumps and land on his backside while sledding.

I am thankful that snowball fights are something my kids are going to remember, even if they NEVER beat their dad!

List

Today I am thankful for a few things. These are listed in no particular order except for the order that they came sneaking into my brain. Other than that there is no designation of hierarchy in my thoughts tonight.

1. I am thankful that Christmas shopping comes once a year.
2. I am thankful that in less than 24 hours Christmas Vacation will officially be here!
3. I am thankful that I've been able to blog twenty consecutive days.
4. I am thankful for grapes from Sam's Club.
5. I am thankful for grape Kool-Aid.
6. I am thankful that I don't have to visit the BSA office frequently.
7. I am thankful for silent reading.

Christmas Thought

Today I am going to be somewhat sentimental. I am thankful for a moment to pause and reflect about Christmas through the seasonal hymns. And I encourage everyone else to take a private moment for themselves and the simplistic beauty they contain. Tonight I call upon the third verse of "O Little Town of Bethlehem" for my inspiration:

How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heav’n.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.

Text: Phillips Brooks, 1835–1893

Music: Lewis H. Redner, 1831–1908

Ahh...

I am thankful that I can now drift away to sleep on my cozy, flannel-sheeted king-sized bed. Bonus nachos, y'all.

Christmas--Oh That's This Month?

Today, besides feeling much better, I am thankful for parents who live close and have room for Santa to stash his loot before the big present barrage. Man, my kids are going to make out like bandits this year. With my EdD semester done, and these few days "off," it's beginning to feel like I can slow down for Christmas. However, there are still seventeen bazillion things to do in order to be ready. Don't say anything about shopping; I'm still not done. Just don't remind me. I said to knock it off. Stop it.

Maybe over the holiday I'll get around to doing some good writing on a few pieces I've been keeping on the back burner. Maybe all the hidey holes at Grandma's house could come in handy again. Hmmm....

Can't Get Rid of Me That Easily

I think I spoke too soon last night. At approximately 6:20 this morning I completed the cycle and paid my obeisance to the porcelain goddess. It hit me with such a punch that I was literally brought to my knees. I haven't felt so sick since I lost an appendix. Now, I've been able to keep everything down that I've eaten, which is a whopping two saltines and a glass and a half of orange-flavored Powerade. Scrumptious!

While I was in my vomit-induced stupor today, we also had furnace troubles. Today, I am thankful for good, honest heating and A/C servicemen. Tom was probably the only repairman we've had who hasn't tried to con us into buying a new furnace or anything that would cost us thousand of extra dollars. If anyone needs an honest repairman, let me know. I'd be glad to give you his number.

Instead of puking in a freezing house, I can stew in warmth and sickness (but I am feeling much better).

Almost Missed One

Okay, I confess that I had shut down my computer for the night when I realized that I hadn't posted. See how my mind is working tonight? Blah. I'm thankful I didn't yak just now. How's that? (Although I would probably feel better if I did.)

Inspiration, Bribes, Whatever

Today I am thankful for Ghiradelli Peppermint Bark with Dark Chocolate squares for keeping me going through an onerous grading session. If you have not tried on of these delectable morsels, I hereby call you to repentance. On your knees, now! Your eternal progression has been stopped until thou hast partaken. If you know what I'm preaching, can I get a witness?

Really Reading

Tonight I am grateful for the ability to read. No, I don't just mean the fact that I can decipher words and comprehend a text. I'm talking about my ability to really read, to escape into a story (I'm done with textbooks for a few weeks), become part of the journey, and hang on for the ride. I'm grateful for my mother who read to me, for my wife who still reads aloud with me, and for my kids who let me read to and with them. No one is too old to be read aloud to. Just ask all my geeky writer friends.

I love the time I have to read aloud to my students--books that some of them would never dream of picking up, let alone making past page two. I read for them.

But now that my semester is done, I can read for me, and I've been enjoying it. I picked up Funny Business, the first installment of the Guys Read Library, edited by Jon Scieszka. I love short story collections, but today during silent reading, I was devouring David Lubar's "Kid Appeal," and I laughed out loud. Hard. Long. Enough to get stares from my 7th graders. One girl rolled her eyes, tilted her head, and looked at me. "Wha-at?" she snarled. I tried to explain how funny the book was (without disrupting the rest of the class), but all I got in return was an exasperated "unh" and a head shake, as if anyone could ever laugh at a bo-ok, Mr. Anson. She wasn't even trying to fake her way across the pages of Diary of a Wimpy Kid.

So I am grateful that I am able to uncover such pleasures in reading. I do laugh aloud. I do cry. I do need to find out what happens next. I do stay up way past the time all the stupid little vampires return to their beds...doing what...reading: enjoying life experiences, sharing the joy of living with those who can tell it best.

P.S. Most of the other students are begging for me to read it to them tomorrow.

Barf!

“I love writing—the process, the creativity, the ability to vomit my thoughts onto paper and rearrange the chunks, the phlegm, and all the other goopy nastiness (I don’t remember eating carrots?) that shows up.

“The ability to manipulate words and create images and stir feelings is power. Writing becomes a forum for thought, a format in which ideas are scooped up, molded, and solidified, and then thrown into the kiln only to explode, forcing you to rise from the ashes and create again. It forces you to learn.”

These are two metaphors that I mixed during a quickwrite a few weeks ago for my EdD seminar. The professor asked us to quickly jot down about our feelings toward writing. Most wrote about fear or bad memories of writing endless papers. I, junior high teacher geek that I am, had to write about tossing cookies. I’ve actually used that metaphor with my students on several occasions. It was refreshing to hear it used by author Kristen Chandler at the UCTE/LA Fall Conference in her keynote address. She said (more or less) that there are two ways to write draft: vomit it up or bleed it out. Blowing chunks is more my style. Sometimes the feeling, the idea just eats at you from the inside. Then you have to spew, or you’ll explode. If you don’t find the right receptacle, it’s just a big mess that nobody else wants to clean up. And even if it keeps you up all night, you always feel better after you’ve hurled.

So, in a way, I’m thankful for barfing (and Febreeze).

P.S. I shared my scramble with the class and received a round of applause, but the instructor liked the kiln metaphor better. Oh, well.

(Sniffle)

What's this? Eleven in a row! Woo-hoo! If I were a D-I football program, I'd be crying (louder) that the BCS must go because I might have a chance at a big bowl! Sorry, Boise St, you got the shaft again. Well, I'm still on fire in a frazzled, smoldering, burned-out sort of way. No kids have chucked (knock on wood, pseudo-wood, fiberglass, aluminum, or whatever works) so far tonight. I might actually get some sleep. Maybe. And did you notice that it's still the day this post is supposed to be posted.

Amy went Christmas shoppong while I stayed home and fought the good fight with the sickies. I am thankful that I made it through this week with nothing more than the sniffles--and they're not from my reluctance to leave my final paper behind.

Oh, and about me posting my research paper, fuhgeddaboutit. Maybe when the more practical article appears. I promise it will be more reader friendly (and less convoluted by theory and APA formatting).

Not This Again!

Due to my procrastination on a certain paper, (and the continual vomiting of a couple of choice little girls), I am now posting my gratitude on a day that hasn't yet ended, even though the date stamp doohickey says otherwise. I swear, I haven't gone to bed yet. I'm actually contemplating just staying up until Amy wakes up. I haven't pulled an all-nighter like this since I was 19!

I am thankful for my barfmonkeys.
I'm even more thankful that they are not ralphing at this exact moment.
But mostly, today I am thankful that every day is not like this one.

Plastic, Please

Today, I am grateful for plastic bowls and kids who know how to use them in the middle of the night. It sure beats scrubbing sheets and pillowcases and scalps and who knows what else before the butt crack of dawn.

Two weeks ago, during my USU seminar, the presenter asked us to freewrite our attitudes and feelings about writing in general. Guess what I likened writing unto? Yep. My 7th grade mentality took over and promptly constructed the metaphor of vomiting to the act of writing. I'd go into it more right now, but I'm supposed to be writing some research thingy, and I believe I hear someone moaning downstairs. Good thing they all have plastic bowls at the ready. I'll post about the puke images later...when I have more time.... Now, if I could only get the smell out of my nose.

Words, Words, Words

I am thankful not just for Hamlet, but for the power and beauty that words wield. Wait a while and I'll perhaps post my paper on wordplay, its social context, and its place in collaborative writing. Maybe.

Just Stopped to Say...

I'm thankful for the Publication Manual of the American Psychological Association, Sixth Edition. And that's all I have to say about that.

I've Got Time

Now, if you'll notice that today is the 6th of December, and yet I am tied for the most entries for a single month this year (with six). Am I awesome, or what? For those of you who answered "what," may your fingers fall off as you are scrolling down and be eaten by a pack of wandering zombies.

I owe all this writing, uninspiring as it may be, to time. Today I am thankful to Amy for giving me the time to write. She was home sick with the five-ring circus, and I was able to stay at school and write my final paper for a class. Yes, most of what I write over the next few years will hopefully draw me closer to that elusive title of Doctor Anson. Now, being Master Anson isn't all that bad. It wasn't much of a change for my students, though. They've always called me master. It might have something to do with a certain Sith affiliation.

Still, I am thankful for the time I have had to write, even if it wasn't super enjoyable; I will say that it was good to gather my thoughts and reflect. Lilke the awesome Mr. Incredible believes, "I've got time." That is, as long as I make it. Perhaps soon I'll be able to write something else. Yesterday I noticed that aside form my smattering of haiku, I haven't written any poetry lately. Tragic. Not black turtleneck or coffeehouse tragic, mind you; just plain old word loss tragic. I'll have to remedy that. Anyone seen a muse floating around nearby?

"Kissing Books"

So I was reading Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones with my lightsaber obsessed eight-year-old tonight, and we came to the part where Anakin gives in to the mushy side (not of the Force) and starts smoochin' on Padme. Zac giggled at first, but as it went on and got smoochier, he started making some pretty decent vomiting sounds. I had to pull his finger from his mouth because I, for one, did not want him to actually blow breakfast burrito chunks on his blankets. Immediately, I though of Fred Savage's performance on The Princess Bride: "Is this a kissing book?"

(To be read in the voice of Strong Bad): Needless to say, I am thankful for kissing books, which my son and I can shun together, even though some of them have some pretty cool fight scenes and car chases and explosions and outer space and sharks and more explosions and ninjas and pirates and even bigger explosions and zombies and sports and gigantic explosions and....

Blue Booger Blower (Sorry, Had to Alliterate)

Well, the obvious choice for today's post is Zac, as he was baptized today. I'm proud of my little doofus. I'd go off and mention all of the awesome things he does and says and is, but then I might be suddenly smitten with the leaky-eye syndrome and get my keyboard wet. Anyway, I'm sure Amy will post pictures and everything on our family blog.

So, I'll choose something else. I am thankful today for bulb syringes. You know...the blue things, the booger suckers that send their victims into a screaming rage even though you're just trying to unblock their nasal passages. Its good for the little snotty noses, right?

However, that;s not how I'm thankful for them. Sam has adopted his as his new chew toy. No, get that image out of your mind. The other end! I don't let my kid munch on his mocos. He's been using the bulb part to nurse those sore gums. And I'll keep on letting him. Little dude tried biting my shoulder twice in the past twenty minutes.

Three in a Row!

No, I'm not grateful for tic-tac-toe, although that's how I made it through a couple of classes in junior high. Today, and notice that it's not really a few minutes after midnight, I'm grateful for the Buy-It-Now option on eBay. I hate, hate, hate, detest, deplore, abhor, etc. getting excited about bidding on an item only to lose it at the last second to a professional bidder. You'd think some of these weasels were bred specifically to torture those of us who don't have a USB port or two at the base of our necks or ethernet running through our veins.

So, thanks to those vendors out there who actually care and let me pay my darn money without haggling. Now my son who lost his Lego C3PO at school (because he takes after his father) has a way to get his Lego droid without buying the Death Star...although this geeky dad thinks that would be pretty awesome, too, but he's too big of a cheapskate to shell out for it.

Teething

Ha! Two days in a row. You didn’t think I could do it. O, ye of little faith. Truthfully, I didn’t have faith either. (See also Chris Crowe’s guest spot on Throwing Up Words.) Actually, yesterday’s post didn’t come through until 12:01 this morning, so it looks like I posted twice on the same day. Not so. Not that you noticed let alone cared, but I’m going to see this through. It appears this one will arrive a few minutes too late as well.

Today, I am thankful for four older children who didn’t really have problems with teething. Sam seems to be an anomaly for Anson children. Over the past two days he’s turned into a Jeckyll and Hyde baby between the hours of 8 and 10 pm. One minute he’s giggling like only a chunky little fuzzhead can, sending a deluge of slobber onto the last dry corner of his last dry onesie. And then…he jerks and twists and contorts his roly-polyness and suddenly he’s staring you down. Nose dripping. Slime flowing. And his attack baby instincts kick in. Those cute little enamel nubs concealed by lip and tongue and drool bury themselves into your shoulder and latch on.

And then the switch flips: Jeckyll. Then back to Hyde. And back. And forth. Back. Forth. Like Brook playing with the living room light. Until the little Tasmanian slime devil has worked himself into an inconsolable screaming frenzy. And then he conks out until morning, when he awakes and remains pleasant and plump until the next bewitching hours. It’s not really all that bad, but it sure was fun to write all those fragments.

Penance

Okay. So I just realized that I did not post once single time in the month of November. I wish I had some really cool excuse like I took the NaNoWriMo challenge and I was 50,000+ words into a novel that was accepted by a big name publisher, or even a small publisher, but that would be lying. I’m just a slacker who has been trying to tread water.

Truthfully, I might have written 50,000 words over the past month, but they would probably be tied back to “provide more specific details” and other such generic feedback. In fact, I’ve written so often lately that I do it in my sleep. Well, not really, but close.

As penance for my slackership, I will post post-Thanksgivingly daily (maybe) for the month of December regarding what I am thankful for. And next year, I’ll do NaNoWriMo, but I won’t be like this dude in this clip I stole about writing a novel.

So, for today, I’m thankful for my wife Amy who tells me to do my homework. I know, it’s kinda generic, but I really appreciate all her efforts to keep me on the scholastic straight and narrow. Research about educational philosophy and theoretical frameworks are much less interesting than…well…just about anything. There are so many good books that I don’t have time for that I need to read. I need to write. I need to watch football. I need to watch basketball. I need to eat. Apparently, sleeping has become optional lately. So, I am thankful for Amy who keeps me on track. She’s awesome. Oh, by the way, all my reflections are done for one class. Only two more papers to go this semester!

One for the End of Term...

My 9th graders are hosting a zombie haiku contest for the school. Here was my off-the-cuff example:

junior high zombies
shuffle from class to class in
search of brains--no luck!

It's not surprising how few of my 7th graders understood it.

Feel free to post your own. Mwa-ha-ha!

Catch What I'm Sayin'?

Imagine an infield of eleven T-ballers. On any given hit you might have two sitting down, three fighting with grass, seven picking their noses. And there’s always the one darling whose hair ribbons match her hat, glove, and socks putting on lip gloss as the ball trickles to her feet. She sidesteps. And by the time anyone picks up the ball, the runner stands smugly on second base. Whereas, when the next batter laces one to the outfield, half the infielders (including the catcher) give chase and wrestle over who gets to throw the ball back to the coach.

Trying to teach junior high can be quite a similar experience. You toss out a question and nobody fields it. The “popular” crowd sidesteps anything hit directly their way and they try to spin you off onto a tangent. Some still sit and pick their noses. After watching a couple of grounders bounce off their gloves for a while, you become discouraged. You might yell (a little), give encouragement (you’ll get it next time), or maybe even complain to the umpires down in the office. But most of the time these things in and of themselves won’t do you any good.

Even if you are blessed with that one natural athlete who can play all positions, knows all the rules, and hits homeruns in each at bat, that’s just one; and she will make it with or without you. Your job as a teacher, as a coach, is not to hand out “attaboys” to the top stars, although they do need that when they get stuck in a slump. As a coach, a teacher, you need to use your talents, your abilities, your managerial skills to help the rest of the team.

I recently reread Roger Rosenblatt’s “A Game of Catch,” and was inspired by his description of the poetry and beauty found in the simple art of a game of catch: “They do not call it a game of throw, though throwing is half the equation. The name of the game puts the burden on the one who receives, but there is really no game to it. Nobody wins or loses. You drop the ball; you pick it up. Once you've got the basics down, it doesn't matter if you bobble a ball or two…A ball travels between two people, each seeking a moment of understanding from the other, across the yard and the years. To play a game of catch is not like pitching to a batter. You do not throw to trick, confuse or evade; you want to be understood.” All kids, all human beings for that matter, want to be understood.

Rosenblatt uses this analogy of playing catch to also talk about successful parenting and families. I figure that teaching is also like a good game of catch. In order for any true learning to occur, the interchange has to be fluid, effortless, full of trust; the environment of the classroom should be one of comfort and ease, one where each student feels safe enough to stretch out and take risks, to try a circle change or a knuckleball after a while. Because, as in throwing and catching a ball, there is always the risk of an idea or concept to be dropped.

The article goes on: “We do what we can as parents, one child at a time. We take what we get in our children, and they take what they get in us, making compromises and adjustments where we are able, making rules and explanations, but for the most part letting things happen, come and go, back and forth. The trick, I think, is to recognize the moments when nothing needs to be said.” These moments of automaticity, though, don’t happen overnight. They start one ground ball at a time.

The beginning of the school year needs to be a warm-up period: soft grounders, short toss, calisthenics. New procedures, hormones, and even good ol’ fashioned fear might cause some to doubt themselves and not get down on a ball. They might lose a pop fly in the lights, or the sun, or the perfume of that hot brunette sitting in the next row, but eventually the plays become routine. Soon, nothing needs to be said. The game of catch becomes automatic, smooth, and graceful. Slowly, each team member, from the next Albert Pujols to the kid who can’t fill out the line-up card, feels free to dive after that chopper up the middle without fear of getting dirty, without worrying about embarrassment. The key is building confidence and trust one kid at a time. We take these kids, one at a time, and coach them through the skills they need to develop whether it’s how to fix an elbow hitch in a left-handed stance of a switch-hitter or how to hold the bat. Some are super readers while others are still decoding. But it’s not a competition to see who scores the highest on the spelling test or who can name all fifty states and their capitals in reverse alphabetical order. It’s a team effort to bring each other along no matter where each one started individually.

Robert Frost once said, “Poets are like baseball pitchers. Both have their moments. The intervals are the tough things.” And students are the same way. Some mornings the ball will still dribble between their legs, their minds on snowcones, or bubblegum, or hot dogs slathered in onions and mustard, or hair-dos, or homework, and nothing seems productive. Other days, they’re just on, snagging tricky one-hoppers and firing them back with so much velocity Nolan Ryan watches in awe. However, all that Major League success depends on the basics of a game of throwing and catching—ideas and routines—comfort and confidence. Where each student ends up, though, undoubtedly depends on the amount of effort the he is willing to put forth. Some have Major League talent but will squander it and never make it past rookie ball. Others will work harder, come to practice early, take a few more swings in the cage, field a few more line drives, and will find success. When one of the players doesn’t put in the effort or hold up his end of the bargain, it doesn’t work; the ball is dropped, the team is let down. But when both thrower and catcher discover a flow, watch out! Learning happens.

Happy National Day on Writing!

Last year, to celebrate this special occasion, I started this blog. I've made a little progress, picked up a few confused disciples along the way, and I've even done a bit of writing.

This year, I'd like to submit one of my previous blog posts to the National Gallery on Writing. I'm asking you, my readers, to comment as to which piece you believe I should attempt to publish. Feel free to browse my past posts, or if you know of some other piece I've done in the past (or am currently working on) that you think is worthy to be published--or close enough--let me know.

Here are a few possibilities arranged chronologically backward:

20 Aug Bring It On!
18 Jul Swears and Voice
1 Mar Back-to-Back-to Back Donut Jack
14 Feb Valentine Splat!
16 Dec Low Brow
26 Oct "Quality Piece"
22 Oct Where Do I Write?


In the meantime, I'll be working on a few pieces with my students today, and I might post one or two over the course of the day. Or maybe my conscience might get to me and I'll be writing my part of a group presentation for tomorrow.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Resurrection (Sort of)

It's that time of year to bring back the dead. The first is a call to action. The second I wrote after reading an article about math (go figure-pun very much intended).

resurrecting the
zombie hunger in fellows
revives the wordlust

counting digits for
zombie manipulatives:
it's all subtraction

Brevity and Conventions (Part 1...I Think)

So, here I am endeavoring to write for at least fifteen minutes today. Unfortunately, I’m not sure what I should write about. A myriad of topics floats through my cranium, but nothing is sticking. It must be this multi-tasking world we live in. It seems that most writing these days is just done in blurts and splurts and hiccups: a text, a Facebook status update, a Tweet. Perhaps we eke out a blog post if we’re waxing verbose, but that’s only on a good day, right? Is that symbolic of how fragmented our lives have become? I wonder.
It’s been pretty hard to get my 7th graders to string together complete thoughts this year. Forget paragraphs right now; we’re working with capitalization + (subject+verb) + punctuation = complete sentence. Hopefully soon there will be some progress. Don’t get me wrong, the ideas are there, and they’re pretty dang spiffy if you ask me; I don’t think I’ve had such a unique (to be read “random”) group when it comes to generating ideas. But the conventionality distracts even the best readers from coherent meanings.
I did an activity today where I took their “final” drafts, which had supposedly been revised and perfected, and orally exposed their flaws to the entire class. My tongue and lips tied themselves into knots worthy of eleven-year-old scouts. And they couldn’t even see the egregious errors in homophones, which we had supposedly just covered! I’d post some examples, but no one should suffer as I did today.
The point? I think they caught how they need to be courteous to their readers, how revision (especially oral) really does make a difference, especially if they have an audience.
My new goal this year is for my students to put several related thoughts together and convey them meaningfully to a given audience. Oh wait! That’s what it already was. I guess I have my work cut out for me this year. Gotta break the textspeakers! LOL ;P

Tips from Gary and a Favor

Last Friday I went to a reading by Newbery and Printz winning author Gary D. Schmidt. I first read Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy when it first one the Newbery Honor. I enjoyed the voice so much that dashed to the local library to find all I could by Gary. I only found one dusty, old copy of Anson's Way, and it was tucked behind a few other new but never-read novels. (Thanks, Payson.) The crisp, bent pages made me doubtful, but I was pleasantly surprised. I thoroughly enjoyed it, even though seventh graders might shun the lack of immediate action. But that was all. Nothing else. The library didn't even have Lizzie Bright...yet.

And then I read The Wednesday Wars, one of my favorite new novels to explore with seventh graders. It is so full of meaning and description and beauty and sorrow and humor and everything. Wow!

So, here are a few tidbits of writing wisdom I picked up from Gary before I dropped a load (of cash) on more of his books, including the last copy of the book with my name in the title!

** The first thing Gary does when creating a plot is to find the narrator's voice. He tries to capture it, get it in his head before unfolding what happens. By doing so, you can understand what you want to say and how you want to say it. It's also important to distinguish between the voice of the author and the voice of the narrator/character.

** First drafts are simply that. "It's not brain surgery. You don't have to get it right the first time."

** Most young adult novels need to explode into the story. But every once in while try and break the rules (see his novel Trouble).

** Writing is discipline. You need to establish and keep a routine. You must write every day.

I think this is where I go wrong. Duh. Gary writes 500 words per day on each project he is currently working on. When he reaches that mark, he makes notes for the next day's work, to establish continuity. He also rereads any previous work on a chapter while writing a first draft. (Gary also uses a typewriter for each first draft. Think Grandma Walker will let me use hers?)

I guess I just need to get back into a habit of writing. To update my goals, I think I'll start baby taking baby steps, Dr. Leo Marvin, with a mere 15 minutes each day. It doesn't need to be perfect, or necessarily a draft of a novel, but I need to keep writing.

Could I ask all you awesome people out there to keep me on track? Check up on me every so often? Just ask me how I'm doing on my 15 minutes? I'd appreciate it. Thanks.

One last thought from Gary:
"Writing is never served by being in a hurry."
True dat.

A Few Thoughts on Writing

I was looking back through some writing notebooks this morning and found this: a response to some questions posed by a grad instructor a few years back. I'd be interested to hear/see/read what you have to say about this. So if you want to free write in the comments section for a minute or two, feel free (no wrong answers).

--Must we experience writing ourselves in order to teach writing?
--What does it mean to be a writer?

My response (21 July 2008):

Everybody writes--well, almost everybody. But to be a writer involves deliberate thinking and rethinking about the words and ideas expressed on the page. It's a semi-permanent, muddle-though shakedown of thoughts. To refuse to write is to refuse the clarification of your own thoughts. So, in short, to be a writer is to be a thinker.

In order to teach writing you must know the ins and outs of the science and the art of writing. Honestly, how can you teach something you don;t know or have experienced? Even if you do not spout sonnets or soliloquies or even attempt essays unless threatened by pain of failing grade, if you are an avid reader, you can still tell what good writing is. Reading and writing go hand in hand and the improvement of one is ultimately entwined in the indulgence of both. (Did I really just write that?)

To improve anything you must practice. I've found that my students learn best as I teach by example--especially writing. They need to know that I know the pains and frustrations of producing meaningless drivel on a page as well as the joy of rescuing a single rescued from the smoldering ashes of freewriting hell. This has been tangential in nature, but it boils down to a resounding "yes." In order to teach writing one must become an active participant in the writing process.

Maybe I'll go back and revise this. Or not. (I didn't...yet.)

Please feel free to chime in and add your two cents--or two dollars...I'll take anything.

What's the Deal?

This was based on "Guy Things" by Gordon Korman (found in Guys Write for Guys Read), a writing prompt I gave to my 9th graders today.

Cartoons—unfortunately there don’t seem to be any good ones any more. True, the media is trying to bring some of them back, like Scooby Doo or Tom and Jerry, but they are ruined. I mean, who ever heard of a cat and mouse being friends? The funniest elements of the cartoons have been eliminated—the insane violence. Cats are supposed to have nine lives, right? But any intelligent kid knows that cartoon cats have about 9 million. And in each episode they should lose a dozen or so—in the most bizarre, humiliating, painful ways imaginable. Look at it now. Nothing. Maybe Tom catches a golf club in the mouth every once in a while, but it’s more of an actual plot now…a story where the characters cooperate. What’s that all about? Kids have to deal with appropriate behavior in real life. Cartoons are meant to be an escape from reality. It’s not a classroom, but a fantasy where anything can happen. We all know that the worlds are separate. Those quacks who truly believe that cartoon violence leads to actual violence have been watching too much Roger Rabbit and not enough Looney Toons. The more outlandish the slapstick, the more we kids enjoy these cartoons because they’re NOT real.

Bring It On!

The beginning of a new school year is looming. And this year it feels as if summer was just getting underway when I happened to glance over my shoulder and spy a junior-high ninja assassin just before I am struck in the back by a katana, throwing star, or even worse—a rubber chicken. Yeah, it’s sudden, quick, and mostly painless.
Actually, as I have started new ventures and met new people in different endeavors, I’ve had to introduce myself on several occasions. Most gasp or cluck their tongues when I say that I teach junior high English. The subtle ones slightly suck in their breath or barely shake their heads as if paying homage at a viewing.

So I’ve been thinking: is it really that bad?

Think about it, I get to spend my time with hundreds of smelly, pubescent geeks who are all trying to be cooler than the doofus next to him. I don’t have to mention the drama of twelve to fifteen year old girls who compare every guy schlepping down the hall to ice-cold effeminate vampires or abnormally abbed werewolves. The mustiness of Scout camp funk mixed with a cornucopia body lotion scents creates a musk that puts the zoo to shame.

Now I get to take these self-absorbed entities whose main concerns are texting, sleeping, eating, and __________. Insert any hobby here, except Pokémon cards because we’re in junior high now, people; it’s just not cool any more. (Don’t worry; I won’t tell anyone that Jigglypuff and Bulbasaur are still your favorites.)…and I get to teach them Language Arts. Most would rather go to the dentist…

Or so they say. Most kids, and adults for that matter, find pleasure in story whether reading (including being read to), writing, or more informally, gossiping. Story is what makes our lives complete. We communicate our lives in story, and usually it improves with each retelling, right? Think about your glory stories. How big was that catch? How pretty was she? How many defenders did you evade? How fast were you going? Now be honest with yourself. Truth and fiction blur. And when we get to analyze the intricacies of language, the essence of communication, the reason for being a human being, we find elements of nature (human or otherwise) where we can make connections and form lifelong bonds with friends (real or fictional) and texts (informational or fictional) and universal truths (which are seldom fictional).

Oh, yes. I get to help these little darlings identify these themes in literature and in their lives, turn them into my army of zombies for a short period of time, and send them forth to take over the world by first taking control of their own universes and then learning how to influence the spheres of those around them. Yep. That’s what I get to do.

Openly the students moan and complain - they gripe just because they want to be heard or to fit in – but covertly they like it. It’s just like taking medicine. You know it’s good for you and it’ll make you better. No one is supposed to enjoy gagging down that nasty thick goo. But secretly, you know you crave that over-sweet cherry cough-syrupy taste. For some, amoxicillin (the fruity pink stuff for ear infections) almost becomes an addiction. But we still grumble about having to swallow it.

Students see the truth in learning, and in literacy; and even though some may struggle with reading or writing complete sentences, they crave it. They come back for more willingly, even though they pretend to be more interested in the new girl in the next row.

They have urges, some of which I won’t discuss, but one that I will ramble on for a little longer is their primal desire to create and share. Most of the time it comes slowly, but I get to be there to witness, to help, to clean up the ashes when they “accidently” drop some weird chemical compound they found growing in their lockers. In short, I witness growth. I get to see them become.

So, about my job? Is it really that bad? You may have hated junior high. I know I’ve tried blocking some of the more painful moments from my own past. But it’s these growing pains that make us who we are.

They may sting for a moment, or a decade, but they shape us. I get to help kids shape themselves.

Is it really that bad? That junior high thing? No.

I love my job!

Call for Ideas

I'm writing an article about word play. I need some help. Those of you who glance at this every once in a while, please leave a comment about some of the things you enjoy doing to play with words and sounds. I'm supposed to have the article done by the end of this week. I'll post it when I finish it.

Isn't This How It Should Be?

"Dad, I don't need to draw any pictures for my story cuz you're supposed to get pictures in your head when you read my words."

--Sariah (9) while writing a story about seeing camels at the zoo.

I think I'm going to use this example with my 7th graders. We could all take a few lessons from this, I believe.

Just to Get Back into the Swing of Things...

I'm going to post a few older rambles that I never got back to. I need to release some of these raw thoughts so I can see the more clearly (see "Article" posted 29 October 2009. The link to the article is under "article" (duh!) on the sidebar. I just need to get back into a writing habit of some sort--something besides research proposals and crap like that. So, enjoy...or not.

Flow: 15 January 10

I suppose I must write. Dum de dum de dum. Well, I’m not really getting anywhere quickly. I wanted to write about the inspiration I was remind of as I was doing my walking—laps around the school burns more calories than walking around the neighborhood due to all my head steaming. Parent conversation—story later…maybe. As I rounded the last corner for my last lap of the day, what should come up on the shuffle but my good friends the Beastie Boys.

“Let it flow. Let yourself go. Slow and low that is the tempo.”

Yeah, I was getting into a flow with my walking, which has now been interrupted. I had a flow going with my Old Testament reading (starting to get into the incestuous eewy stuff). But the real question was whether or not I was establishing a flow for my writing.

Several years ago as I was mowing the lawn and listening to said Beasties, I noticed that as I got into a groove, the task became less arduous, less monotonous. My attitude changed if I cut a cross pattern in the front lawn and ran diagonal down the side and went in circles in the back. The idea struck me that the same thing needed to happen to my reluctant readers and writers. At the time I was struggling with some moronic, lethargic, apathetic, just-ick 8th and 9th graders who vehemently protested the application of the written language, either producing or absorbing it. Come to think of it, they mostly communicated through a series of simple grunts and gestures.

I thought, “Hey, I should write an article about this. And so I put it on the back shelf. The inspiration came again, when I was on the campus of Utah State University in Logan. I was reading Tom Newkirk’s Misreading Masculinity, and made the same connections. That summer, as I was living bachelor life while the fam hung out at Amy’s parents’ place in North Carolina, I read more into flow and discovered Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi and his flow theory—it was exactly what I had been pondering while carving circles in the grass around my bushes, only he ad lots of cool, confusing data and research to back up his theory. I just had Ad Rock, Mike D, and MC A.

Maybe I still will write that article some day, but for now, I just need it to apply to me. Whenever I produce writing it’s because I establish a flow. I set aside time. When I had my first professional article published this past fall, it was because I had the time set aside in the Central Utah Writing Project. When I produced all those pages of manuscript for the BYU Writing Conference with Chris and Carol, it was because I made myself write. I had a set-up, a routine, something bordering on a ritual when I would write. But now that I have nothing, well, I have…nothing to show for it. Sure, I’ve been able to eke out a few poems, but those were gifts. When I really work for the writing, it will come—maybe not immediately, but it will come. Geez, now I’m starting to sound like I’m from Field of Dreams. What’s with me and baseball movies lately. Hmm…idea…I’ve got that quote about poets being like pitchers…I’ll have to find it and use it. Ken Burns will provide the rest of the inspiration.

I need to make time. Scribbling a couple times a week is not going to cut it if I want to truly achieve something. But for now, I’m trying slow and low as I let myself go. And my mom said the Beastie Boys were a waste of time….Ha!

Swears and Voice

Last night, I read Stephen King’s novella Blockade Billy. My son seven-year-old found it on the YA shelf at the public library and picked it up because it was a baseball story. I, recognizing the author, decided to read it myself first.

The story was intriguing, and I enjoyed the reflective point of view from which the tale was spun, but the profanity was so strong that it interfered with the story.
It made me reflect on a question my writing fellow Claudia posed via email a few days prior, questioning the need for profanity in writing to create strong voice. Here is a snippet from her email:

“Here's the question: Do you have to swear to be a voice-ful, authentic writer? Certain words do shock, surprise, pack a punch, generate humor, sometimes nail the emotion, the situation, but what of those of us who are religiously uncomfortable with expressing ourselves with that sort of ‘authenticity’? Yes, I sometimes think such words, mutter them under my breath, and (on very rare occasions) let loose with one -- living in the world and not always resisting being of-the-world, and having grown up with a farmer dad who responded to uncooperative cattle and tractors and kids with plenty of damn's and hell's.

“However, when in control of my speech and writing, I shrink from using words I think of as offensive -- though I was tolerably comfortable with writing damn's and hell's above.

“My qualms are not just religious. Attention to audience matters to me, and even more than that, I've long been convinced that ninety-nine and forty-four one-hundredths percent of the time, the ‘foul’ words are not the best, most precise, or even the most powerful words. When we call such words ‘strong language,’ we are often giving them more credit than they deserve. (An interesting line of thought would be wondering why we use the words we do to describe THOSE words. Are they ‘strong,’ ‘crude,’ ‘foul,’ and so on?)”

Claudia poses a good question. Are these four-letter wonders really the best choice in these situations? Or do they merely show the extent of someone’s intelligence and negligence to vocabulary? I would hope that most adults, if not just junior high students, could be more imaginative in their descriptions and insults. Seriously, if you want to hear originality listen to kids before they’ve been corrupted by their older siblings and the punks hanging loafing down the street (and television). Really, go listen to a handful of toddlers just starting to construct language. My favorite comes from my friend Erin’s little girl, who told her mommy she wanted to dream about “lemonade rain.” How awesome is that? And from a preschooler.

Voice is so much more than swearing. I enjoyed Debbie’s response to Claudia’s question:

“I have often wondered about that same point and worried that voice gets correlated with the use of ‘strong’ language just because it is so shocking. I have to say that to me voice is making the most of whatever is appropriate for the situation. And most writing situations don't really require swearing. I worry that the concept of voice sometimes get carried away to mean that kind of shocking, saying what no one else would say, language use. I think it's more a matter of knowledge and the other traits Tom [Romano] mentioned on Friday, but the advocates of voice tend to think of only one kind: the ability to shock and be on the edge. The other aspect of that view is that the content or subject is almost always personal experience. Very few of these proponents help students see that voice can be found in all kinds of writing--and it isn’t the kind of voice that most of them address with students. Part of the discussion has to do with what we mean by voice, certainly, but for the expressivists (biggest proponents of voice as a concept) there is only one voice and only one kind of writing--thus the feeling you've had that the shocking, even without the strong language, is the only representation of voice. You might try reading Harris or Darcie Bowden on voice. They are about the only two ‘voices’ speaking differently about voice. I know that when people say my writing sounds like me, I think that's voice--it's academic without being dry, I hope. No swearing. So I think voice can be much bigger than it is often considered.”

Thinking about those who are proponents of swearing for shock value, I have a question. Why? Where did that “power” come from? Who even determines what constitutes a dirty word, or even inappropriate ones? It gets old. Fast.

If I were to create my own word (freb), keep it at four or five letters—it can’t be too complicated for those with the intelligence most likely to use it (dumb frebbers)— and start using it in derogatory ways, conjugating it in verb form (you frebbing idiot! Go freb yourself!), could I create the NEW “f” word? Shocking, isn’t it? (See also Frindle by Andrew Clements.)

And when said frebbing words become so commonplace, don’t they lose their frebbing significance? M.T. Anderson’s Feed, for example, illustrates such a case. The characters—good-for-nothing teens, adults, children—use a few common swears as if they were nothing. It was overbearing and cumbersome to wade through them and uncover the characters’ actions and actual thoughts (heh-heh). But by the end of the book, I hardly noticed them. My senses were dulled to this SHOCK factor; it didn’t work any more. Don’t get me wrong; it’s an excellent plot and commentary on our frebbed up society.

Another frebbing interesting example of what a pile of freb this argument is can be found at NPR’s “Power Players And Profanity: It Can Be &%#@ Risky.” When I read this I was , like, “Holy freb!” and I laughed my freb off.

I remember hearing Chris Crutcher quite a few years ago speak on censorship in writing. I don’t remember if he brought it up, or an audience frebber during Q&A, but the discussion about art reflecting society surfaced.

So I ask all you frebbing writers out there, or you who just read this frebbin’ blog, who the freb wants to imitate a society so frebbin’ stupid they can’t speak worth a flyin’ freb? Do we want to perpetuate the freb flow?

What about the frebbin’ argument that society imitating the mutha frebbing media? Well, I’ll leave that to you frebs. I’d love to hear your take on any of these arguments.

Guys Read

Yes, I know this is supposed to be a site about writing, but you can't have writing without reading. Plus, I just needed to share this site I came across a few years ago but have only recently been able to explore one night when I couldn't sleep. Who says nothing good comes from insomnia?

Guys Read

Now, about my own writing...there hasn't been much as of late, but I'll get back to some in the near future. I'd pinkie-swear, but I'll save that for my five-year-old.

A Game of Catch

A Game of Catch

I dug this up today. Great personal essay. You bright ones out there might see some other connections to life.

Apology

I apologize to all those (few) who have been checking in to see if there has been any spark of life on this blog. I've been overwhelmed by a couple of things: new baby, Independent Study rush, end-of-the-year stupidity from junior high pukes. Status quo for this time of year, I guess.

I got into my Ed.D. program, so I'll be embarking on that soul-enslaving madness soon, too. (Demented laugh) Hopefully, I'll be able to carve out some writing time as well.

"Return of the Make-Believe Jedi"

My dad came over the other night and brought with him a short piece that I sent to him shortly after Amy and I were first married. I wrote it for a class (I don't remember which one) and decided to send a copy to him and to my brother Marc. It's a reflection I had while waiting anxiously for Star Wars: Episode I The Phantom Menace to begin.

The aroma of butter-drenched popcorn and stale bubble gum permeates the air as I ease back into my seven-dollar seat. It’s been sixteen years and a few more hours standing in line wondering...wondering if it will be the same as the last time...or the time before...or the time before that, which was the first time.
I shift backwards and leap from the wooden platform onto the grass. Marc falls behind me, his blaster fallen from his hand. We jump up and race for the Speeder bikes.

“Come on!” I shout. “They’re after us.” We glide back and forth, higher and higher, rocking the rusty, blue swing set until we’re hit by enemy fire. Thrown from our rides, we spot our attacker. We charge. I pull out my golf-club-tube lightsaber from my Smurf belt and chase Benji the Stormtrooper, shouting and swinging with all of my might. He hops the fence, howling with fear, so Marc steps up and we duel for a moment. Just before I knock him off the doghouse, he reminds me that we’re on the same team. Energetically, we race off to find Darth Vader and Boba Fett and destroy them before they get the princess.

The Millennium Falcon maneuvers past.

The Sarlaac pit opens up.

And we climb back into the Ewok Village just in time.

The lights dim and John Williams’ familiar anthem strikes a chord in my heart. Han Solo and his younger brother Luke will always live on, no matter what happens between the Rebel Alliance and the Empire.

Guys are Done for the Year

So the Guys Who Write Club didn't quite sell like I thought it would...I think mostly due to busing issues. However, at the end of it all, seven at least put in one appearance. Okay. So seven at least signed up. Three made it through to the end. Tah-dah! I've set up a blog for them to post, and I've given them posting rights. I'll probably give them complete administrative rights soon as well. If anyone is keen on student writing, check out guyswhowrite.blogspot.com to see what they've done...so far.

Help Me!

I'm thinking about doing some overhaul on my blog over Spring Break. What would you like to see changed? kept? added? destroyed? Please give me suggestions. Thanks, and may the Force be with you.

Reminder:

Tomorrow (Friday, April 2, 2010) is the deadline for my contest, and so far only Leah has even tried the diamante. No one has attempted the longest sentence. Your chances of winning are excellent.

Diamante

My students teacher is helping the kids write diamante poems. So, naturally I had to do one, too.

pain
sharp, icy
piercing, smothering, numbing
it hurts so good
soothing, spreading, smoldering
ardent, pacific
relief

Try one of these if you need a little exercise to get you going. The first line is your topic. The second line contains two adjectives that describe the topic. The third line uses three verbs that end in -ing. The fourth line is a bridge between the topic and its opposite (the last line). It could be an oxymoron, or a phrase that describes both lines one and seven. Then work backwards toward the opposite (last line), following the same pattern.

Post one or two for fun. Maybe I'll send out prizes (since no one has taken me up on the last contest).

Any suggestions on a title? I was thinking of "Muscle Relaxant" or something.

Also, can anyone help me with learning how to center this diamante? I haven't figured how to do that on the blog yet. Doh!

Contest Time!

Woo hoo! Here's a little fun that I have with my students each year when we discuss run-on sentences, the right amount of details (of which this is a non-example), or something along those lines. I first did this at a WIFYR conference the summer of 2004, and have participated on other occasions.

Rules:
1. Write the longest sentence you possibly can in five minutes.
2. It must be grammatically correct.
3. You may only use one semicolon.
4. You cannot just use a list; it must have action.

Prizes:
(I'll figure it out later. Let's just see how many respond.)

Example:
Suddenly, and without warning, the downright dastardly and inhumane mutated monster of a man, Ivan the Impossible, stoically rose from the ice covered graying sidewalk, which ran in front of the decaying, moss-covered cemetery across from the looming gothic church, where the violent shots had just barely felled his enormous figure, and menacingly cackled like a demented, wounded hyena about to claim its next victim who was not quite dead yet; disgustingly amused at his own evil, cleverly-twisted feign of death, he solidly fixed his horrid, ice cold, yellow gaze upon the ancient, black single-shot pistol still smoking in my quivering hand, and then raised his smoldering eyes, ringed with hatred and outlined with loathing, until they met mine and pierced my fearfully trembling soul, and then he methodically marched forward, trudging one stumbling step after another to claim my pitiful life without mercy and without remorse.

Deadline: April 2, 2010

Good luck, and no cheating!

"Night"

Okay. So I'm not getting any help. Oh, well. Thanks anyway. I've got a few ideas that I'd like to try, but first I need to obviously start writing more. I'm thinking about taking a short intro that I ave and trying to work it as a serial. My friend Bartley has been doing that on his blog, and I'm inspired. Good on you, my friend. But in the meantime, here's another piece I dug up from ages past. I wrote this (or its first stages) in my 12th grade creative writing class. It was an imitation of style exercise, but I forget what the original piece was. If it sounds familiar to any of you, please let me know.

"Night"

I pause to rest, leaning against a graying hedge, crudely forged from loose stone and clay. From this familiar crest, I have frequently gazed across the silent valley below, and into the night. But never in my previous journeying across this knoll has nature’s simplicity struck such a chord with my soul as it does now; in wonderment, in awe, I fall entranced by its somber spirituality. I feel the wind on my neck; my soul shivers, stirring my passions. The perception of a lifeless, gray world begins to unfold itself before my eyes, a realm where darkness and light exchange perspectives in their elements, harmonizing, becoming one.

And in the midst of this simple sanctuary I see a grove; the sturdy oak, durable as time and more rugged than man, gathers in the cold and embraces the gentle silence. A dull moon glistens through the treetops and administers additional solemnity upon the melancholic land. In the distance, mountains without shape silhouette the sky, romanticized by the mystic moonlight. From this corner of the darkness, the light magnificently reigns over the earth. Reflecting its radiance from the serenity of the still, black water before me, the moon purifies this realm of darkness, cleansing it from evil, mystifying the grayness.

Nature beckons, yearning to share its light, its darkness. The winds, breathing tranquility across my face, kissing my eyelashes, usher a gray patchwork across the heavens, sheltering the fragile light of the moon. Unveiling her lady briefly and then tucking her away again, the night integrates reality and innocence wholly and flawlessly as to encompass all shades of emotion: light and dark, good and evil, love and hate; all blend within the shadows of my mind.

And this is how I see the night. I have experienced every aspect of its enchanted playground and felt its deepest secrets. I always see it from the darkest shadow, a world of mystery, frozen until the morning comes, like a dense fog at midnight, a cold blanket covering the earth. And suddenly, the howl of a wolf – a sustaining note – musical and harmonized with the orchestral chords of the night owl, of singing crickets, and the rhythm of the rustling foliage breaks through the silence – this first note of the darkness lingers in my mind. It casts an everlasting calmness that shines mysteriously through the despair of my soul, lustrous and enchanting, like the moon dissipating night’s disconsolate shadows.


One year I used this in my creative writing class (that I teach) as an example of over-the-top description. A week later one of the other English teachers in the building brought in an "amazingly brilliant" piece of 'student work.' The teacher noticed that this student was in my class ad wondered if she had written anything else like it. Moral of the story: don;t plagiarize your teacher's work, even if he doesn't consider it all that or even half a bag of chips. How's that for awesome?

P.S. I'm still looking for reviews--good examples for students. See the post dated March 8 for details.

Request for Help

I'm asking you, my friends and half-cocked followers of this site, to please review some of the works I've posted elsewhere on this blog and use the following guide to respond to my work. I want to show students examples of how to respond appropriately to their peers' writing. They need to go beyond "LMAO" or "Cool."


Dear (First Name of Poster):

I (past tense verb showing emotion) your (post/poem/essay/letter/image...), "(Exact Title)," because... (add 2 or 3 sentences)

One sentence you wrote that stands out for me is: "(Quote from message.)" I think this is (adjective) because... (add 1 or 2 sentences)

Another sentence that I (past tense verb) was: "(Quote from message)." This stood out for me because...

Your (post/poem/essay/letter/image...) reminds me of something that happened to me. One time... (Add 3 or 4 sentences telling your own story.)

Thanks for your writing. I look forward to seeing what you write next, because... (add 2 or 3 sentences explaining what will bring you back to see more about this person's thoughts).

(Sign your name)

Please make a comment on this post, telling me which piece you have reviewed. Then make the comments (following the guide) on the actual post for that piece.
Thanks,
Joe


This guide (along with others) can be found under the Guide for General Discussion Response on the Youth Voices site, an awesome resource/reference/student publishing site, which Chris Sloan introduced me to at the last CUWP Saturday workshop held on February 20, 2010.

Endorsement

In honor of Dr. Seuss's birthday yesterday, my classes read ALL DAY LONG! And I read with them. I finished Penny Kittle's Write Beside Them: Risk, Voice, and Clarity in High School Writing. Honestly, it is the best book on writing workshops that I have read. Not only is it positive and optimistic, it's practical: there's a DVD that actually shows how her strategies and procedures work.

It's not perfect, but then again, nothing is. However, I would strongly encourage all those interested in the teaching of writing to search out this book and devour the contents, taking time to digest each page thoroughly as you would a post-Thanksgiving-dinner-belt-undone-belly-scratchin'-football-watchin' knock of pumpkin pie. It's too much to handler at once, but in order to feel the full impact, you just have to dive in.

Here's a sample:

Reading Like a Writer
• What do you notice about how this text was written?
• Underline repeating phrases or repeating ideas or images.
• Notice how examples that support ideas are written. Underline evidence to support a position.
• Where does the writer show not tell?
• Why do you think the author close to organize the piece this way?
• Why did the piece open the way it did? How would you define the lead?
• What do you think the writer left out of this piece—or cut in revision?
• What did you notice might try in your writing?

Back-to-Back-to-Back Donut Jack

In my Guys Who Write Club I read "Let's Go to the Videotape" by Dan Gutman (in Guys Write for Guys Read). Then we wrote for a few minutes about an amazing sports event in which we were personally involved. Here's my extended version:


In his short “Let’s Go to the Videotape” (found in Guys Write for Guys Read), Dan Gutman states that everyone has at least one mental video tape of something they did that was incredible or unbelievable that will replay over and over and over in their minds. I disagree. I think that each of us possesses, if you will, a personal highlight reel of these amazing couldn’t-have-been-scripted events. And now, in the age where technological advances are outdated the day they’re released, we edit and re-master and restore these images brighter and better with each retelling.

One such story in which I played a role happened when I was twelve. I pitched and played first base for the Braves in the 11 and 12-year-old league on Lakenheath AFB, where I lived in England. Our team had enjoyed a fairly successful season—first place, only a handful of losses, four of us (including me) selected to the all-star team. I could spin a few more stories to relive Sandlot-esque glory, but this one is a legend.

At the beginning of the season, a donut store opened its doors beyond the left field wall. Instantly it became a team favorite. Forget juice boxes and orange slices. Boston creams and raspberry filled with powdered sugar were how we rolled after games.

For some reason, business went poorly for the shop after its opening; and to promote sales or something that I didn’t understand as a smelly, pubescent ballplayer, they started a promotion that I will never forget: if your ball hits the store during a live game, not BP, not a pick-up game, but rather a live game, you got a baker’s dozen of your choice. In my mind it was simple: homer to left equals free donuts.

I don’t remember the score of this particular game late in the season, but we were absolutely demolishing the opposing team. They were on their fourth or fifth pitcher of the game and we kept pounding out the hits. I was hitting clean-up and already had a handful of RBIs. We had two runners on and our number three hitter (I think it was Sam), jacked a line-drive over the left field wall and tagged the base of the donut store. We were elated! Free donuts! Then I stepped up and drilled the next pitch smack off the wall of the donut shop. Our next hitter (Matt?) proceeded to show us all up by cranking his shot to the roof of the shop. The fans went nuts. I think the game was called after that, but who knows? We were busy celebrating and piling on top of each other on home plate before he rounded third. Only twelve-year-olds would celebrate 39 free donuts more than winning the league championship.

Every spring I get the itch to take BP or play long toss, even though I’m more of a “ball player than an athlete,” to borrow a phrase from John Kruk. Without fail, as my kids start warming up for their T-ball games and I fill out the line-ups, I start to relive the “glory days” of my ten-year baseball career. And the back-to-back-to-back donut jack will forever hold a permanent spot on my highlight reel.

I Stole This But I Like It Anyway

On Janette Rallison's web page she provides her Top 10 Reasons to be a Writer:

1. Librarians think you're cool.
2. You have an excuse to be cluttered: you have no time for cleaning; you're creating ART.
3. You get a collection of stories you'll always enjoy reading because you wrote them.
4. If you publish, you don't have to think about what you'll get your friends and family for Christmas—they're all getting your book!
5. You can name your characters all the things your husband wouldn't let you name your children.
6. You can work in your pajamas.
7. You get to network with other writers.
8. Money and fame. Ha! Ha! But I just had to throw that one in.
9. You can pattern your villains after the guys who dumped you in high school, and
10. You don't have bad days; you just have more writing material to draw from!

More Zombies!

For those who just can't get enough zombie haiku, I wrote these during a district training session last semester:

Enduring district
Training sessions turns teachers
Into zombie hordes

Reverse zombie-ism:
Giving seventh grade numbskulls
Life Monday morning

Hygienic zombies
Always floss with arteries
After every meal

Losing gray matter
Voluntarily won’t ward
Off pot head zombies

Actively engaged
Students are more resistant to
Sudden zombie raids

The zombie brain lust
Proves difficult for teenage
Hemispheres to slake

Teachers are easy
Targets for zombie feasting
After P.T.C.

Valentine Splat!

I know I profess not to like Valentine's Day. That's not a lie. I don't. But that doesn't stop me from writing about the love of my life. Stop puking now. Save it for after the cheese.

“Still…After Twelve Years”

If I say
that when I glanced
across the room and
your eyes
caught mine
in a tractor beam, that
my heart skipped a beat,
it would be a gross
miscommunication,
an underestimation of what
I really mean to say.

And to describe my sentiment
by saying it
was as if my guts turned
somersaults
or fluttered
would seem
too cliché; it's more
of a stutter,
a seventh grader sweating at
his first dance, ogling
at the head cheerleader across
the grubby gym floor: infinite
space and streamers and
longing
in-between.

I couldn’t use the words
palpitate (too scientific),
or salivate (too…well, you know) either,
to describe
that instant;
and twitterpate is too
childish and insignificant,
like I’m expecting a do-over for shanking
a kickball across the white-lined blacktop
while you stand watching.

No,
it's more
of a ratta-
tatta-
splat
that hits you square
in the chops—drenches you
like the sudden shock of an
unexpected
water balloon filled
with stale, cold
hose water on a
muggy summer morning,
along with the breathless
impact of a cornerback
upending an unsuspecting receiver
on a simple comeback
route thrown inches too high.

Yeah, more
like that, but then
again, it’s still not quite
right, because there are some
moments that the brain perceives,
with all its intellect,
all its knowledge and
power over language, but
will never
be able to communicate
my love
accurately.

A Few Tips from a Psycho Genius

Unfortunately, Stephen King's language in On Writing isn't really appropriate for school. It's an excellent book for writers--a memoir on the craft. Here are a few notes that I pull out for my student writers:

Notes from Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

(page 37) There is no Idea Dump, no Story Central, no Island of the Buried Bestsellers; good story ideas seem to come quite literally from nowhere, sailing at you right out of the empty sky: two previously unrelated ideas come together and make something new under the sun. Your job isn’t to find these ideas but to recognize them when they show up.

(page 57) When you write a story, you’re telling yourself the story…When you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that are not the story.

(page 74) Writing is a lonely job. Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference. They don’t have to make speeches. Just believing is usually enough.

(page 77) …The writer’s original perception of a character or characters may be as erroneous as the reader’s.

(page 77) …Stopping a piece of work just because it’s hard, either emotionally or imaginatively, is a bad idea.

Toolbox: It’s best to have your tools with you. If you don’t, you’re apt to find something you didn’t expect and get discouraged.
1. Common tools go on top. The commonest of all, the bread of writing, is vocabulary.
2. You’ll also want grammar on the top shelf of your toolbox.
3. Avoid the passive tense.
4. The adverb is not your friend.
5. Fear is at the root of most bad writing.

(page 142) …Good writing consists of mastering the fundamentals (vocabulary, grammar, the elements of style)…It is possible, with lots of hard work, dedication, and timely help, to make a good writer out of a merely competent one.

(page 145) If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut.

(page 147) You have to read widely, constantly refining (and redefining) your own work as you do so.

(page 150) If there’s no joy in it, it’s just no good.

(page 153) Writing is at its best—always, always, always—when it is a kind of inspired play for the writer.

(page 163) In my view, stories and novels consist of three parts: narration, which moves the story from point A to point B and finally to point Z; description, which creates a sensory reality for the reader; and dialogue, which brings characters to life through their speech.

(page 173) Description is what makes the reader a sensory participant in the story. Good description is a learned skill, one of the prime reasons why you cannot succeed unless you read a lot and write a lot. It’s not a question of how-to, you see; it’s also a question of how much to. Reading will help you answer how much, and only reams of writing will help you with the how. You can only learn by doing.

(page 174) Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.

(page 178) When it’s on target, a simile delights us in much the same way meeting an old friend in a crowd of strangers does.

(page 200) Symbolism exists to adorn and enrich, not to create a sense of artificial profundity.

(page 208) Good fiction always begins with story and progresses to theme.

Zombie Breakfast Set

With a CUWP reunion meeting looming, how could I help myself?

Zombie sunrise brain
dilemma: over easy,
scrambled, hard, or raw?

A side of tendons
goes well with Benedict's brains
and spleen on wheat toast.

Breakfast brain platter
is never complete without
a good cup o' Joe.

Bob Wiley Meets The Great Hambino

So now what? I’m doin’ the work. I’m not a slacker. Dr. Leo Marvin would be so proud. Baby steps to publication. Baby steps to who know where. I’ve done this before. The hard part. I feel like my two-year-old at dinner. I know it’s good for me, and that I actually enjoy eating, but before I even sit down, I must proclaim to the neighborhood how much I hate dinner (and I don’t even know what it is yet).

So I’m here, writing, or at least rambling. I’m putting in my time, just like I said I would…only three more sessions to go, and it’s only Tuesday. Word. Just rambling won’t bring too many fruits, but I think that developing the habit is actually the best thing I can do for myself right now. Put the projects on hold, and just wait until I’ve built back up my flow. I can feel it trying to resuscitate after being throttled by seventh graders who are just a little on the needy side, but I’ve got plans to run the second semester for my 9th graders primarily as a writing workshop. Why? Because I’m sadomasochistic and sick. I’ve got the bug, and I need to infect as many unsuspecting students as possible. Mwa-ha-ha!

I’ll work out the bugs later; I just need to jump back into the pool and soak as many sunbathers as possible. Just think The Sandlot’s Hamilton “Ham” Porter at the pool just before Squints gets his groove on with Wendy Preffercorn. That reminds me— I started a piece at our CUWP institute about a kid on a high dive…wonder where that is…I should finish that one of these days…use it as a scene….

And who said rambling couldn’t be productive?

Cannonball!

Goooooooooooooooooooooooaaalllllllllllllllll!!!!!!!!!

(If you don't read that title with an overly-loud Hispanic announcer voice, you're doing it wrong.)

So here they are, as promised, but not with any kind of money-back warranty. If you don't like them, well, that's just too darn bad. I've got other goals, too, but I'm not going to post those. I'm keeping them all to my fat selfish self. However, if any of you want to keep tabs on me, and needle and annoy me and hold me to my own standards, I would certainly appreciate it (grumble...grumble). Please hold me to these!

1. I’m making time to write for at least 15 minutes a day 5 times per week. It could be random nothingness, or it could be something I’m squeezing toward completion. I’d say that I’d finish one of my novels, but I’m not that brave yet. It may not sound like much, but it's more than I'm doing right now so pppbbbbllltt!!

I want to write more, but this is my goal. It’ll probably end up happening while I give my 9th grade dorks writing time, or hopefully even more so with my Guys Who Write Club—so far only one loser has signed up. It might take more than a miracle to get this tub o’ lard off the ground.

2. Before the end of the year I need to have another professional piece ready for publication. Maybe I could get paid this time. Oh, what’s that? Payment from educational journals comes in tender not accepted in most free markets? Crap.

3. I need to take the time to listen to the muses and WRITE DOWN what they say—not just bat them away. Sometimes I get them mixed up with mosquitoes. What can I say? I worry about that West Nile stuff. I think they’re getting tired of me not listening. Maybe I should turn down the music, too. Hmm…. Along with this, I need to finish projects, not just start them. I’ve got an epitaph for Buddy sitting on the shelf, the poem I started about tenderhearted little Zac, one about Sariah and her slant of light. My short story about a kid who actually learns through osmosis is still incubating. My self-promised research on osmosis still dreads my 10th grade biology experience with Mr. Brock. Maybe I’ll just include that spindly dork of a reed and his paintbrush of a mustache in the story. Ha! That’ll teach him to give me detention. There’s also the piece I want to write for Amy that should have been done by Christmas but I’ll be lucky if I make any headway by Easter—and I still don’t even know what genre it needs to be cast in. So I guess #4 will be to finish a project or three.

5. I’m going to post on my blog at least three times a month. Don’t hold your breath, though. I'm not sure how many actually read this anyway.

There. As always, any suggestions, corrections, or blatant honesty is always welcome.

Same Old Joe

Yeah, I know. I haven't posted in a while. I'm still not posting anything new, but I thought I should at least do something. You can scold me all you want, but I already feel guilty about not writing more. While I was reading my friend Carol Lynch Williams's blog that she does with Ann Dee Ellis, Throwing Up Words, I couldn't help but feel like the scum of the earth, or at least the thing that's STILL sticking to my left shoe, for not creating writing goals for 2010. I swear they're swimming around in my head somewhere. They usually surface while I'm in the shower (not a pretty picture), but they seem to disappear before I get to my desk at school.

I promise to have my goals for writing this year (in writing) and posted for the world to see sometime in the next week or so. Maybe I should take Carol and Ann Dee's hint and not procrastinate.

In the meantime, here's an old piece that I scraped from the inside of my drawer:

“Revelatory Reflection”

bloodshot eyes at four-thirty a.m. stare at
a heavy-set reflection staring back at the
five o’ clock shadow that looks more like seven-thirty
and growing later

I blink

and catch a glimpse of my father staring back,
clean-shaven in his dress blues, ready for the general’s briefing,
and he walks out
the door;
Old Spice and teenage resentment
linger from his morning kiss

Why do you have to go?

You’ll understand when you’re older . . .

seven
months of wondering if you were coming home,
seventeen
years of wondering if you really cared . . .

late night chastisements—
after you had fallen
in and out of sleep
in the la-z-boy while I paraded around without regard
to you,
to curfew,
to anything not me—

they still burn
but now with different ardor

Why do I have to go?

predawn sighs surface from the kids’ room
down the hall;

seven
years of ends that barely met,
seventy
months of payments and pacifiers,
seventy
thousand soiled diapers later . . .

bleary-eyed,
I wipe the steam from the mirror
as I rub the stubble of yesterday,
mold my countenance—
my future—
in my hands

Dad,
I understand now,
I whisper through the lather on my chin
and scrape and shave the foaming bitterness down
the drain

This was written around 2003 or so--you know, one of those aha moments. My dad is now one of my best friends, even though at one point in my life I made that difficult.