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.
21 January 2010
12 January 2010
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!
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!
10 January 2010
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.
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.
06 January 2010
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.
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.
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