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.