Ten Things About Short Fiction

I'm headed out on a fourteen hour drive from Texas to Illinois today, with Uno and Dos as my roadtrip buddies, so we can offer support to my mom as she goes in for surgery tomorrow.

Time for a post is scarce, so here is my slim 10 Things for Tuesday post of the week -- all about my most recent writing experience.

1. Writing short fiction is hard, you guys. I'm not sure I'm very good at it. This week's story had a goal of 2000 words, which I skipped right over, ending at 2,002. Not what I had intended.


2. Also, the story is not what I had intended. With a pretty tragic news article as my inspiration, and some specific thoughts about growing up in constant turmoil, I sought to tell the story of one character but ended telling the story of another.


3. Where did I stumble? I became so caught up in researching the culture of the girl I wanted to write about, that I panicked and felt my story would not be authentic enough since I don't actually know what it is like to grow up bi-racial.


4. I wrote five different versions of this story.


5. In the end, I began with a new perspective on a similar character that would still end in the same way. Because I could draw somewhat from my own past, I found this story much easier to envision. 
   


6. I'm still not completely happy with the way this story is organized. I needed to build reader compassion for my main character, and found it incredibly difficult to do in only 2,000 words. While I think I avoided the dread info dump, I'm not certain it's a completely balanced story.


7. Dialogue -- still not my thing. Not surprising, since I have sub-zero social skills, however I must find a way to work on this.


8. The Husband, as always, sat and listened and gave awesome feedback. I don't know how I would accomplish anything without him as my first and most trusted reader.


9. I also struggle in the little details -- how people move, what is happening around two people while they're immersed in conversation -- all those little things. While I've been told quite often that I paint a vivid story life that people can sink into, I notice so many holes that need filling.


10. Next week our 5,000 word story is due. I have my idea ready, and am hoping a little of what I learned in the last story will help guide me through this one with less struggles.

The Idea Factory

The class I am taking this summer is about crafting the short story. I've never been a huge reader or writer of short stories, so I thought this would be a good way to step out of my comfort zone and focus on some elements of writing that I want to work on.

Also, in the one month that this summer session meets, we are expected to complete two short stories. Knowing this, I've been greedily gathering as many ideas as possible in the past month, so that I wouldn't end up staring at my blank page crying over my lack of creativity.

I love writing, but I often need a little push to get going. I let too many fears and distractions capsize my joy as a writer. This was another reason I signed up for this class.

The question of "where do you get your ideas?" has to be one of the most frequent questions I've seen asked of authors whenever they give an interview. As if we believe there is some magic formula, some perfect remedy to the quest for story.

I thought about this a lot on the way from class tonight, as I mulled over my story idea for our first assignment. This idea happened to come from a news article I read recently, one that I can't seem to let go of because the tragic end left me with so many questions. And for me, that's where many story ideas come from.

Questions.

Why did a person do the thing they did? Why did they react a certain way? What was the reason behind their actions? How does it feel to be in that situation?

I want to know more about the human condition, and so when I hear or read about something in the news that I can't quite wrap my head around -- I question it. I wonder. I make things up.

I've always been particularly good at making things up.

I have a file of news stories that grab my attention that I keep for future story writing. And when the news doesn't offer up anything enticing, I have the quirky lifelong pattern of wacky movie-style dreams that feed my stories. I can still remember dreams from my childhood that are as rich and vivid and detailed as any book or movie I've seen. It has created some strange moods upon waking, to be sure, but I almost always write them down and save them.

You never know when you're going to be fresh out of ideas and need to go back to the well to pull up something to sustain you.

And I think that's a big part of what it takes to be a storyteller. A questioning mind, a love of observing the human condition, a desire to find the truth, and perhaps a vivid dream life. And I believe I can use these came concepts to help my young writers mine for ideas. News stories, current events, and observation -- with a questioning mindset at the ready. What about you? Where do your story ideas come from?

#EveryDayinMay Soon, June.

Soon, June.

And a million new newnesses to explore.

In May I realized I love writing each day when my voice feels authentic. Imagine that.

I love the #WanderlustWednesday post that somehow materialized here, and the #TuesdayTen I stole from Crystal. #PoetryFriday will remain a constant favorite, because I just wouldn't be me without poetry. And I love sharing how I look at a poem and work with it in a writing lesson. I may add one more weekly post; something writerly related -- especially since the whole month of June I'll be in a writing class!

In March I wrote each day, but with the focus on sharing a slice of my life every day I somehow felt contained and struggled to find something worthwhile to share with each post. May was easier, and I feel as though I learned more from it.

And in June... well, June will see me in class, hopefully doing some swimming, visiting with my mom, trying some new recipes, and planning for my ever-evolving weeklong backpacking trip in July.

This year I chose light as my one little word, and the first five months have felt anything but light. 2014 has been overpacked with people and classes and projects and life and yes, even death. And there is so much more yet to discover in this year. Perhaps when I chose light, I didn't realize I was choosing not the breezy, airiness I hoped for, but the bold brilliance of a perfect sunrise. Because that's what this year has felt like so far; constant discovery, continual exploration.

And brilliant, every second of it.

#EveryDayinMay - Poetry Friday

You can find more wondrous words over
at Crystal's blog today!

I'm sinking deep into the moment tonight. All this talk of hiking and hidden hot springs and finding adventure in my ordinary life brought me to the doorstep of the poet William Stafford. So many of his poems speak to me, fold themselves around me and say, "Stop. Listen. Rest a while," and I do, thankful for a place to lean my busy mind, if only for a moment.

***

Waking at 3 a.m.
by William Stafford

Even in the cave of the night when you
wake and are free and lonely,
neglected by others, discarded, loved only
by what doesn't matter--even in that
big room no one can see,
you push with your eyes till forever
comes in its twisted figure eight
and lies down in your head.

You think water in the river;
you think slower than the tide in
the grain of the wood; you become
a secret storehouse that saves the country,
so open and foolish and empty.

You look over all that the darkness
ripples across. More than has ever
been found comforts you. You open your
eyes in a vault that unlocks as fast
and as far as your thought can run.
A great snug wall goes around everything,
has always been there, will always
remain. It is a good world to be
lost in. It comforts you. It is
all right. And you sleep. 

***

I am happily lost in lines like "you think slower than the tide in / the grain of the wood;" and "It is a good world to be / lost in." I've always loved poetry, and am just a smidge reverent when I come across a poet like Stafford, whose words make me want to call him up and say, "Yes! This! Exactly!"

For more excellent poetry around the webosphere today, check out the link-up at Jama's Alphabet Soup.

#EveryDayinMay - An Adventure in Every Moment

Don't forget to hop over and see what Crystal is up to today!

Maybe I owe it to the end of this first semester of grad school, but I'm in a rather reflective place right now. In the past few months I have written so much more, and almost all of it by hand with the beautiful fountain pen The Husband gave me for Christmas. The writing definitely puts me in the mindset to think about my thinking, as well. Top that with the research I've been up to my newly sprouting grey hairs with -- all about our journey in life, physical journeys, and personal healing -- and I'm a breeding ground for deep, metaphysical thinking.

Looking forward, I see adventure and travel and love and so much writing. It's a nice view, but one I'm apt to only glance at briefly. What is most important to me is the now. Why focus only on future plans for adventure when I can be off adventuring right now, every day, every moment.

Photo Credit

I think it is up to each person to define what adventure means for them. My mom reminded me of this recently. Upon hearing about my plan to hike the OHT and the desire to go alone, she commented that nobody should hike alone. By the end of the conversation, we both agreed that each person should decide for themselves whether or not a long solo hike was a good idea. She said it wasn't something she would want to do, and that's fine. In fact, it's good. I don't think everyone needs to have every experience in order to be happy. We all find happiness in our own way, in our own space.

So, the adventure. Must an adventure only be defined as some epic, grand scale journey through rough seas and unknown territories? Or can we find adventure in places as mundane as the office, the kitchen, or even curled up with a good book on the couch?

Maybe the decision to live each moment as a grand adventure of its own is in itself a grand adventure. If I am always on the lookout for the beauty and exhilaration typical of adventure, I'm fairly certain I'll find it. Even in the library.

Especially in the library.

Today in the library I was a scientist, a teacher, a photographer, a researcher, a friend, a solver of mysteries, and even a storm chaser.

Right now, our 5th graders are adventuring in the world of
bridge engineering! Love being on this journey with them.

And that doesn't even capture what happened after I left work and ventured home. Rather a full day, don't you think?

I'm eager to see what adventures come my way tomorrow. What adventures have you been on lately?

#EveryDayinMay - Let It Go. No, Seriously.

Hop over to check out how Crystal celebrated Cinco de Mayo today!

I have a little cupboard in my heart. It holds more things than one might expect for such a small heart-sized cupboard. Bits and pieces of my childhood, a long list of angst filled days from my teenage years, the last remnants of bruises from my first marriage (I told you that was a story for another day), regrets from my children's younger years that still sting fresh as a jellyfish wound, and a plethora of memories I don't want to remember but can't seem to shake loose.

Tonight in class we read our Journey poems. You know, the one inspired by Cavafy's Ithaka. The one that reminds me of Gaiman's Instructions. And more recently, the one so very much like Mary Oliver's The Journey. When I started writing mine, it was a bit melancholy. The words poured out, focused on the past, as if miniature demons were dancing my pen across the paper, refusing to let me look forward. They were angry, grumbling words.

Not the words I wanted to use to honor my journey. Sure, it's been a rough one. But whose hasn't? Midway through writing, I heard the words of someone who recently said to me, "You have so much stress in your life."

She'd been reading my blog. Perhaps she'll read this. If so -- thank you, your words reminded me of my small heart-sized cupboard, the one that stores up all the aches and pains I've accumulated through the years. And because of that, I changed my poem.

Perhaps it will change my journey, as well.

So I decided to focus on the changes I've made, the positivity I embrace every day, the focus I place in attempting to stay in the moment, to live right where I am -- no turbulent past, no worrisome future. I threw open that cupboard door and let all the regrets and drama tumble out and wash away.

I'm pleased with how the poem turned out. My classmates seemed to enjoy it; they said they could see the path I wrote about, feel the grass beneath their feet. They likened it to Whitman and Frost, which is a compliment I'll take any day.

I'm reminded that my one little word for this year is light. And lately -- between my first semester in school, the upcoming trip in July, the decision to step back from areas in my life that don't quite fit, and a few other odds and ends -- I do feel lighter.

Released. (Which, funny enough, was my word for 2013.)

So here's to the journey, wherever it may take you. Here's to letting go of the things hiding in the cupboard, those shoddy little things you don't want anyone to see. Let it all out -- throw it all into the air and say goodbye.

And then go out and live your life, unapologetically. Perhaps, like Whitman, you can then sound your "barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."

#EveryDayinMay - Roadtripping Dreams

It started with a poem. Ithaca by Constantine P. Cavafy. This poem is the inspiration for my last assignment of the semester. Write a Journey poem - a poem that tells the story of your life; where do you want to go, what do you want to do, and how will you do it?

While brainstorming for this poem, I got a little carried away with ideas for a giant roadtrip across these here United States of America. This turned into the decision that I wouldn't be able to see everything I wanted to see if I made the suggested brief entry into every state. So I started at Bing maps to see how I could turn it into two trips, one to the west and one to the east. I showed The Husband what I was up to, and his face lit up Christmas tree style. I'm not kidding when I say this man would sell everything we have and head off into the great unknown, you guys.

Then I found Roadtrippers.com, which allowed me to enter in each National Forest or landmark I want to visit, and save the trip. Of course, this turned into the realization that what I really need is several trips, not simply two big ones. Now I'm on the hunt to create four trips. I'm sure this will devolve into several more trips. Because, why not?

I made it to City of Rocks, Idaho before becoming hopelessly overwhelmed.

Here is the original image I found that shows the quickest route across the United States:

Now, if you are the type of person that just wants the ability to cross "See The Lower 48" off your bucket list, this might be the trip for you. But if you're a wayward wanderer, an adventurer, a consumer of grand experiences, you might be looking for something else. Something molded around vast starry nights, snow capped mountain peaks, and waking beneath an endless forest canopy.

I know I am.

I mean, how do I zip through Colorado without seeing the Canyons of the Ancients, or ignore Mt. St. Helens in Washington? There is far, far too much to see in one giant circle around the states. Add to this the fact that The Husband and I want time to hop out of the car and do a little hiking at several points along the way, and well -- you see the problem. It's easy to get lost just in the planning.

For now, I'm enjoying the idea. It's a glimmer of good things to come, adventures on the horizon. It's a promise waiting in the not-too-distant future.

And a fantastic distraction from that Journey poem, which still politely waits to be written in my journal. Perhaps I should get back to that now.

Where would your road trip dreams take you? Share in the comments - I'd love to create a map of destinations provided by readers!

#EveryDayinMay - Living in the Moment

Go check out Crystal's post on New Orleans streetcars today!

Tonight's post was supposed to be all about my exciting date night in the woods, hiking in my fancy new boots for the first time.

Supposed is a funny sort of word, isn't it?

The day started out just as intended. A meeting with cherished North Star of Texas friends to discuss the upcoming year of Professional Development. Helping Dos prepare for his prom night. Delighting in a little mini-photography session with Dos and the girlfriend.

Afterwards, The Husband and I had planned a simple evening -- a trip to REI so he could check out their shoes, I could grab some nifty long wool socks, and we could take a quick peek at their sleeping pads. Apparently there is more to think about when it comes to sleeping in the woods after days of hiking than I originally anticipated.

By the time we were headed to REI, I already knew the hiking trip was beyond our reach. Traffic had been touch and go, the photo session took longer than anticipated, and I knew once we entered the store, we'd have a difficult time getting back out quickly.

I looked over at The Husband as we sped away to the store and smiled. Hiking trip or not, the rest of the night was ours. I was happy to simply sit in the moment and enjoy it.

So plans have been made. The boy is off dancing the night away. I have nifty long wool socks (with purple toes!). We grabbed some barbecue, rented a movie, and eased into the evening. No rushing about, no worries, no stress.

I'm perfectly thankful for what is, even if it's not what was supposed to be.

#EveryDayinMay - Poetry Friday

Pop on over to Write.Sketch.Repeat. for more poetry!

In class this week, we looked at several of Rilke's poems. Afterward, we were told to choose one title and consider how we would write our own poem of the same title.  I have long been an admirer of Rilke's poetry, and the selections our professor had chosen made it difficult for me to settle on the title I wanted to focus on. Eventually I went with Going Blind.

The first stanza begins:

She sat just like the others at the table.
But on second glance, she seemed to hold her cup
a little differently as she picked it up.
She smiled once. It was almost painful.

You can read the rest here.

When thinking about the title, I immediately imagined a blindness much different than the loss of sight. It was interesting to view a title and then consider how I could make it my own. This is something I haven't done with my own young writers, but hope to soon in the future. They never fail to amaze me with their creativity. Luckily we're reading Flora & Ulysses right now, which gives me a good opening to play with some poetry!

Here's my first unedited draft from class. I really like the idea behind the words, but I haven't found the right flow yet. Hoping it will evolve as I play with it more in the future.

Going Blind
Just a moment,
she'd say.
I need to fetch the mail.

An easy thing,
to fetch the mail--
down the walk
and back again.

Just a moment,
she'd say,
I need to fetch the mail.

Shuffle out,
shuffle in,
let the conversation
begin again, coffee cooling
in untouched cups.

I listen to her stories,
once,
twice--
on a yawning spiral afternoon
perhaps a third.

Just a moment,
she'd say,
I need to fetch the mail.

Shuffle out,
shuffle in,
let the conversation
begin again, forgotten coffee
cold on the table.

She laughs,
looks away.
Covers up mistakes
we all pretend
to not see.

Then, again--
just a moment,
she'll say.
I need to fetch the mail.

Be sure to stop by Crystal's blog today and
read all about her adventures in New Orleans!

#EveryDayinMay - Go Create Stuff

Way back in the old days, long before blogging officially became a thing, I had my own little corner of the Interwebs where I posted my poetry and short stories. These were the days when AOL and CompuServe ruled the vastness of our techno-community, a time just beyond the screeching connectivity of halted Internet service and not quite at the doorstep of the luxury of wireless anything.

It was a simpler time, friends.

I had a smattering of followers and even a site dedicated to poetry submissions so I could share the love of meter and rhyme far and wide.

Quite proud of my website designing prowess and writerly expertise, I shared my creations with my then-husband.

He quietly, oh-so-slowly read through my poems while I waited just beside him with star-bedazzled Anime eyes to reap the rewards of my brilliance.

"This is demented," he said, looking up at me with his Cro-Magnon forehead wrinkled, his face pinched. "Anyone that writes this kind of stuff has something seriously wrong with them." 

Picture the scene, dear readers -- my tiny little too-full heart imploding in my chest, the now dull Anime stars falling from my eyes, my frame wilting beneath the weight of his words.

It wasn't long before I stopped posting my writing, and then stopped accepting submissions for my site. It wasn't long before I read and reread every word I wrote, searching for the delusional demon he saw hiding there.

It wasn't long before I quit writing entirely, not able to trust my own voice to float in a sea of his condemnation.

It also wasn't long before we divorced, but that's another story for a different day.

The thing about writing, about all art, is this: it's yours. You can put it out there for all the world to see, and they will definitely have an opinion.

Don't we all?

So some may hate it, call it demented, laugh at it, or completely ignore it. And that's perfectly fine. Some may love it. Some may need it. Some may take it and fold themselves into it and feel bigger and brighter and better just for having experienced it. And that also, is perfectly fine.

But at the root of it all, beneath the flowery expression that the world sees -- it is still yours. What truly matters is how you feel when you're in the act of making it. How you feel when it's finished and you stand back and breathe it in. What matters is what you learn in the process of each creation, and how you change because of it.

So keep creating. Throw it out into the wide world and say, "I made this. Enjoy. Or don't. You're welcome."

And then create some more.

Welcome to Every Day in May, where my incredible friend Crystal and I will be posting -- get this -- every. day. in. May. Some days we'll post on the same topic, some days we'll be wildly different. And that, as well, is perfectly fine too.

I hope you'll join us. Leave a link in the comments so we can find our way to your creation and tell you how wonderful you are.

#SOL14 - Goodnight, Dear Slicers, Goodnight

Tonight I sent in my poetry for the third assignment in the class I'm taking. I set out to write poems from the perspectives of different women in today's society. What I ended up with was more of a social commentary type of poem; not anything I thought I would ever write.

There are two poems on motherhood, though only one made the final cut. The rest of the poems cover feminism, aging, false beauty, sex trafficking, and goddesses -- ancient and modern. Interesting to me, was the fact that I don't necessarily agree with the perspective of each poem. Some are more about being misunderstood than anything else. But I'm glad I wrote them, and I believe I'll keep writing around this subject. There is so much to cover on the topic of the 21st Century Woman; I have material for days.

I was sad not to be able to send the second poem on motherhood. It was one of the softer pieces I wrote, but just didn't feel finished. In fact, I think it's only about halfway done. I very much love the current last lines, though. And I think they are fitting for the last night of this March Slice of Life Challenge:

She sits beside the quiet

like a stranger.

And... goodnight, dear readers, goodnight.

#SOL14 - Poetry Problems

Tonight I'm working on poetry. This is the third assignment of four, each a little different but all focused on creativity. I decided a couple weeks ago that I wanted to create a collection of poems centered around what it means to be a woman in the 21st century. I played with ideas in my head, felt certain it would all come together rather easily.

Tonight I'm wrestling with poetry. The words are stubborn, my thoughts are jumbled, the pen trips over itself. I thought I knew what I wanted to say, but the more I say the more perspectives I think of, and the less centered I find myself. I'm toying with words on paper, circling the questionable, crossing out the rubbish, rewriting the remains.

Tonight I'm writing poetry. It's hard, it's glorious, it's completely imperfect. It's exactly what I want to be doing. Working, wrestling, writing, reflecting on what's real. I'm finding the truth, narrowing down the words, sculpting the obscure into something known and beautiful.

Tonight, I'm writing.

#SOL14 - Always a Writer

Summer. 1982. I was seven years old. My tender and loving second grade teacher had told us at the end of the year that in third grade we would learn many new things. One of these things was cursive writing.

Oh, how I fell in love with those loops and curls. I just couldn't wait to write like a grown up, all fancy and frilly and flowing across the paper like an ice skater making graceful figure eights. It may have been summer, but I had to learn right away.

I begged my mom to show me how to turn my archaic chicken scratch into something beautiful. She found a book that showed each letter, gave me a pen and paper, and set me loose.

I still remember sitting in front of the long picture window that looked out into our front yard. Our bright blue and green curtains were drawn open, creating a makeshift stage for my practice session. Rain splattered on the window pane, pale yellow light shining through the grey clouds and into the living room as I hunched over my paper, practicing my loops and curves. The house was quiet, the only sound coming from the soft pattering of rain against glass. I wrote the letters carefully, forming each dip and arch with careful precision until I ran out of paper.

This quiet summer morning remains one of my favorite childhood memories.

#Slice2013 - Day 28 of 31

Have I mentioned lately how much 2013 has been rawking my socks off?

I mean, let's get serious for a minute:

• Completion of savings budget? Check!
• New home? Check!
• House remodeling successes? Check!
• Possible career enhancing opportunity of ultimate rockstar happiness? Check!
• Dos' knee surgically repaired and healing beautifully? Check!
• Back on track and eating clean? Check! (YES! Finally! Yay! It feels sooooo good!)
• Writing daily, working on new ideas? Check!
• New fitness venture, enabling me to motivate myself and thousands of others -- while working with the inspirational fitness diva from The Sweaty Betties? Check!
• Ability to bring people along with me on this unbelievably fabulous fitness adventure? Check, check, and uber-check!

And there are other blessings as well -- too many to list, too many heart-happy moments, too many smiles, too much joy to keep all to myself.

Loving life, my friends. And there's still more to come!

#Slice2013 - Day 13 of 31

It's been a quiet day.
Reading, writing, reflecting.

I don't remember a time when I wasn't reading, asking for books, wanting to be read to.
Most of my childhood memories are of me wandering rows of books, searching for my next great find.

When I reached 4th grade, I started writing. Poetry, mostly. And only because my teacher gave extra credit for poems written. So I wrote. And I wrote. Bad poems. Silly rhymes. Honestly, I still remember that fat, red folder busting with notebook pages. I remember a poem that went something like this:

The fat cat
sat on a hat
next to a rat

In Fourth Grade. My teacher never said a word about my volumes of uninspired poetry.

But that's when the writing bug really hit.

By middle school, I was writing every day. I carried a binder with me to school, filled with poetry and short stories. I wrote and doodled through all my classes. Language Arts was one of my least favorite subjects. Ironic. And sad.

And by middle school, I found it more difficult to find books that interested me in the children's fiction area of our library. I wandered into the grown up books. I read Agatha Christie. Stephen King (a little, mostly it just freaked me out). Jung. Freud. Books on philosophy. Books on dreams. Books on spiritualism.


I never had a teacher recommend a book. The one time my dad offered me a book, Piers Anthony's A Spell for Chameleon, I was in 4th Grade. I told him I didn't understand something in the book and he took it back, saying "I guess I was wrong. I really thought you were ready for these books."

Later, I read the whole series. Just because.


In high school, I had a folder on our family computer that held a myriad of files containing my writing. I wrote about our car accident. Teenage life. Stories about dysfunctional families. Every day, without fail. Fan fiction modeled after (I'm not kidding, guys) Sweet Valley High or any of Christopher Pike's horror books. I wrote screenplays. And so. much. emo. poetry.

In high school, I also found today's version of FaceBook, years before AOL even existed -- BBS' with multi-line dial-in's that had multi-player interactive fiction text-based games. I lost myself in creating characters and acting out story lines. I took those story lines and wrote even more of my own short stories.

I loved Sassy magazine, and their feature "It Happened to Me," so I wrote a story about my car accident, as true as I could make each word, and printed it out. I deleted the file, afraid my parents would read it. But I gave it to my 9th grade English teacher and asked her to edit it for me, so I could send it to the magazine. She asked if I had an extra copy, because she might lose it. I lied and said I did. She never mentioned it again, and embarrassed that it was so bad she hated it, neither did I.

When I graduated from high school, I deleted all those old files. I'll never want these, I told myself. It's time to grow up. My dad wanted me to get out there and earn a high dollar living doing something sensible. My mom just wanted me to get out, away from all the dysfunction existing between me and my dad.

So I did.

I got married, went to college off and on, had children, went to college off and on, got divorced, and kept writing. Journaling, poetry, short stories, ideas for graphic novels. I took every Literature class and Creative Writing course offered.

And the more I learned about writing, the less I wrote. The more I learned, the more I nit-picked my writing, until it seemed as bad as those 4th grade extra credit poems. And somewhere, deep inside, I decided I was a fraud. Someone that likes writing, but isn't actually a writer.

I let myself believe that for a long time. Then, with a lot of inspiration from NaNoWriMo, I finished my first novel. At right over 100,000 words, something about it's realness made me feel accomplished. Something about finishing something that took so much effort to complete, made me feel more whole.

But I still miss the writer I was when I didn't know I was a writer. I miss middle and high school me, that could sit down for hours in front of the computer and write with abandon, happy and excited, and thinking through the plot without care for sentence structure or literary devices. I miss the child in my writing. The exploration just for the sense of adventure.

And I'm working on navigating my way back to her. I think she misses me, too.

#Slice2013 - Day 12 of 31

This afternoon on FaceBook I read an article about Bridget Zinn, who was offered representation for her debut novel back in 2009. Not long after that, she found out she had stage four colon cancer. She passed away in May of 2011. She was only 33.

Her quirky YA fairy tale, Poison, is set to come out this month. It's up to her friends and family to launch the book, and they're doing an amazing job of honoring her memory while making sure her novel makes it into the hands of readers everywhere. You can read a review of Zinn's Poison here.

Beyond the heartbreak I felt for Zinn and her family, beyond the desire to have her book in my hands, this article left me pondering the fickleness of time. Our best laid plans mean little if we aren't here long enough to reach our goals. Procrastination, fear, the busyness of life - all these and more have often become my excuses for not putting a bold effort toward my own goals. If my time on Earth is abruptly cut short, I wondered, what dreams will I have left unclaimed?

My mind first drifted to the partially edited manuscript for my own YA novel. To the picture book manuscripts unsent. To the half-written stories, and the seeds of stories wanting to be written. To the local critique groups I know of, but shy away from, too afraid to sit in that circle and be seen. To the days spent not writing, when writing is - has always been - where I am most fulfilled.

I have other dreams, of course. For my children, for travel, and other less precious things. But those dreams? The writing dreams? They are the dreams I have the most control over, yet push against the hardest. Those are the dreams I need to be actively running toward, because just sitting here thinking about losing them fills me with regret.

What about you? What unclaimed dreams are waiting for you to run and greet them?

#Slice2013 - Day 9 of 31

I sat forever trying to decide what to slice this evening... by 11:15 tonight these words started swirling around my head and I figured a newly forming poem is better than nothing for a Slice-in-time!

I wrote first, with crayon.
Loop the loops and bright zig-zaggedy bolts
that sped across the page, hungry
to find their place.

Next, pencil.
Broken tips and fat pink eraser marks,
and a left hand smudged silky grey
after hours practicing perfectly polished letters.

Then, pen swept in.
Fanciful blue, serious black, critical red
colored days filled with poetry and places,
staining my skin with its inky rainbow.

And typewriter!
Smooth keys transferring ink to page,
click-clack-dinging in response to my
story-loving heart.

Computer came next.
Blue screen, buttery yellow letters;
blinking, flashing cursor waited patiently
for words to fill the empty space.

But then, journal.
Lined, blank pages waiting to be filled
with scribbled words and captured doodles
in crayon, pencil, pen, and snippets of printed page.

Slice of Life Tuesday

I would love to write a slice today,
but...
There are 37 students taking their first four hour unit test tomorrow. And their second the day after that. And their third the day after that.
So forgive me if my heart is a little too full of concern for these kiddos for me to concentrate on anything else.

There are 19 students in dire need of assistance they just aren't getting, and no matter how far I stretch what I can do in one classroom, I'm just not meeting their needs in the way I would like. So forgive me if my heart is a little too overwhelmed to concentrate on anything else today.

I have visions of NaNoWriMo swirling in my head. Broken bits, like splices of film flip flopping apart through my mind, pieces that want to tell a story that I just can't quite mend.

Because there are 4 students with Autism in my room working far below grade level that desperately need consistent one on one attention to be successful. If I could, I would sit all day with these guys and I know that real learning would happen. As it is, I do the best I can, but it never feels like enough.

I asked for help trying to determine how to do a better job.

I was told it was impossible.

So there it is.
Every day, I go to work to accomplish the impossible.
So forgive me if my words are scattered, my heart is broken for my students, and my mind is swirling Texas-tornado style.

There must be a better way.

Slice of Life: Stop, it's NaNoWriMo Time!

November is definitely my favorite month of the year. Why, you ask? Well...

• It begins one day after Halloween (candy and costumes, guys - c'mon.)
• It's (typically) less than 100 degrees here in sunny Texas
• NaNoWriMo mania means I get to writewritewrite my heart out!
• I get to spend every morning before school writing along side several 4th and 5th grade students -- no grades, no homework, just a bunch of writers with a shared purpose!

This year I used Animoto for the first time to make a video for all 150 students to watch. They were pretty excited!

Make your own photo slideshow at Animoto.

I'm eager to see how many show up on the 29th to learn more! This year I'm starting my club just a few days early to help students flesh out ideas and get the ball rolling. In the meantime, I thought it might be helpful to round up some handy NaNoWriMo apps and sites that will help all us wacky WriMo'ers get the job done!

• Write or Die: I'm a huge fan of both the desktop and iPad version of this writing block killah. The concept is simple: as long as you type, you're fine. Stop typing and the trouble begins! This is a great way to get out some fast writing bursts when you're lacking motivation or need some extra oomph to keep writing.
• Storyist is another great program for writers, available on iPad or Mac. Maybe it's the gadget lover in me, but I fell in love with all the options for organizing various story elements. And if you're a little on the... um, less than organized side, Storyist is a huge help!
• Okay, okay, I know. You want the free stuff. When it comes to free writing apps, there's a long list to choose from. Honestly, I like the extra bells and whistles Storyist provides me, and feel like if I just wanted to write without organization I could use my Notepad. Alternatively, I've seen people use apps like Evernote and Write 2 Lite for on-the-go writing.
• But most importantly, be sure to hang out on the NaNoWriMo forums for tons of advice, tips, and tricks! Being involved in a group of writers makes all the difference when it comes to reaching the finish line at 50,000 (or more!) words.

So what are you doing to prepare for the NaNoWriMo frenzy of writing?

Slice of Life Tuesday: A Manifesto Begins

I've learned a lot in the past six weeks, but mostly, I've (re)learned this:

I believe in a reader’s right to choose.

Strike that, I believe in a child’s right to choose.

I believe in a child’s right to be treated like a person, not a statistic. Not a test grade.

Choose how they learn best.

Choose how they represent their learning.

Choose what they want to read.

Choose how they write.

I believe in choice.

The choice to teach in a way that lines up with your beliefs and meets the needs of your students.

I believe in standing firm on your principles.

I believe in change.

I believe when we offer students the opportunity to be great, they amaze us with their excellence.

I believe teaching is about people, not numbers.

I believe we have lost our way.

I believe there is a way back. 

It is the still, quiet voice muffled beneath scores and paperwork and meetings and data.

The still, quiet voice that -- years ago -- urged you to become a teacher in the first place.

I believe that voice has a right to be heard.

And I believe we each have the strength to push that muffled voice from a whisper to a shout -- not just for ourselves; not for the weary eyes, aching feet, boggled brains and burnt out souls of all the teachers across the nation.

No, not only for them -- for me, for you.

I believe that voice has a right to be heard because our children deserve better.

They deserve rooms rich with conversation, laughter that rings through the halls, amazement in the pure joy of learning -- which, let’s be honest -- has been lost beneath the bubble sheets and reading passages and leveled books that bore would-be readers and scientists and Nobel Peace Prize winners at such extreme levels that we have shut down their minds.

I believe our children have the right to be allowed to learn.

I believe change is necessary.

And I believe change is impossible, unless we listen closely.

Listen closely to that still, quiet voice – the one that insists there is a better way.

Because there is. There is a way beyond boxed curriculum sets and test preparation. Beyond extrinsic rewards for minimal expectations. A way beyond what we have let education become.

And if you’ve forgotten your voice, if the demands placed on you have become so stringent that your passion for learning is barely a smoldering ember – put down your clipboard, leave the stacks of papers behind, push open that door and walk outside.

Seek out the playground.

Seek out the children digging in the dirt.

Seek out the boys on the basketball court and the girls doing cheers all lined up in the grassy field. (And yes, seek out the girls playing soccer and the boys reading beneath a tree.)

Seek out the Kindergarteners asking, asking, always asking for more.

Seek out the loner. The angry one. The kids poking bugs with sticks.

Seek out the wisdom in each child, the delight in their faces, the yearning for knowledge.

Fill your lungs with it. Smile, if just for a moment, remembering why you are doing this in the first place.

And let your still, quiet voice rumble and roar.

And be heard.

For you, for your students, for our nation.

Be heard.