So What Do They Really Know?

As I mentioned the other day, I'm up to my eyeballs in reading! I would love some blogger help as I read Cris Tovani's So What Do They Really Know?, and that's where you come in, lovely reader!

I will begin reading on October 14, and post my reflections at the end of each week. The schedule will look something like this:

October 14-20
Read chapters 1-2, post reflectively on reading by October 21

October 21-27
Read chapters 3-4, post reflectively on reading by October 28

October 28-November 3
Read chapters 5-6, post reflectively on reading by November 4

November 4-10
Read chapter 7, post reflectively on reading by November 11

November 11
Google hangout discussion about the book!

If this sounds like something you're interested in, check out this form. I would love to have some friends to bounce ideas off of as we read! I'm thinking anyone participating could respond to my posts in the comments, and if you write your own post, you can leave those in the comments as well, so others can easily find you! I'm also considering a weekly twitterchat to talk about blog posts, but I think I'll know more about that by the time the end of the first week rolls around.

So what do you think, folks? Are you up for it?

It's Monday, What Are You Reading? (And a challenge!)

It's Monday! Huzzah! It's Monday and I'm sitting at home on my big comfy couch, surrounded by books.

You just gotta love a three day weekend, right?

I've been reading oodles of books lately, partially in hopes of finding the just right way to reach my new students in my new school where I feel a little like Alice and a little like Goldilocks, and a lot like Mr. Magoo.

So between the bumps and bruises of adjusting to my new school home, I read.

Recently, I've read quite a few fabulous middle grade novels, with a stack of promising reads to keep me busy for at least another month. Here's a sample of what I've read so far:

Somehow, between having students with really good taste, and some excellent timing, I've managed to read (or reread) a few delightful books by Sharon Creech throughout the month of September. Love That Dog will always remain a favorite for me -- combining poetry with dog love and a boy learning to love words? Yeah -- you got me. I hadn't planned to read it to my classes so early in the year, but they prodded me and it ended up being a perfect beginning for us. Afterwards, a student handed me Granny Torrelli Makes Soup, which I hadn't read before. I love how Creech weaves together past and present in this short but touching tale of friendship. I'll definitely be passing it along to more students!

Love That Dog * Granny Torrelli * The Great Unexpected

And finally, I picked up a copy of the recently published The Great Unexpected. Interestingly, I heard a little bit of Rosie's voice from Granny Torrelli piping through in Naomi's best friend, Lizzie. I'm curious if anyone else heard that, as well! In The Great Unexpected, Creech tosses together folk tales with a little magic realism and a lot of love to create a story that any Creech follower is sure to appreciate. I know exactly which student I'll be handing this book to first thing tomorrow morning!

Almost Home

I also just finished Joan Bauer's Almost Home, which is as heartbreaking as it is endearing. I quickly fell in love with Sugar Mae Cole, the 12-year-old main character, and her tag along puppy, Shush. Exploring themes that perfectly spark #chooseKind conversations, Bauer also employs a variety of text genres. Readers will quickly understand how important words are in Sugar's world, while seeing models of letter writing, poetry, memoirs, and more. Within minutes of book talking this new title to my students, I had kids scrambling to be the first to read it. And now it's being passed from hand to hand. Almost Home is a beautiful story that any child with family struggles can relate to, and learn from.

Starry River of the Sky

Currently, I'm splitting my time between Grace Lin's Starry River of the Sky (I'm just on page 43) and an unwieldy stack of profession development books. My husband also keeps nudging Patrick Rothfuss' Wise Man's Fear at me, and on a good day, I read maybe a page of it at a time. I loved the first book in this trilogy, The Name of the Wind, but making time for this type of epic fantasy is hard for me these days! And even with as much as I am reading these days, my to-read stack just keeps growing... I need a vacation to catch up on my reading! Does this sound familiar?



The thing I love about reading this much is how it seems to effect my students. Each Monday we sit together and set a reading goal -- they hold me to mine, and I hold them to their goals, too. And when the following Monday arrives, if anyone hasn't met their goal they are expected to know why and have a solution. If they don't have a solution, our class community of readers offers suggestions. It's powerful to watch them transform each week from this simple conversation. So for as long as my nightly reading seems to inspire them to keep chugging along, I will keep reading. I don't know how many reader role models they have in their lives, but at least they can't count on me as one.

So What Do They Really Know?

While I have all these books spinning wildly about, I feel like I need to do something to ground myself in what I'm learning through my PD books. From October 14 through November 11, I'll be reading Cris Tovani's So What Do They Really Know? and posting each week to reflect on my reading. I'd like to invite you to join me. Comment if you're interested -- I'll post details tomorrow! (Be thinking weekly posts, twitter chat opportunities, and maybe even a google hangout to chat n' learn!) What say you, readers? Do you have time to spend a minute filling out this form so we can read and share together?

SOL Tuesday: WTMNBN, Part 3

This post started here, moved forward here, and has landed rather quietly on the doorstep of today's Slice of Life post. I hadn't intended to share this today, but it seemed to want to be heard. Sometimes, you just have to follow the words home again.

My last WTMNBN post left my story ten years ago, in 2002. I struggled with my self image and my weight for the next 4 years, shedding and gaining the same 20-30 pounds -- as if my body were part of some twisted bungee jumping adventure. Always bouncing around, never stable.

In 2006, my mom flew in from Illinois for a visit.  It was a normal Mom visit -- filled with food, food, and more food. Mom loves the following things more than most things in life: onion dip, M&M's, Coca-Cola, bread & butter, and Taco Bell. Or McDonald's. This sounds cruel, but it isn't intended to be. I love my mom dearly. It's her lifestyle that makes me cringe.

She woke me early in the hours just before dawn on the day she was supposed to return home. She was in tears, her body hunched over, her arms wrapped around her belly. It didn't take long for me to realize this was more than an ordinary stomach ache. As the sun came up, we headed to the hospital.

My mom was rushed into a room that was roughly the size of a walk-in closet. Honestly, there are probably closets out there larger than her room at the hospital. There was nothing on the walls, no counters or cabinets, just stark white floors, walls, and ceilings. A rounded bench jutted out from one wall; as if seat and wall had been molded together from a single piece of Play-doh.

Later, the nurses told us that they had been out of rooms, so my mom was placed on a gurney in their holding room for drunks and other "crazies" that can't be trusted in a normal room. It made for an interesting experience, to say the least.

I watched my mom sleep through the next several hours, only waking to request something to drink or a warmer blanket. She was pale and weak; her face tired, her body slack. I had no idea why she was in so much pain, why her digestive system had blood in it, or what the possible diagnosis would be.

I was scared.

Hospitals have always petrified me. I've spent way too much time in emergency rooms, outpatient clinics, overnight stays -- you name it, I've been there. To this day, every time I walk into any type of medical environment I have to fight back a wave of nausea.

But this was more than my typical hospital-paranoia. I spent hours that day worrying that I might lose my mom.

After 10 hours of sitting and waiting and waiting and sitting and letting my mind wander rampantly through the land of the delirious and back, we found out my mom was suffering from diverticulitis -- a completely treatable disease caused by her years of atrocious eating habits.

I remember a few things vividly from that day:

1. I was angry. Watching her lie on the hospital bed, I envisioned the same situation years into the future -- with my own kids sitting by my bedside. Me, missing out on graduations and weddings and grandchildren -- all because food was more important than family, my own health, or my future.
2. This thought crept around my brain, and refused to leave: every choice we make to eat foods that are from a fast food place, too fatty, or fried... every time we choose to sit on the couch all night instead of being active... every choice we make that favors flavor over fitness -- is also a choice for a long, slow, painful suicide.

I stopped over eating. I stopped indulging in Ben & Jerry's. I stopped drinking soda. Stopped smoking. Stopped the secret McDonald's stops on the way home from class at night. 

I started walking. Every day. I started researching heart healthy, nutrient rich recipes. I started truly taking care of myself, for the first time in my life.

I invested in the art of being me.

By 2008 I was healthier, stronger, and slimmer than I had ever been. My 35 year old body put my 17 year old body to shame.

And I wasn't doing it for vanity. I didn't want the skinniest, prettiest body. I didn't place an emphasis on how attractive I was.

I wanted to live. Plain and simple. For a long, long time.

The measure of my success was found in the energy I had, the laughter I shared with my kids, the ease with which I could run and play outdoors with my nieces and nephews.

If something was known to be unhealthy, I didn't let it near me. It wasn't difficult. I thought of my mom, lying in that terrible hospital room, I looked at my children, who deserved a mom that cared more about them than she did about food.

And I just did it.

It would be a perfect fairy tale if that were the end of my story. It is, after all, a beautiful "happily ever after".

But there's more to this story.

Today just isn't the day to tell it.

C: car accident, chameleon, cocaine, crescent moon

c

CAR ACCIDENT

It was years before the sound of an ambulance or other emergency vehicle stopped throwing me into a series of violent flashbacks. I was an adult before I was convinced that I could be barefoot in a car and it wouldn’t cause an immediate car-related fatality. It’s only recently that I can see a white van on the road without my chest tightening. I’d say the 30 year anniversary of the car accident that changed my life is a fabulous time to finally let it go.

CHAMELEON

The first time I read the word chameleon was in 4^th grade. My dad gave me a copy of Piers Anthony’s A Spell for Chameleon. I asked my dad what a “chameleon” was, sounding it out with the blended /ch/ sound instead of the hard /k/ sound it’s supposed have. “What’s a cham-ē-lē-on?” I asked, innocently. He shook his head. He took the book back. He said, “Huh. I could of sworn you were ready to read these.” His eyes were sad; confused. I’m just now making the connection between this moment and my “shedding my chameleon” mantra of letting go of all my masks. Interesting.

COCAINE
When I was 12, my reconstructive surgeon (see: car accident) decided I needed my nose whittled away to make room for more oxygen or some such nonsense. My parents eagerly signed me up. Before the surgery, the nurse shoved Q-tips laden with cocaine up my nose. It dripped down the back of my throat, burning and causing me to cough and sneeze. When I woke up from surgery, I couldn’t stop crying.
“Don’t worry. Many of our young patients have this reaction to the cocaine,” the nurse said, patting me on the back.

CRESCENT MOON
Whenever I see a crescent moon, I instantly think the same thing.


Horns up: it’s the Cheshire Cat.

Horns down: God is giving me a thumb’s up!

B: birthdays, bologna, books

b

BIRTHDAYS

I have a small problem. Okay, small may not cover the truth of the disease. My husband would definitely send me to a support group if such a group existed. I am not physically capable of a mediocre birthday celebration. I want balloons and fanfare and music and a buffet style feast. There should be dozens of birthday-celebrating party-goers, a DJ, and a table piled high with gifts. Or maybe a special birthday vacation, the kind where you steal the birthday girl or boy away on a midnight mystery with nothing but a haphazardly packed bag and the road before you. Yes, birthdays should be special.

BOLOGNA

So here’s the sad truth. I love bologna and cheese sandwiches. I was practically raised on this strange meatesque substance so you can hardly blame me. If I had to tell you my favorite comfort food, this would top the list. Nothing beats a bologna and cheese sandwich slathered with mayo on white bread. There. The ugly truth is out. If only I had known that one day I was going remove bologna, American cheese, mayo AND white bread from my diet… I might have commemorated that last sandwich – made it an especially “big deal” and celebrated with a holiday each year – in honor of my beloved bologna and cheese sandwich.

BOOKS, FAVORITE

Whenever people ask, “What’s your favorite book?” I immediately think of my latest read, not my all-time-favorite.  Then I feel a little guilty, as if I’ve let down my real favorites. And no sooner than the book-questioner walks away, all my real favorites come swimming back into my memory. “Wait!” I want to yell, “I didn’t mean it! Let me tell you about these other books, instead!”

A: angry, allergies, autism

This month I'm joining the insanity over at the A to Z Challenge. Basically, this means I'll write my way through the alphabet by the end of April. Since I love a good theme, I've decided to take a page from Amy Krouse Rosenthal's book Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life. So by the end of the month we'll all realize (at the very least) one of two things:

1. I'm entirely boring
2. I'm entirely crazy

I look forward to hearing your appraisal at the end of this journey! That said, I give you -- 

a

ALLERGIES
Every time I go to the doctor, they ask me what allergies I have. I want to say, "Hey, I've been coming here for over 10 years! Why don't you know my allergies as well as you know your shoe size?"

But I don't.

I just rattle off my very short list -- sulfa (makes me stop breathing) and demerol (turns me into a paralyzed psychopath, which, I guess if you are going to have a psychopath around, paralyzed is a good way to go).



ANGRY, THINGS THAT MAKE ME
Table

being told what to do	Mom likes to remind me that my favorite phrase from about age three into, well, the present, has always been, “I can do it myself!” I was the only person in our family that delighted in standing up to my Papa (my dad’s dad). Everyone else indulged his crank-fest demands. Me? Not so much. One might say I have a problem with authority. Or perhaps I just don’t understand how stupid people keep ending up in charge of important decisions.
food	I’m angry when it’s not time to eat. I’m angry when it is time to eat, because this means choosing between a) eating delicious morsels of ultimate awesomeness or b) healthy food that will keep me alive and youthful. This shouldn’t be a choice. It’s 2012. Certainly some uber-scientist can combine the two and make my life easier.
things that are slow	When that little pinwheel of despair shows up on my screen, telling me that I need to “please hold” whilst my Mac’s brain searches for the appropriate file? I want to shoot things. I like to attempt the illusion of kindness. Often, I do the little “no, you go!” hand wave when driving through a parking lot. When the thankless dolts walking across the street don’t hurry to the other side? Again, target practice fantasies.

AUTISM
I have a friend that calls me "the autism whisperer." This is probably a huge faux pas, but honestly, I am a huge faux pas, so my concern-o-meter is barely raised. Growing up, I had never even heard the term autism. But here I am, 37 years old, and my connections to this strange little world seem huge and far-reaching.

• My 15-year-old son has Asperger's, and it only took me approximately 8 years of his life to figure it out!
• My 10-year-old stepson has autism, is mostly nonverbal, and spends most of his days in a world we can neither share nor completely understand -- but not for lack of wanting
• My aunt, who we'll call Aunt Bestie, to protect the innocent, has been a teacher of students with severe hearing impairments and autism for more than 25 years
• The ratio of autistic to non-autistic students that appear in my classroom each year seems to be growing
• One of my very closest friends happens to be a teacher of children with autism

I'm too much a believer in fate and serendipity and the "all things happen for a reason" path of enlightenment to not seek meaning from my autistic connections. In fact, being surrounded by people affected with autism (brilliant, creative, loving, and quirky as they may be) has made me much more aware of the many idiosyncrasies we all smother beneath our masks.

More and more, I am convinced that Lewis Carroll was correct when he penned the term, "We're all mad here." Be it autism, anxiety, or any other myriad anomalies found in each and every human on the planet -- there's not one of us with an unscratched neurological center.

We're all mad here.

What's Possible in Possibility?

Possibility. That's my one little word for 2012.

It's interesting to me how one word can wrap itself around you and take on a life of its own.

Impossible spells "I'm possible." (We love you, Audrey.)

Dwell in possibility.  (Thank you, Emily.)

LIVE with possibility.

One month ago I felt overwhelmed -- eaten up by -- possibility. The choices and chances in the coming months swirled around me, leaving me feeling lost in the fog -- of possibility.

Now I see it differently. I see the bliss and the blessing in all this possibility. I see adventure and opportunity. I see a life lived out loud. A life worth living.

I decided I needed to track down the root of this word that has become the framework of my year.

Possibility led me to possible, which led me further down the path to the Latin word posse, which means "be able." Following this still further I found that posse and potent both mean "power."

There is also the Latin verb possum (no, not opossum!), meaning "I am able," or "I can."

Follow the etymology around long enough and you'll find your way through the Latin potis (which leads to pote, meaning vessel -- how beautiful is that?) to the Sanskrit word  पति, or páti, which means "lord, master, rule, sovereign."

And what more is possibility, than to dwell in the brilliant truth that each day I get to choose what path to take. To dwell in "I can." To toss out the lists and the schedules and the must-have's and never-do's, and just get on with the business of living.

The words found in possibility are beautifully empowering. I found myself thinking of the words from Invictus by William Ernest Henley; the last stanza in particular:

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll.

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul. 

With all these delicious words wandering through my mind, I was reminded of Bob Raczka'a book Lemonade and Other Poems Squeezed From a Single Word. I looked up Andrew Russ, whose work Raczka was inspired by, and found even more words to ponder.

So I decided to give it a try with possibility. After much shifting around of letters and words, I realized it's much more difficult than I thought! But here it is, and here I am, dwelling in possibility:

A Wild Imagination

"I'll probably vomit, you know.”


I say this to my husband, avoiding eye contact.

I had just shared my student’s comments about publishing my writing with my husband, who just nods and smiles knowingly, as he's been trying to get me to send things out for publication for months. His smirk of a smile irritates me, and I roll my eyes.

"You don't know how hard it is!" I say. "There's research! And you have to write query letters and find the right people to send it to! It doesn't just happen overnight!"

And still he smiles.



Stupid smiling husband who thinks he knows everything.

And it's not as if I've never looked into it. I follow author blogs! I read agent and publisher websites! I know things, for goodness sakes!

I've been to the website for the SCBWI so many times I have their logo burned into my retinas. I haven't joined, because, you know, then I'd feel like I should go to the critique groups and then I'd have to actually share my writing with people.

Yes! With people! Is there anything more horrifying than that?

He doesn't even look at me.

"At least it'd give you something new to write about."

"I mean it! And I'd cry! I'd go to share my stuff, start crying, throw up, and die of embarrassment. Right there, on the floor of the super awesome writer's meeting."

He sort of half glances at me.

"It could happen," I say. I force my smile to rein itself in. Even I know I'm being ridiculous, but if he sees me smile, he wins this round.

He sets his book in his lap, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "It could happen, I guess. They might kick you out for that. I probably would. But then you could write a new book about all the mean people, and it would be so good they would buy it and you could laugh at them!"

He wins. I can't help it; I'm laughing even though I don't want to.

But this publishing thing is just a fiasco. Have you ever seen those TV shows where some crazy dude is trying to solve a murder on his own, so he has approximately 800 yards of yarn strung back and forth all over a room connecting one newspaper clipping to another, with maps and headlines and big bold circles around the important bits?

Yeah. That's how I feel when I peek out from behind the curtain and view the big bad world of publishing.

My Yellow Brick Road

World Read Aloud Day was a huge hit yesterday, and our Skype with Navjot Kaur certainly stole the show. After a few minor audio complications, we were off and running! I am so thankful we had the opportunity to trade emails beforehand because Navjot was able to tie in some special connections from her book while talking with my class about things we've been learning. She had them spellbound for nearly an hour, which pretty much makes her magical in my book.

After the read aloud, hands were popping up all across the room -- 21 eager 4th graders ready to ask questions. Everything from "what inspired you to become a writer," to "where do your ideas come from," to "have you ever cried when your book was rejected." I definitely have a class filled with writers!

We ended our conversation with her and had about 5 minutes to reflect on the Skype session before we had to jump up and run off to recess.

And my kids completely shocked me with where the conversation went.

"Soooo, Mrs. Mogk," one of them began, "You have books you've written."

21 heads nodded at me, eyes wide.

"Well, yes," I say, unsure of where they're going.

"But... you haven't even tried to get yours published?"

21 students fold their arms and glare at me accusingly.

(Okay, fine, maybe I'm exaggerating a little.)

"Oh. Well, they aren't quite ready yet..."

"But you have stories! You read them to us all the time! And you finished your NaNoWriMo novel! You told us!"

21 little bodies start bouncing up and down, shouting things at me in rapid succession.

"Navjot Kaur said she kept sending out her book even though she CRIED sometimes when it was rejected!"

"You said you want to have a book published, so you should do it!"

"It would be SO COOL to have a teacher that was an author too!"

"Navjot Kaur said sometimes you have to believe in your story even when no one else does!"

I had a full-blown fist-pumping riot brewing in my room.

I laughed. Partly because I didn't know what to say, partly because they were right.

Thankfully, it was time to line up for recess.

At home, I started browsing publisher sites, submission guidelines, the how-to's of picture book publication. I felt a little dizzy. A little unsure of where I'm headed.

A little like Dorothy on her yellow brick road.

Am I ready for talking trees and flying monkeys and mean ol' witches?

I certainly hope so.

So Quickly

They grow up.

Your mom warns you. "Don't blink, it all goes so quickly," she says. "One day you're changing diapers, the next you're sending them off to college." And she shakes her head. She chuckles.

You think she is crazy.

It all goes so quickly? What a joke! What is quick about diapers and dishes and the ever present disaster in this house? Quickly. She's off her rocker.

You're convinced you'll have these moments forever. Relaxing together after Kindergarten, reading stories at bedtime, cheering at soccer games, hunched over homework.

These days are long. It's only the night that goes quickly. That last stolen glance into the bedroom; peaceful sleeping faces nestled against Star Wars bed covers. You yawn, mentally ticking off your list of to-do's before you too, can sleep.

But still, her words echo in your mind.

You close your eyes.

Middle school dances, pizza parties, last minute research papers; an uncomfortable itch starts to settle in your mind.

Was she right?

You blink.

There are high school schedules to figure out, which may as well be a corn maze attempted with a blindfold. You sit side by side deciphering the wide world of electives, thankful that they still want your help for something besides movie money.  Suddenly: Driver's Ed, dating, football games, first jobs, and then; an order form for a cap and gown?

It all goes so quickly, you think.

Why didn't anyone warn you? You need more time to prepare!

You chuckle. You shake your head.

And want, fiercely, to call your mom.

The Problem

The problem with writing is this:
there are too many words, too many
ideas; popping up like springtime dandelions,
ripe to be carried away by the wind.

This was nudging itself around my head while I tried to sleep last night. It's still barely a seedling, but I'll play with it... if I don't lose it, or forget the words, or worse, accidentally delete it...

I've been thinking a lot about organization of writing and what to do with all the ideas, all the words, all the fragments that I've collected.

Do I start a new journal for every new story? I new file folder? Buy a hard drive just for my writing?

I need to do something. Right now I have journals, files, documents, napkins (seriously), you name it -- strewn through my life like a breadcrumb trail.

And honey, we're not gonna make it home on bread alone.

So I pose this question, friends: how do you organize your writing? I'm ready to learn.

it's time for a math revolution

I've had enough.

I've watched too many kids count on their fingers, draw out circles and dots, skip count on paper, and just flat out guess when nothing else works.

In 4th grade, we learn long division and double digit multiplication.

At least, we try.

But it's pretty difficult to remember all the steps to something like long division when you spend more than one minute just trying to figure out what 6x8 is. And another minute for the next fact... and another... how can you even keep track of the actual problem when you don't remember that 7x10 is 70?

Really, it's not just difficult. It's maddening. It's hopeless. No wonder so many kids think they hate math.

And it's not just their multiplication and division facts. These kids are incredibly hit and miss when asked a basic addition or subtraction fact.

In 4th grade.

Somewhere, somehow, we are failing these kids. I don't know where it happens or when it starts, and quite frankly, I don't care. What I do care about is their future.

I know seniors in high school that are still counting on their fingers.

So, I've had enough.  No more pushing forward through multi-step problems and watching kids attempt to enjoy math while counting on their fingers and banging their heads on desks. No more saying, "Well, they can do the problem if they write out all the factors each time, so that'll have to work." No more crutches.

We're going back to basics. I've got the beginning of a plan, a wealth of parents willing to help, and 21 kids that I just won't allow to cling to their "strategies" instead of memorizing these facts. These kids are going to succeed. We're going to learn the why of numbers, not just the how of math.

And we're going to have fun, damn it.

slice of life tuesday: and we're off!

This morning I rushed up the stairs to my classroom, eager to begin the day. It didn't matter that I was a few minutes later than I planned or that I was dangerously close to losing the juggling match with my latte, cellphone, and room key. It didn't matter that the lumpy, oversized bag slung over my shoulder was banging against my hip with each bound towards my room.

I had to get to class.

Rounding the corner I found one of my favorite early birds waiting by my door. She practically bubbled over with giggles when she saw me.

"You're here! We can write! Are you ready?!"

With a quick hug, I stumbled into the room, tossed my cache of goods into a corner of the room, and fell onto the floor with my journal and a pencil.

"Ready," I grinned.

As we opened our notebooks and started comparing ideas, three of my students from last year walked in, waving their journals at me. Without waiting, they grabbed a chair or a spot on the rug and opened their notebooks.

And a few more friends trickled in... and a few more, until there were 10 of us gathered around the room, talking about characters and plots and plans as we wrote and shared and laughed.

I glanced up at the clock to find we'd already spent 25 minutes together. Our time was almost up. Students began filing into my room, preparing for our day. I had to smile as they came in. We had talked about today; I had warned them to be respectful of the writers when they arrived.

They took a few steps into the room, stopped short, nodded as if they had just remembered something important, and silently put their things into their lockers and got to work.

My crew of NaNoWriMo warriors said goodbye and promised to be back tomorrow. We exchanged a few hugs and of course I was obliged to read some of their work before they left. They left, it seems, walking a littler taller than when they came in. All through the rest of the day I heard chatter of novels and listened to the sound of passion taking root.

And tomorrow, I get to do it all over again. Who knows, this may just begin a year long writing club. I can't think of any better way to start each day.

love, and a bit with a dog

This is a post about NaNoWriMo and creativity.

This is a post about NaNoWriMo and creativity I began writing about an hour ago.

This is a post about NaNoWriMo and creativity I began writing about an hour ago before restarting because I had toppled hopelessly off topic.

This is a post about NaNoWriMo and creativity I began writing about an hour ago before restarting because I had toppled hopelessly off topic when the words dragged me off on an adventure.

And so we shall adventure on.

In the words of Phillip Henslowe from Shakespeare in Love, "Let us have pirates, clowns, and a happy ending! Love, and a bit with a dog. That's what they want."

30 days. 50,000 words. A lot of coffee,  a little insanity, and a fully wandering plot.

What better adventure than the one you write yourself?

Slice of Life Tuesday: my scrambled august

Two Writing Teachers

It's August.
August is a scrambled month.
The last swirls of summer tug at me, begging me to swim, play, and laze about.
The first hint of school rolls in, urging me to plan and schedule and prepare.
I'm busy reading and writing; there is little time to finish up the last bits of professional development I wanted to do, but I begin to feel greedy with my time -- I want to hold fast to these precious moments.

Today I spent time at the pool with my nieces and nephews and my own two littles. They splashed and played while I watched, journal in hand, working on my current work in progress. Their giggles and screeches were warm and rich. You'd think a morning at the pool with six children that can't swim on their own might be stressful. But it wasn't. It was one of the last breaths of summer, and it was divine.

This afternoon I met with a student I'm tutoring. We worked on math facts and problem solving. It was quiet, just the two of us with heads bent over the table, talking and working together. Her hair was wet; she had come straight from her new pool. My skin still smelled of sunblock. We sat suspended between two worlds, both unsure which we preferred.

August is a scrambled month.
A good month.
A oh-this-is-living kind of month.
And I'm glad it's here.

Finding the Time

This morning while I read through my favorite blogs (my morning wake-up ritual), I discovered something fantastic.

Laurie Halse Anderson, author of several must-read books (Speak, Wintergirls, Twisted, to name a few), hosts an annual writing challenge and it starts today! The challenge is simple. Write 15 minutes a day. About anything. At any time. In any way. Just give 15 minutes to writing. See? Simple. So hop on over to LHA's website and check it out. I've joined the challenge, and will share some of my treasures here.

If I didn't follow the Two Writing Teachers or Ruth Ayers' Writes I may never have known about this. So glad I have been increasing my list of writer-mentor blogs! I learn new things and find inspiration daily.

I hope you join the challenge with us ... and if not, I hope you choose to spend at least 15 minutes a day this month following your passion.

Which reminds me -- where do you find your inspiration?