There are a lot of things that teachers get to experience in the course of their careers. One of those things is not supposed to be the death of a student. Caleb Burroughs was a student at our school and was shot and killed by a gang this spring. I didn't teach Caleb, but I knew who he was and his death sparked a sequence of events at our school that made quite an impression on me. I wrote this the night I got home from school after our staff and students spent the day reeling from the shock of Caleb's death.
There are certain things that I do that always make me feel at peace. One of those things is writing and the other is gardening.
I look out over my backyard and get excited that I see the hostas reappear and the shrubs that I’ve planted leaf out and turn green and the surprise results of birds relocating the seeds of plants from my neighbor’s yard into mine. Nurturing and growing the plants in the garden seems to give me a focused activity that allows me to forget the pressures of the day for a minute and usually whatever problem I had when I started seems trivial in comparison when I’ve finished playing in the dirt.
I can’t fix this, though, what we’ve all experienced in the last couple of days. No one needs to tell us that it’s tragic, such a pointless act, so senseless. But the interesting thing is that almost always there is illumination. Stay with me for a minute.
There are many mornings when I walk to the mailroom to get my homeroom folders and check my mailbox and go back to my classroom and I get so irritated at how loud and obnoxious the kids are. I hear them scream at each other down the hall, just as you pass by their open mouths or laugh so loud and how they bang into you, oblivious that you are next to them and I just sigh and think to myself how I can’t wait to get to my quiet classroom; quiet for just a few minutes before school starts.
But I missed that today. The halls weren’t loud. There was no laughter that filled my eardrums, or screaming or bumping into me. Oh, the kids were there, but they weren’t making any sound. But they spoke volumes.
They spoke volumes about how touched they were that Caleb was their friend. They spoke volumes about how important it was that their peers just stand or sit beside them and be together with them in the silence. They spoke volumes about how much they rely on us to be their shoulder to cry on and the ear they need to hear what they have to say. They spoke volumes about their caring nature and how they knew it was important that they were there for each other. They spoke volumes about how they really know what’s right and wrong in the world and how it deeply affects them and others. They spoke volumes as they, we, have tried to make sense of it all today.
And I’m always awed by the fact that despite all the complaining and moaning that we as staff do at the enormous pile of work that we have, the hands on all of our time and the minutiae of our days as educators that when there is a need for us to all figuratively link arms and create a safety net for our students (and for us) that the net is strong as ever. It’s woven with the collective thoughts that we’re in this together.
I knew who Caleb was. I didn’t have him in class, but I had a few brief interactions with him and I knew that he was a decent, kind young man.
If you think long enough about all the bad things that happen all over the world, it makes one not want to even be part of this earth. My advice (even as a journalist with a background in television news) is… don’t watch the news. But the news is pervasive. Especially when we’re part of it.
But we only get a few rides around this sun of ours and it’s over. Some get more of a ride than others. We’re all packed in the backseat and we’re not driving. But we’re good company and we’re all in this together. The idea is to watch and appreciate the scenery as it’s going by, sometimes stopping to get out and stretch a little before getting back in, but take your time to enjoy the company along the way.
I have a video production colleague who starts every semester by telling the kids, “there’s only one of me and around 30 of you. That means that each one of you gets about 1/30 of my time, energy and attention. But I get 30 times that time, energy and attention from you because there is only one of me. I got the better end of the deal, if you ask me, getting to learn from you.”
And that’s the point, isn’t it? That we all learn from each other on these few trips around the sun that we have. I saw a student body today that was emotional, supportive, caring and passionate. A student body who felt strongly that wrong had been done and they felt it with every bone in their body. A student body who realized that they need each other (and us) and need to be open to emotion and feeling. And a staff who held them up when they began to wobble or lean. It reinforced my belief in the good in everyone. That’s what I chose to focus on in this situation. I have too. The alternative makes me too depressed.
The truth is that we can’t make sense of it. Maybe the whole point of tragedy is that it gives people a chance to reconnect and strengthen our support system. A chance to check in with each other when we get too distant. A tune up, so to speak. I’m certainly not trivializing what happened into a “moral to the story” but I felt the strength of a couple thousand people, all experiencing the same thing today. It was comforting, even in the grief.
I think that as educators, we influence the kids who we teach in ways we don’t even know just as much as they influence us. We don’t always know whether we make a difference or not, but all of us hope to. We have an amazing job because we get to make a positive difference in people who are still growing and maturing. We also get to be recipients of new, fresh, innocent perspectives from people who are mostly untouched by cynicism and rejection and a lifetime of bumps and bruises in the road. They are not censored. We’re very lucky.
So I’ll continue to nurture and grow those things that I can hopefully make a difference in…where I hope to have an influence. This includes the plants in my garden and the kids in my classroom and I’ll continue to have pride in this wonderful school, filled with wonderful people that is South Cobb.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Monday, October 22, 2007
How to be a Writer...
To be a writer you have to write. It’s that simple. Or is it? For me it hasn’t been that simple. I’ve enjoyed writing since I was old enough to pick up anything to write with. The concrete nature of thoughts on paper was, and always has been, for me an incredible rush. I’m not writing so much anymore, though, and I don’t know why.
I used to revel in the muse. I would get an idea in my head and sit down and pound out a story or an article or an essay in an hour’s time without even stopping. It was so incredibly easy. I must be a writer, I would tell myself, because words came so easy to me. And, my parents told me, I was good. My dad still says I’m a good writer and will often ask me to proofread a business letter or a contract for him.
It’s been a cruel joke lately that the desire to write has become so strong, yet the muse has been so distant and unattainable. So has the motivation, the drive, the time and the energy. I always feel like I have to have certain things done before I write. Such as, my desk needs to be clean. The laundry needs to be done. The dishes unloaded and the dirty ones loaded, the yard mowed, the bills paid, and this list just swirls in my head like a vortex, clouding up my thoughts and snuffing out any desire I have to write in the first place. It just seems like one more thing I have to do. And then when I do write a paragraph or a sentence, I look back on it and I tell myself, “it’s shit.”
I know that I have to clear the clutter from my head and not let things interfere with writing and set some strict writing guidelines for myself. Setting up a daily writing time and sticking to it would probably help. I have to get into the habit of showing up for myself. It’s just like getting in shape which I have just made a commitment to myself to do. Whether I feel like it or not, I have to show up, work out and be done with it. I read somewhere that if you make yourself stick to a schedule that somewhere along the way, something clicks. It becomes such a habit that if you don’t do it, you yearn for it.
My questions is: how do I write when nothing comes to mind? The flow of some of my thoughts to paper only reach two or three sentences and then it stops. I can’t keep the ink flowing like I used to and it’s discouraging. And I call myself a writer!
Do you have to actually write to be a writer? Well, probably. But more than that, you have to have the ability to put thoughts into words and the desire to be a writer. I have always had this romantic view of “myself as a writer” and now, at age… forty-something, I don’t see it ever happening if I don’t get off my butt (or on my butt in front of the computer, as it were) and make it happen. But is my vision of what a writer’s life is like realistic for me?
I see writer’s rising out of bed by 8 or 9, getting a good cup of coffee or tea or whatever, sitting down at their computers and with the ease of a magician pulling endless handkerchiefs out of their sleeve, putting eloquent phrases and thoughts down on paper for a couple of hours. Then, turning the computer off to have the rest of the day to return phone calls, talk to editors, edit or just go to the park if they want. They can wander antique stores to find that perfect entry table they’ve been looking for or go to the store for that new craft they’ve wanted to try or take a drive to the northern part of their state for some fried pies and fresh apples that are so well known up there. Occasionally they will have to make an appearance at a writer’s conference or speak on a panel or do book signings or something but that sounds, to me, as much fun as going to the antique store. Someone pays them big money for this. We’ll maybe not big money, but money nonetheless...HA! I know it's all a load of crap, but a girl can dream big, can't she?
Do all writers see life in cleaver analogies and metaphors that when I read them, I just say, “yes, just the way I would say it if only I had come up with that combination of words.” Good writer’s all seem to see life somewhat askance and with a poetry that defies my belief and creates insecurity in me I cannot shake.
I belong to a writer’s organization and the contact I’ve had with my fellow writers, (there I go, calling myself a writer) is that they just sit down, do some research and write a book. There is no talk about the enormous amount of work, sweat, worry, writer’s block, sacrifice and loneliness that go into putting together a publishable piece. Even the speakers we have at the meetings don’t address much more than what to do after your book is done. Is it because these people are beyond the struggle and I’m just way behind? If that is the case, what am I doing in a group where I don’t fit in?
At our last pre-meeting workshop, members who wanted to take part talked about the future of our organization and what we would like to get from Georgia Writers, Inc. Some of the topics included more professional volunteer recruitment programs to get more people involved in staffing our events, the connotation of the word “pod” versus "chapter" or satellite meetings for affiliate groups not in the metro Atlanta area and the importance whether putting our newsmag online would compromise the integrity of membership to our paying members of which the newsmag is a benefit.
I piped up and asked that there be more information about the process of writing. Is it this hard for everyone? And I need more than a stat answer of “yes”. I need to get a clear picture from these people that they are struggling with the same time constraints, lack of creativity and difficulty in motivation. I need to hear from an accomplished writer that he or she struggles with insecurity every day and fears whether they’ve run out of words or not. Because the way I see it in this organization, writers make a decision to write a book and bam, it’s done. I started a novel more than ten years ago, got halfway finished and put it down. I haven’t done much with it since except pull it out of it’s dusty bag and look at how much (read overwhelming) work needs to be done to it. I’m really not that interested in it anymore. Maybe I just need therapy.
I’m reading a book right now called Unstuck by Jane Anne Straw and it theorizes that people who consider themselves writers, but have so much trouble completing a thought on paper let alone write a book, are people who got stuck somewhere along the way by an overly critical teacher or parent or critique group member. I know about when I quit working on this book and it was right about the time a critique group I was in, and one particular member, was nitpicking and disparaging about my writing under the guise of being “helpful.” I’m sure she was crass about everyone else’s writing too, but I only remember me, as victim. I also remember entering the high school teaching profession at that time. That's crisis enough right there!
Now, so you won’t think I’m a complete idiot, I realize that the nature of a critique group is not to improve your writing by getting slovenly praises all day long for your uncanny ability to write better than any of us and, why are you in the group anyway? But I’m a sensitive person. I’ve always been a sensitive person and I think many writer’s are. They see life as a series of events that shape the world and they feel life, not just watch it or ride in it. They are compassionate and empathetic and I think that’s what makes a good writer; the ability to feel and feel deeply. So, the dilemma is how does a sensitive, thin-skinned person take part in a writer’s critique group or even survive in this business with all its rejection and still come out feuling the desire to write? Writing by its very nature is like putting your heart on a table and passing it around for everyone to palpate, peruse and poke. They turn it over, roll it around in their hands and lift up parts of it to peek under each nook and cranny, looking for flaws before putting it back in your chest with a sneer and a shrug and expecting you to be better off because of it.
Some people would say, “get over it and start writing”, “you’ll never make it in this business if you’re this sensitive”, or “ignore all the naysayers and write anyway.” But I can’t help but hear my inner critic telling my motivation to “beat it, punk or I’ll beat the crap out of you” and stealing its lunch money. Maybe my motivation has been smart to walk away from the fight, but it has had enough and is now going to fight back. Despite the bruises it will endure. Way to go motivation! There will be times where I’ll have to coach it from the corner of the ring and wipe it down with a cool rag and say to it, “get back in there and show him who’s boss. I’m right here beside you and you’re getting bigger than him.” You ARE a writer, you just have to work harder at it.
Wish me luck.
I used to revel in the muse. I would get an idea in my head and sit down and pound out a story or an article or an essay in an hour’s time without even stopping. It was so incredibly easy. I must be a writer, I would tell myself, because words came so easy to me. And, my parents told me, I was good. My dad still says I’m a good writer and will often ask me to proofread a business letter or a contract for him.
It’s been a cruel joke lately that the desire to write has become so strong, yet the muse has been so distant and unattainable. So has the motivation, the drive, the time and the energy. I always feel like I have to have certain things done before I write. Such as, my desk needs to be clean. The laundry needs to be done. The dishes unloaded and the dirty ones loaded, the yard mowed, the bills paid, and this list just swirls in my head like a vortex, clouding up my thoughts and snuffing out any desire I have to write in the first place. It just seems like one more thing I have to do. And then when I do write a paragraph or a sentence, I look back on it and I tell myself, “it’s shit.”
I know that I have to clear the clutter from my head and not let things interfere with writing and set some strict writing guidelines for myself. Setting up a daily writing time and sticking to it would probably help. I have to get into the habit of showing up for myself. It’s just like getting in shape which I have just made a commitment to myself to do. Whether I feel like it or not, I have to show up, work out and be done with it. I read somewhere that if you make yourself stick to a schedule that somewhere along the way, something clicks. It becomes such a habit that if you don’t do it, you yearn for it.
My questions is: how do I write when nothing comes to mind? The flow of some of my thoughts to paper only reach two or three sentences and then it stops. I can’t keep the ink flowing like I used to and it’s discouraging. And I call myself a writer!
Do you have to actually write to be a writer? Well, probably. But more than that, you have to have the ability to put thoughts into words and the desire to be a writer. I have always had this romantic view of “myself as a writer” and now, at age… forty-something, I don’t see it ever happening if I don’t get off my butt (or on my butt in front of the computer, as it were) and make it happen. But is my vision of what a writer’s life is like realistic for me?
I see writer’s rising out of bed by 8 or 9, getting a good cup of coffee or tea or whatever, sitting down at their computers and with the ease of a magician pulling endless handkerchiefs out of their sleeve, putting eloquent phrases and thoughts down on paper for a couple of hours. Then, turning the computer off to have the rest of the day to return phone calls, talk to editors, edit or just go to the park if they want. They can wander antique stores to find that perfect entry table they’ve been looking for or go to the store for that new craft they’ve wanted to try or take a drive to the northern part of their state for some fried pies and fresh apples that are so well known up there. Occasionally they will have to make an appearance at a writer’s conference or speak on a panel or do book signings or something but that sounds, to me, as much fun as going to the antique store. Someone pays them big money for this. We’ll maybe not big money, but money nonetheless...HA! I know it's all a load of crap, but a girl can dream big, can't she?
Do all writers see life in cleaver analogies and metaphors that when I read them, I just say, “yes, just the way I would say it if only I had come up with that combination of words.” Good writer’s all seem to see life somewhat askance and with a poetry that defies my belief and creates insecurity in me I cannot shake.
I belong to a writer’s organization and the contact I’ve had with my fellow writers, (there I go, calling myself a writer) is that they just sit down, do some research and write a book. There is no talk about the enormous amount of work, sweat, worry, writer’s block, sacrifice and loneliness that go into putting together a publishable piece. Even the speakers we have at the meetings don’t address much more than what to do after your book is done. Is it because these people are beyond the struggle and I’m just way behind? If that is the case, what am I doing in a group where I don’t fit in?
At our last pre-meeting workshop, members who wanted to take part talked about the future of our organization and what we would like to get from Georgia Writers, Inc. Some of the topics included more professional volunteer recruitment programs to get more people involved in staffing our events, the connotation of the word “pod” versus "chapter" or satellite meetings for affiliate groups not in the metro Atlanta area and the importance whether putting our newsmag online would compromise the integrity of membership to our paying members of which the newsmag is a benefit.
I piped up and asked that there be more information about the process of writing. Is it this hard for everyone? And I need more than a stat answer of “yes”. I need to get a clear picture from these people that they are struggling with the same time constraints, lack of creativity and difficulty in motivation. I need to hear from an accomplished writer that he or she struggles with insecurity every day and fears whether they’ve run out of words or not. Because the way I see it in this organization, writers make a decision to write a book and bam, it’s done. I started a novel more than ten years ago, got halfway finished and put it down. I haven’t done much with it since except pull it out of it’s dusty bag and look at how much (read overwhelming) work needs to be done to it. I’m really not that interested in it anymore. Maybe I just need therapy.
I’m reading a book right now called Unstuck by Jane Anne Straw and it theorizes that people who consider themselves writers, but have so much trouble completing a thought on paper let alone write a book, are people who got stuck somewhere along the way by an overly critical teacher or parent or critique group member. I know about when I quit working on this book and it was right about the time a critique group I was in, and one particular member, was nitpicking and disparaging about my writing under the guise of being “helpful.” I’m sure she was crass about everyone else’s writing too, but I only remember me, as victim. I also remember entering the high school teaching profession at that time. That's crisis enough right there!
Now, so you won’t think I’m a complete idiot, I realize that the nature of a critique group is not to improve your writing by getting slovenly praises all day long for your uncanny ability to write better than any of us and, why are you in the group anyway? But I’m a sensitive person. I’ve always been a sensitive person and I think many writer’s are. They see life as a series of events that shape the world and they feel life, not just watch it or ride in it. They are compassionate and empathetic and I think that’s what makes a good writer; the ability to feel and feel deeply. So, the dilemma is how does a sensitive, thin-skinned person take part in a writer’s critique group or even survive in this business with all its rejection and still come out feuling the desire to write? Writing by its very nature is like putting your heart on a table and passing it around for everyone to palpate, peruse and poke. They turn it over, roll it around in their hands and lift up parts of it to peek under each nook and cranny, looking for flaws before putting it back in your chest with a sneer and a shrug and expecting you to be better off because of it.
Some people would say, “get over it and start writing”, “you’ll never make it in this business if you’re this sensitive”, or “ignore all the naysayers and write anyway.” But I can’t help but hear my inner critic telling my motivation to “beat it, punk or I’ll beat the crap out of you” and stealing its lunch money. Maybe my motivation has been smart to walk away from the fight, but it has had enough and is now going to fight back. Despite the bruises it will endure. Way to go motivation! There will be times where I’ll have to coach it from the corner of the ring and wipe it down with a cool rag and say to it, “get back in there and show him who’s boss. I’m right here beside you and you’re getting bigger than him.” You ARE a writer, you just have to work harder at it.
Wish me luck.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Welcome
Welcome to my blog. Although I don't imagine anyone would read any of my posts, if you are here, enjoy! Maybe I'll say something that will spark something in you or inspire you in some way. This blog is my way of exercising my writing chops and at the same time allowing me to write some of my musings on life.
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