Belated Ramble in Two Parts and Mixed Metaphors

Part I

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist, or any other kind of –ist for that matter, to see that I have neglected my blogging as of late. However, I need to articulate that I was writing, just not blogging. I started a few pieces. Then I put them down (literally and figuratively). I journaled. I dissertated. But I could not come up with anything I deemed blog-worthy.

Before I go on, though, I must confess that I am a little disappointed that I only had one entry for the poetry contest. Dave, you win! (Again!) Now back to our not-so-regularly-scheduled blog post.

As I worked on my seventh draft of my dissertation proposal, I had an epiphany. In the words of Smee from Hook, “Lightning ha[d] just struck my brain.” I encountered an amazing quote in my research book of all places. In her latest edition of Qualitative Research: A Guide to Design and Research, Sharan B. Merriam quotes Harry Wolcott: “Writing is not only a great way to discover what we are thinking, it is also a way to uncover lacunae in our thinking. Unfortunately, that means we must be prepared to catch ourselves red-handed when we seem not to be thinking at all. The fact should not escape us that when the writing is not going well, our still-nebulous thoughts are not yet ready to be expressed in words” (Writing Up Qualitative Research). That from a research book? Wow.

I didn’t need to feel too guilty (apart from breaking my promise to write 31 narratives, which I am still working on). 

Part II

And so I thought about my blog. And my writing. Then I looked down at the book again and noticed all my notes scrawled in the margins. Ping! (That’s the sound of the light bulb.) My ninth graders are annotating To Kill a Mockingbird right now (and digging deeper than they ever have before). As I revised, I was using the annotations I had made, just like I had been taught in Mr. Albert’s class. So I thought—hand on chin, pensive furrow in my brow—about the different skills that I had picked up over the years.

Mrs. Thompson taught me how to respond to questions with complete sentences in fourth grade. Mrs. Curry taught me how to effectively summarize (without embellishments) in fifth grade. Mr. Iwanski, even though he was a super creeper, pounded grammar and usage into me in sixth grade. That same year Mrs. Saiki taught me how to research, paraphrase, cite, and read as a writer. I started writing story to escape the realities of seventh grade. I wrote for audience in eighth grade, as it were in the Algebra Express. Mr. Albert, in tenth grade, instilled in me the importance of revision and the need to appeal to an audience. He also made sure that I knew how to back up my arguments and opinions with evidence and to never try to argue for something I didn’t believe in—at least when my grade was on the line. That same year I became a wannabe poet on the side. (Scattered evidence can be found on this site.) Mrs. Misselhorn helped me as a junior  to take something abstract and transform it into a concrete image, as well as to focus thesis statements. The advisors of the Lancer Lot gave me the confidence I needed to start publishing. And in twelfth grade I finally realized that I was a writer—not a very good one—but a writer nonetheless.

Various instructors throughout my college career helped me to shape my craft both academically and aesthetically. I sat through lecture and workshop and acquired piece by piece my writing tool belt. And just like Batman’s utility belt, there’s more there than you would ever think possible.  Nevertheless it’s still packed in there.

(I know I’m rambling now, but I needed to just spill a few thoughts and the way they came to me.)

Writing came to me slowly, as a process, one small fragment at a time.  And as I reflect on my skills, I realize that everything I learned back when I wondered if I was ever going to use it in my life…well…I still use them. These skills and shortcuts and secrets and styles—they are all a part of me. My own voice and style are a reflection of all the reading and writing I have ever done. Even the words I scribbled on the tiny Fisher Price desk with a chalkboard with yellow chalk that always squeaked and sent goose bumps racing over my body (They are visible now as I relive that memory.) helped lay a foundation, helped me to become the writing superhero I pretend to be. It’s up to me—jumping back to the Batman metaphor—to help them pack their utility belts, so they can use the tools whenever they need them. Okay, now that I think about it, I'm probably more like Inspector gadget than Batman, but the idea is the same.

Because I know hardly anyone will ever read this far, I’ll wrap up simply asserting that the writer I am today is because of the patchwork I stitched together from so many others. To the many, thank you. And as I try to instill similar skills in the nebulous minds of my students, I hope that some of them will also realize that I am just adding a piece to their puzzle. For some, it will just be a small patch of sky that blends in with the rest of their life’s panorama, but for others, I may be the red roofed villa in the hills that serves a s a focal point that gets the puzzle started within the boundaries of its frame. And yet for others, I may even be a straight-edged side, or even a corner foundation, from which the puzzle of their lives begin to take shape.

That’s enough of the metaphors, but I hope you know what I mean. Just take life, and writing, one piece at a time. And when the pieces don’t always fit, it may be time for a new puzzle. Either that or you just need to re-cut them to make them fit.

Can anybody tell me what this is supposed to be?