The Power of Words

I aspire.

Isn't that a powerful phrase? It's just a short sentence - two words, one subject and one verb, but to me, it means so much.

I have always aspired to be a writer. It sort of happened for a few years after high school when I worked as a journalist, but I discovered soon enough it wasn't the field I really wanted to be in. I have this blog.  I have written little things here and there - letters of recommendation, articles for another blog, etc. - but nothing that has really demanded any time or effort or paid much more than a pittance or a note of thanks.

Last year, a story popped into my head. The characters demanded to be heard, their story to be told. I wrote about 50 pages, and I haven't touched it since. Every time I look at the file, the thoughts flood my head, but I'm not usually in a place to write.

"That seems rather ridiculous," I hear you say. "You're writing right now... why couldn't you go and work on it while you're sitting there?"

The short answer is that I don't have time. The longer and more accurate answer is that once I start typing, I can't stop. Yes, I experience writer's block from time to time, and the story simply won't flow until the character speaks again, but until I reach either a logical stopping point or the character stops talking, I type. It's a compulsion. I don't feel like I have a choice. Once the words start flowing, I can't interrupt them or stop midstream to do something else.

Yesterday a second story idea popped into my head. It arrived around 1 a.m., as all great ideas do, but thankfully I was coherent enough at that hour to fix it in my memory, and in the morning it was still there, growing louder with each passing moment. I tried ignoring it. I know that I don't have the time to devote to another story right now. But the main character wouldn't stop talking. She needed to be heard.

And so, rather reluctantly, because I knew what would happen, I opened a Word document and began to type. (Doodlebug saw me punching furiously at the keys and asked, "Mom, what do you do with all these stories?" and I answered him honestly. "I never finish them.") By 10 last night, I had written more than 5000 words on nearly 10 pages. I was only able to stop because the character went to bed. She's already up this morning and wants to tell me what happens next. I can't put it down right now because I moved the working document to my other computer, and I'm not tech-savvy enough to reach through the network and grab it off the screen. But she's there. She's talking.

One day I will be a writer. Will I ever be published? Unlikely. But right now the possibility is out there, the stories itching to be written. I just wish I had the time.

What do you wish you had more time for?

Newspaper Articles

Once upon a time, long long ago and a couple miles away, I was a newspaper reporter.  I was the lifestyles reporter, which meant I didn't often cover hard news (elections were about as close as I got, with rare exceptions), but some of the lessons I learned stuck with me.  When I was making lesson plans for the year, I thought, "Wouldn't it be neat to have the kids write a newspaper article?"

They thought so, too.  When I started talking about the idea last week, I asked them to decide who they would want to interview, suspecting that they would want to interview Oz's family about living in Australia/emigrating to the U.S. or calling my mom to ask her about growing up in the '60s or even just interrogating me or Oz about some topic or other. 

I couldn't have been more wrong.  Doodlebug elected to interview a neighbor of ours who happens to be a state representative, and Boo wanted to talk to her violin teacher about being a professional musician and teacher.  I was surprised, but I called and e-mailed and got them both set up with interviews.

Before their interviews we discussed the importance of getting accurate quotes, how newspaper articles differ from creative writing ('said' vs. any other synonym, for example, and using full/last names, and all the paragraphs).  Today we sat down with their notes and talked about finding the most important facts, leads (make the reader ask a question), headlines (action verbs!), and adding background information.  Then I worked with the kids to write their articles.  If you've ever looked into Brave Writer, this would definitely have fallen under the 'Partnership Writing' category, particularly given the number of questions I answered during the process.

Anyway, they kids finished their articles.

Here are the results:

State representative finds job satisfying

by Doodlebug

Mark McCullough is a hardworking figure in Oklahoma politics.

McCullough is a state representative from Sapulpa.  He is in his fourth term as representative.  He enjoys helping solve complex problems and helping constituents solve their problems.

"It is a great honor to serve the community in which I grew up," he said.

He is very content as a representative.  He studies policy, makes laws, and helps constituents on a daily basis.

"It is very satisfying, personally satisfying," he said.

To become a representative, candidates have to file for office.  To get elected they normally have to go on a campaign.  They have to win the primary election, maybe a runoff election, and the general election to finally become a representative.

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Professional violinist shares love of instrument

by Boo

Why would anybody want to spend hours every day just practicing with an instrument?

Sue Loomis is a professional violinist who likes to teach people to play the violin to share its sweet sound.  She also likes to see new people learn new things.

Loomis took up the violin when she was 10.  When she heard another violinist play, she wanted to do it as well.  In college she earned a bachelor's degree in math but continued to get a master's degree in music and violin performance.

"At every step I had something to do," she said.

Loomis is very busy all the time.  She works at the youth symphony and teaches people of all ages.

"I wouldn't change anything that I've done," she said.

Thoughts on a Frosty Wednesday (A Post with Literary Ambitions)

Morning came hard.  I had fallen asleep last night under the drowsing influence of NyQuil, my head sandwiched between two pillows and my being cosseted with blankets and warmed from beneath by the heated mattress pad that was cranked up more than usual.  When I woke this morning I could sense the cold of the house, the tip of my nose chilly compared to the warmth of my bed, and even though the children had already come down and were noisily banging about in the kitchen, I wanted nothing more than to stay snug in my warren until the groundhog saw his shadow and predicted spring.

Eventually pragmatism won, and I hauled myself out of bed, dressed, and emerged from my bedroom in search of coffee.  I glanced out the back door as I passed, and the sight caused me a moment's pause.

The ground was glittering.  A fine layer of white covered everything from the edge of the black grill cover to the individual blades of grass that browned the yard.  In the past two years, I realized, I could have counted the hard freezes and glittering frosts on the fingers of a single hand, and seeing the phenomenon again was beautiful.  Glorious.  A winter memory brought back to life.

I poured my coffee and walked to the back door.  I rested my hand against the glass and felt the heat loss, the exchange of the house's warmth for the nip of the outdoors.  I removed my hand from the glass and wrapped it around my coffee mug, the contrast between cold door and warm mug stark against my skin.

After staring outside for a minute, curiosity plucked up the courage to order me about, and I opened the door and stepped outside, barefoot on the concrete.  The air was cold but still.  No September wind ruffled the leaves.  No summer crickets chirped, no spring peepers croaked - even the birds were silent, likely sleeping late in their warm holes and nests, realizing that in this cold, there would be no worms to be early for.

I walked to the edge of the porch, and a few sounds made their way to my straining ears.  A clatter off to the left - a squirrel picking its way up a tree, heading back to a snug den after digging breakfast from under the frozen leaves.  Ticking noises to the right - leaves clattering against branches on their way to the ground, soldiers falling, having lost the battle with winter, their movements made louder by the deathly silence all around.

Frost is a callous thing, a bitter master, not caring whether it coats the weed or the rose, the mundane or the exotic.  Life, and warmth, and a dry wind are its only nemeses.  I poked at some of the frost with a naked toe and felt it attack me with shards of fire, stinging like a honeybee and, also like a bee, losing its life in the fight.  When I pulled back my foot, a dark spot remained, the now-dead grass a victim of the siege that had taken place overnight.

Listening to the silence once more, it became reminiscent of Christmases past, and a waiting, expectant thrill ran through me like a shiver.  I looked at houses nearby and pictured them covered in long white strings of holiday lights.  It was a cozy thought.  Turning back to the house, I saw the glint of sunlight peeking over the horizon, and the ice flashed.  One last stand, it said, before I make way for the relative warmth of the day.

I returned to the house and its artificial heat, letting it clothe me in comfort and decadence. A swirl of steam from my coffee reminded me that there were other sources of heat, and I took a sip as I walked to the stairs.  The outdoors could remain in the grasp of dead, wintry frost for a while longer; I was made of life and would avoid it.

A Fairy Tale (With a Moral Twist), by Boo

All People Are Equal

by Boo

Once upon a time there lived a group of dryads. They lived in houses made in trees. The trees were magically designed so that there was living space inside. The dryads wore leaf dresses that were strung together with vines. They used magic to keep the leaves green. All the dryads loved to dance with all their hearts. Their music was made of hazelnut castanets and swaying trees. There were only girls in this tribe. They also loved to play tag because there were lots of trees to run around. Of course climbing was fun, too. The children liked to play hide-and-seek, and so did the grown-ups.

The queen of the tribe was named Flouresta. Flouresta had two assistants. One of them was named Rose and the other Daisy. The cook was named Maple. The dryads ate a small variety of things like acorn soup, hazelnut soup, and very, very rarely berry cream. The cream came from the cow that would escape from the farm next door.

The tribe was very happy until, very unexpectedly, a farm boy wandered into the woods. Nobody noticed that he was coming into their space because they were all playing a good game of tag. The farm boy didn't know what tag was, nor did he know why the grown-ups were doing whatever they were doing. Suddenly Flouresta noticed the farm boy and stopped, which caused everybody else to slowly stop, too

She started questioning the boy.  "What is your name?" she asked.

"Steve," he replied.

"Are you a boy?" she asked.

"Yes, of course," he responded.

Flouresta felt awkward.  She knew that boys weren't allowed, but she didn't quite know how to get him out of her woods nicely.

"Get out please.  I don't want to have to use magic to force you out," she said stoutly.

"What is magic?" Steve asked.

"You don't want to find out," Flouresta answered.

Just then Maple stepped up. "There is no need for magic, because we can push him out!" she said.

Flouresta contemplated this idea, then said, "Rose, Daisy, take this boy to the dungeon. Then we can decide what's to be done with him!"

On the way to the dungeon Steve escaped.  "GET HIM!!!" every body yelled.

"Rose, Daisy, Maple - it's magic time," Flouresta hollered. "First we fly, then we use tree magic."

They all shot off the ground.  First they made the tree in front of Steve bend down.

"Bet you can't catch me," Steve jeered. "I don't get to sleep in the house at night, so I come in here and find my way around."

Flouresta thought that Steve would be too busy talking to them and would trip and fall over the tree that they had just bent down. He didn't, though, he just jumped over it as if it were a crayon.  Steve turned a sharp corner and ran inside a tree and stopped.  When the tribe came in, he said, "All people are equal. If you are so peaceful all the time, why do you fight to get me out?"

"We used to only let girls into our wood, but you have shown us that all people are equal, even boys," Flouresta replied.

From that day forth the tribe always let boys in.  They taught Steve all their games. They even offered to let Steve lived with them, but Steve said that his home was on the farm.

The End

A Halloween Story, by Doodlebug

This started as a free writing exercise when I suggested the children write a scary or fairy story.  Enjoy!

     It was an old house. It had an old iron furnace that used coal. The main floor had been used as a funeral home. There were many works of taxidermy. There was at least one crack in every ceiling, and there was water damage everywhere. From the outside the house was dilapidated. Upstairs was the children's bedroom. In the bedroom Billy woke up, his heart thumping. He called out to his brother, Chris, and there was no answer. He lay back down with his teddy bear, Furry Ferocious. Then he noticed the exceptional silence.

     He didn't hear his brother's breathing, he didn't hear the bats in the attic, and it was colder than usual. He got up and looked over, but his brother was gone.

     He yelled, "Mom!!" but there was no answer. Billy resolved that he and Furry Ferocious would wait for Chris to come back. He waited, tossed, and waited some more, but Chris didn't come back. After that he got up, looked down the hall and gulped.

     He walked to his parents' room. His mind was racing. He thought that any moment now zombies would lumber out and eat his brains. He reached his parents' room, but they were gone. He went downstairs. It seemed to be empty. Then he felt it. The cold and silence were alive. Something was coming up the basement stairs.

     He wondered, "Did it catch my family?" Then he fled upstairs.

     He felt the silence come up the stairs toward him. Suddenly his bear was pulled away, and he was completely surrounded by the cold and silence. Next thing he knew light was streaming through the window.

     At breakfast Billy asked Chris where he had been during the night. Chris replied, "In bed of course."

     Billy's family said that it was a dream. After that night, though, Billy's bear was never seen again.

Weekend Recap, Writing, and Interest-Led Learning

Doodlebug spent the weekend with my mom.  He had a good time, though he now understands why I used to come home exhausted whenever I'd visit my grandmother before she moved - he spent a fair bit of time in the kitchen cooking, doing laundry (she took him thrift store shopping and he bought some clothes for next summer), etc.

Boo spend the weekend recovering from her bike wreck.  She enjoyed not having anywhere to go, though she was - and is - still devastated that I had to reschedule a sleepover that was originally planned for Friday night.  She's not looking forward to answering all the questions everyone will inevitably ask all week.

I got my hair done and made applesauce and apple butter (note to others who have never made it - use the crock pot! The recipe in my Ball Blue Book didn't mention it takes 8-9 hours to simmer a batch down to the right consistency.  That would have been handy to know before I started cooking it at 3:30 p.m.).

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The kids asked today if I had posted their reports.  I said I hadn't, and they wanted to know if I would.  So, without further fuss, here they are.  I'll post Doodlebug's first, then Boo's.  Age order.  Next time it'll be ladies first.

     Imagine that you are a carver in Olmec times. When you get up you have breakfast of maize tortillas and catfish. Then you go to the temple decorated with beautiful pottery to make a giant stone head in honor of a late ruler or ballplayer.

     Think back to breakfast. Those maize tortillas that you had were made from maize that was roasted and then ground into a paste and cooked.The catfish was caught in the local river. You might have clams or turtles for lunch. If you are very lucky you might be able to afford some crocodile for dinner, but that is mostly for the rich. The rich also drink an expensive drink called cacao, which is a bitter drink made from the cacao plant.

      Do you remember the pottery? If you looked closely, you would see that the pieces have holes in the back. You are not a potter so you don’t know much about making clay pots, but you know that the hole in the back means that the piece is hollow and the potter did not want the piece exploding during firing. Most of the pottery is human-shaped. Another common figure is a were-jaguar.

      Now you reach the head you are carving. It is called a Colossal Head, and it is made from the porous stone basalt imported to your city. It stands for a late ruler or ballplayer. You don’t know which; you’re just carving the stone head that the priests told you to build. Little do you know that about 2000 years later archaeologists will have found the stone head you carved, along with 16 others.

      Finally, you go to bed to do the same thing tomorrow until the head is finished. Soon you will have another project.

----Doodlebug

       Living in ancient Egypt was not very easy, but people tried to make their lives beautiful. They did did that by decorating their homes and wearing pretty clothes.

       Egyptian homes were not very complex. One family wrote a list of the furniture that was in their house. There were two beds, a tool chest, and a foot stool. Most homes had three rooms. They were the living room, the bedroom, and the work room. One home decoration was cups and jars. They were colored with bright patterns. All ancient Egyptian houses were built from mud bricks, even the pharaoh’s palaces.  The only building that wasn’t built from mud bricks were the pyramids.

       The royal ancient Egyptians wore transparent linen.  The Egyptian slaves were almost naked.  Women wore long tunics that came down to their knees. Men wore skirts as pants with belts. Young children often wore nothing.

       Egyptians liked pretty things. They really did make pretty pottery,  and they really did use limestone for jewelry.

----Boo

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Today we started our interest-led week.  We went to the library and picked up a crapton of books I'd requested for the kids on their specified subjects - Boo is studying jellyfish and Doodlebug is studying DNA/RNA/amino acids/chromosomes/genetics (he'll have to narrow that down, but for now he's just garnering information).  Then I let the kids read and take any notes they wanted to make and they searched on the Internet at the library for even more info because hello multiple computers so nobody has to wait for a turn before we came back home.  Boo is extremely excited about her project and can't wait to get started; Doodlebug was frustrated because he hadn't realized exactly how difficult and complex his topic was, but I think I got him to relax and enjoy himself when I pulled out the Zometools Biochemistry set and let him start building some of the proteins he'd been reading about.  He was really, really happy to build phosphate and SEE how the universe's elements work together in a chemical setting as part of biology.  It all started to click.  I'm curious to see what he'll do the rest of the week.

Hope you all had a good weekend!

"Writing" Projects

Right before we started school in July, Brave Writer came out with their latest book, Partnership Writing.  It was on sale initially, so I purchased a copy.  It goes through some of the Writer's Jungle basics, but then it also has a monthly project list.  Some I liked; some I don't.  Still, I figured I'd give some of them a shot.  We started by spending a few weeks working on codes and ciphers.  I snapped a couple of shots of the kids writing/painting messages with lemon juice 'invisible ink.'

M1, who is now Doodlebug for this blog's intents and purposes (I dunno... I'm just tired of referring to him by something that doesn't even remotely resemble a name, even if it does contain an initial, and I do call him Doodlebug at home on a regular basis), really enjoyed the code project.  This is my child who is more naturally drawn to codes and ciphers and spy equipment at the store.  M2, who is now Boo (because we started by calling her Beangirl, then Tinkerbean, then Tinkerboo, and now just Boo), enjoyed parts of it.

This week, however, instead of doing the next project on the list, I decided we'd do the homophone mini-book.  We started making a homophone list on Monday and worked on it until Thursday.  It's nowhere near comprehensive (at dinner tonight we realized steak/stake wasn't on the board... guess what our main dish was?), but we got about 60 sets of homophones.

That's a lot of homophones

I came up with some of them, but the kids came up with the majority.  They really enjoyed the challenge!  Then we created little books - three pieces of paper cut in half, then put together, folded in half, and stapled in the middle created nice little booklets.

Doodlebug let me photograph his.

Yes, son, toe jam IS stinky.

His sense of humor really shines through, and I love that he took the time to really work on his illustrations.  I gave them the choice of writing a sentence with the word or drawing an image, and his book is a good mixture of both.  Boo went more for sentences, but then, she likes to write (she also wrote only one word per page... I'm not sure why Doodlebug did two per page.  It certainly went beyond the initial scope of the project).  She likes to draw, too, but only on her terms.

In the next day or so, I'll post our history lesson for this week.  There won't be one for next week; we take Labor Day week as a break from school - our first break this year!  The kids are excited, and so am I.  It's time for some relaxation - as if that'll really happen.  But it'll be nice to change up the schedule for a bit and relax.

Enjoy your weekend, everyone!

Opportunities

Sometimes opportunity appears at odd times.  It's funny to me how just when I start to worry that things are at a standstill and that there's very little purpose or meaning to my life, things happen to show me that I am, in fact, worth something and that I should continue doing what I do.

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Back in March, I applied for a job.  I haven't worked in more than two years, and that job wasn't exactly skilled labor - I worked as a medical transcriptionist for a company based out of Massachusetts.  I had quit because I could no longer keep set hours every evening, what with swim meets and everything else, and since quitting I'd reached the level of stagnation and boredom that I enter right before I find a new job/hobby that consumes my time, and I'm sure Oz was getting rather frustrated with how depressed I had become, because when I'm not busy, I get depressed, and then the poor man has to listen to me whine about how impotent and useless and horrible I am because here I am at 31 years old and have no purpose and nothing to show for my life, and that, in turn, causes me to create incredible run-on sentences that really have no great literary value.  Not really, but that is one nasty-long sentence there.  Feel free to parse it for grammar mistakes.  I'm sure there are many.

Anyway, a couple of positions opened up or are being created (not sure which) at a company that teaches writing to homeschool students/families, and after much encouragement by Oz and some of my friends, I applied.  I honestly never expected to hear a word.

I heard.  I panicked, and then I answered some questions via e-mail and gave a critique for a small student writing sample... and I honestly never expected to hear a word.

I heard.  Again.  And again I panicked, because this time it meant the word interview, and I've never interviewed for a job in my life.  My first jobs - mowing and handpainting pottery - were courtesy of my father.  My journalism job fell into my lap while I interned as a high school student; when I graduated, I moved into the recently-vacated lifestyle reporter position.  I did some temp work while I was pregnant with M1, which required me simply to show up, and when he and M2 were small, I ran a church nursery because I was willing to do it.  After I quit that gig, I took up medical transcription, which did require some study, but when I applied for a job, everything was done online.  None of this interview business.  I did do one interview with a local company about a transcription position, but it was largely a skill test.

So for the first time in my life, I had to do an interview.  It took every ounce of nerve I had to push the 'call' button on Skype yesterday.  I'm glad I did, though, because now I am apparently on the list to receive an invitation to attend some training in July, and if I do well there, I will teach a writing class this fall.  Teach.  A writing class.  When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a teacher and an author.  And a secretary, because clearly I come from a home chock-full of women's lib principles.  Now, I have the opportunity to teach others writing, and that absolutely terrifies and exhilarates me at the same time.  I love to write; I like to think that I can pass that on.  If anyone else who is going through the same process reads this (because I know, via the Internet, a couple of other women who applied for the same job), I hope to see you in training, because I think you also would make spectacular teachers, probably far better than I.  Good luck.

 

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This morning, one of my friends texted me.  First she wanted to tell me what songs to play at her funeral because she seems to be under the impression I'll live longer than she will, which amuses me because while, yes, my grandmothers are still living, one of hers is, too!  After I agreed to make sure that Eminem's song "Shake That" is on the playlist right after Sarah McLachlan and Sting, she said, "[My son] asked if you could tutor him in math this summer.  I'll pay you."

Math?  Oh, what the heck, why not?  I don't mind math.  Up to trigonometry and pre-calculus (except for geometry, which is of the devil), I even enjoy it.  I really like playing with numbers.  Plus, this is a good kid, and he's smart.  He just gets stuck, and his teacher this year hasn't really helped him much.  So... tutoring?  Sure. 

 

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Opportunity.  It's an opportunist.  I just had to be patient, and I dislike being patient.  However, it would seem that it is time to get busy with the next phase of my life.  Things are about to get real here at Sunnyview, and I'm excited - let's roll!

Final Writing Project - M1

I've always described M1 as my reluctant writer.  He is, in many ways.  He doesn't always see the point of writing, and I used to have a hard time finding topics he'd enjoy.  Now that I've figured out what he likes writing about, that's not a problem.  I've also occasionally described him as a struggling writer, but I don't think I can apply that label any more.  He will still freely tell you that writing is not his favorite subject, and despite my own love of the topic I can appreciate the fact that some people just simply don't care to put words to paper (electronic or otherwise) the way I do.  However, he will also tell you that he doesn't hate writing these days, and I see that as a major accomplishment on both our parts.  The boy has finally started to come into his own.  He used to try to copy the phraseology straight out of books, because he thought that that was good writing... and because it was a form of copywork, I didn't fight it too hard.  Still, I wanted him to find his own voice.

He has done this.

It still sounds very square, very stilted sometimes, but then I listen to him speak to me and to others and realize that he simply speaks very formally.  Whether that is a product of his psychology or just a habit, it is who he is, and it is - naturally - reflected in his writing.  He has a voice.  He is my Little (well, not-so-Little) Professor.

The important thing is that I can hear him saying out loud the things that he writes, and it sounds like him.  I hear him reading it, and it doesn't sound unnatural.  It sounds exactly like who he is.  The writing style is still very square and limited, but I can work on that with time.  He likes having formulas to plug his writing into, and it'll take a while longer before he can get out of that habit.  That, in fact, is my goal for next year.

He's come a long way.  It's a proud day around here.

M1's Final Project:

I have known nine cats in my life. All of the cats have been good to me. Since they have been good to me I have come to believe that everybody should get a cat.

Cats can play with anybody. I can drag a string, and my cats will chase it. I can also maneuver a laser pointer around a room, and the cats will watch or chase it. They are a lot of fun to play with.

               Cats are nice to have when you’re sad. Cats can sense when you’re sad and come to you. My cats will lick your tears when you cry, and then they will fall asleep on your lap. Cats are very comforting.

               Cats can be very funny. When cats get in fights they are fun to watch. They can also act silly when they get catnip. Our cats love a pink catnip-soaked mouse we bought them at a store called Gato’s. Sometimes Mom makes her phone make cat noises, and the cats go completely ballistic. Time with cats is very enjoyable.

               Cats can make a big impact on your life, so I think everyone should get a cat. Cats can do many things with you.

Final writing project - M2

Throughout the course of the school year, we've covered a lot of ground.  I've discussed that before.  But sometimes, as a parent/teacher, I get curious to see what the kids can accomplish without me.  So I gave them one. final. writing. assignment.  Next week we will write silly poems and invent crazy free-writing stories that they can expand on over the summer break if they so choose. 

For their final assignment, I asked them to have an opinion.  This is not hard for my kids; they are apples falling not far from the matriarchal tree.  I told them their opinion could be anything they liked, but they needed to back it up with facts and/or examples.  I told them the paper could be as long as they wanted, and that if they wanted feedback, I would be happy to give it, but I also said that I would not be providing an easy way out.  I would not stand over them and tell them to indent or add a sentence here... unless they asked.

They asked.

They really like getting feedback, it seems.  They really enjoy the give-and-take process that writing is at our house.  That pleases me.

This is our third week working on this project.  M2 finished hers today.  M1 has finished making revisions and plans to type his up over the next few days before completing it early next week.  I'm really proud of both of them for becoming so willing to write and so independent in the process.  I know that M2 is still an advanced writer for her age and M1 still struggles, but they're making progress.  And that's what matters!

Now, without further discourse and ado, M2's final paper (imagine indentions at the beginning of each paragraph):

I have to feed and exercise my dog each day.  I also have to let him out twice each day to go to the bathroom.  It sometimes frustrates me, but I think dogs are important because they can help you.

For example, what if you were blind?  Your dog could help you get safely to the door or help you know when to stop in front of the street.  Dogs can also help people by herding farm animals like sheep or chickens.  Training a dog is the hardest part.

Dogs can also  be very good company without training.  They can make a bad day turn into a very good day, and they can also make you feel confident in yourself.  Once I was feeling grumpy, so I went outside to play with my dog Gizzmo in the sun.  It made me feel so much happier. 

Dogs can also get you a bunch of attention.  Once I saw a man with a golden retriever on one of our family walks, and because of his dog we stopped and began to talk with this man.

Dogs can help people in many different ways, like helping disabled people, making your day better, herding farm animals, and much more.  I think almost everybody should have a dog. 

Writing

When I was a little girl, if you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have told you either a secretary (wow, I had high ambitions... the feminism movement never really arrived at my house) or an author.  Sometimes I might have said teacher, but that was only when I had a teacher who actually liked me (Third Grade Teacher Whom I Still Loathe, I'm looking at you.)

Anyway, all through my childhood, I loved to write.  I wrote short stories all the time.  When I got to middle school, I was quite sure I was going to write for National Geographic as an adult, and I even wrote to one of their contributing authors for help on how to do what he was doing, and I actually got a response!  It was gracious and kind and full of information that I took to heart.  When I got to high school, I took a 'class' that found internships for students at various companies around town, and I managed to get myself on board at the local newspaper.  From there, I was hired as the lifestyles reporter/editor (editor meaning I laid out pages and worked on special sections, not that I actually edited work from underlings... I WAS the underling.)

But... life has a funny way of changing your plans for you.  Shortly before I got pregnant with M1, I quit the newspaper job.  I was offered another one, but it involved a lot of traveling in the area as well as being primarily evening-based, and I wasn't particularly interested in never seeing my husband.  A couple months after I discovered I was pregnant, I had to drop a journalism class because A) I was too sick to function and B) the teacher was highly regarded but fairly ignorant and didn't seem to comprehend how a newspaper really worked. (For example, an obituary contains all information that is submitted as long as it meets the guidelines, and you certainly don't edit out names!)

Since then, I haven't progressed one iota toward my goal of being a writer.  Sure, I write this blog, and I even did NaNoWriMo a couple years ago, but as for having work published independently?  Hasn't happened.

Lately, though, I've discovered my typing fingers still work, and my brain is still churning out ideas.  A woman from a forum that I visit has recently begun a new inclusive homeschooling blog, and I've been accepted as a regular contributor (go leave a comment or two!).  So that's positive.  Then a couple days ago, my brain generated a couple of characters for a book, and they haven't shut up since.  So I'm performing my own little NaNoWriMo in the wrong month.  The kids asked me this morning what I'm writing this story for, and I had to tell them that I'm just writing it to get it out of my head. 

It feels good to write.  It feels good to let the words flow out the ends of my fingers to be shared.  It feels good to have a writing groove and deadlines, even if they are just personal ones.  It reminds me just how much I enjoy writing for others as well as myself.

And that, my friends, is a thing worth (re)discovering.

Have a great weekend, wherever you are!

M1 and Writing

M1 has always been a reluctant writer.  He doesn't like putting words to a page, though he's magnificent at telling stories.  I vividly remember a little 5-year-old boy coming home from preschool and telling me a story about a boy in an apple tree.  It was such a beautiful story that I mentioned it to his teacher the next day and asked which book she had read.  Turned out that there was no such book and my son had invented the story on the spot.  It shocked me (in a good way).  Still, if I ask him to put pen or pencil to paper - or fingers to keyboard - I get a lot of resistance and a lot of stilted words and formulaic sentences.

*sigh*

I wrote a week or so ago about M2's writing project.  At the same time, M1 was doing one.  Because it's harder for him and I ask for longer paragraphs, it took him longer.  Besides anything else, we spent a lot of time finding his voice.  When he first whipped out an outline/rough draft, it read like this:  First, we did then.  Then, we did this.  Next, this happened.  Finally, this.  It was great.  Well, yes, it was, but you'd never have known by reading that paper.  I finally videotaped him telling me about Christmas and then transcribed what he said.  Then I told him, more or less, that he was putting the cart before the horse when it came to structure in his paper.  He was working so hard to make sure the bones of the paper were decent that he forgot that the depth and skin are what people notice the most.  I had to remind him that he can always add structure but he can't always add details and the fun bits of information that make something worth reading.

I don't know if it'll stick, but we did make some progress, and I'm glad. 

M1's story:

               I had a lot of presents on Christmas morning 2011. My favorite parts were the presents and stockings. My sister and I had a blast that morning.

               We were awakened by a cat falling out of the Christmas tree. It sounded like Santa had fallen out of the chimney onto our tree. For a while we talked about what we would do that morning and investigated our presents. Maggie discovered that she had a pink papasan chair. I figured out that I had a lot of small presents but no big presents.

I decided to wake up Mom and Dad. We pounced on Dad to wake him up and then shook the bed to wake up Doom. They grunted, “Oof,” and said, “Get off and wait by the tree!” We waited by the tree until they came in. It seemed like hours.

Finally they came into the living room. As soon as they sat down we launched into our presents. I found a Kindle Fire in one of mine; in another I found a box of Horrible Histories. Under a blanket, my sister found a pink papasan chair. I was so excited that I couldn’t remember anything (of anyone else’s) other than that papasan chair. I was happy that I could have Plants vs. Zombies on the Kindle Fire and turn brains into balls with limewater using a recipe from Horrible Histories. After we opened our presents we opened our stockings and found good things of all kinds. We found thick glow sticks, Tim Tams, Violet Crumbles, Twistz and a type of chocolate with a cup and a half of milk. It was an absolutely wonderful Christmas.

               There was so much delight on Christmas morning I could explode. It was the best day of my life.

----

On an unrelated note, I have things to say about recent events, but I'm waiting until the media and investigators are done with what they do.  Then I'll be able to talk.  Right now I'm still processing.  As many of us are.

M2 and Writing

M2 is a storyteller... but only on paper.  I can't think of a single time where she has come to me and told me a story she's created without having written it on paper first.  It used to bug me when she was little that she didn't invent stories, and I worried about creativity.  I thought all kids loved to make up stories and tell them to their parents (never mind that *I* didn't do that... we all know I'm a bit left of normal).  When she learned to write, though, everything changed.  She writes poems.  She writes stories.  She writes lists.  She invents characters.  She draws and sketches and writes entire stories about what she draws.

In other words, yet again, I shouldn't have worried.

Odd how most of my worries are for nothing, isn't it?  Anyone else find that they worry far more than is both necessary and good for them?  Ahhh, to be worry-free...

I digress.  A couple weeks ago, I asked the children to come up with some story ideas for personal narratives.  I let them brainstorm for a while, and soon they both came up with what they felt was a brilliant idea - the same idea, though they arrived at it separately.  They both wanted to write about Christmas morning 2011.

Since M2 had never done a big story project before, I was curious to see what she would do with minimal direction.

What I got was far, far more than I ever expected.  It rambles a little, but it's far more than I remember doing in second grade.  I helped her edit the original copy, but I didn't do much beyond helping her add a little basic structure and fixing some spelling and punctuation (and one really, really long run-on sentence).  All words and ideas are hers.

Christmas Eve to morning 2011

 

     I remember everything about Christmas Eve and Christmas morning in 2011.  I think it was an excellent holiday.

     On Christmas Eve the cats kept climbing in and out of the Christmas tree.  One time Hermes hopped in the Christmas tree and immediately fell out again.  It was supposed to be very naughty, but I thought that it was very funny and laughed.  When we decorated the tree most of the bells went down at the bottom, and the cats loved them, especially Hermes.  When you sat down to have some hot cocoa you heard a jingle, jingle, jingle.  The cats also went crazy because Christmas presents were starting to fill up their comfortable tree skirt.  Once I brought home a Christmas present from school and set it where Hermes always laid down, and he sat on it.  I thought that was funny.

     My brother woke me up at four in the morning to go watch the presents.  First we looked in our stockings.  I got the move Tangled, the movie Rio, and some candy like Hershey's.  Next we looked in the presents.  I had gotten a Papasan chair and a giant scrapbooking kit from Mom and Dad.  I got a makeup set from Miss Karen.

     On Christmas morning everybody was wearing robes, warm pajamas, and slippers, and nobody looked upset.  First I took the blanket off my Papasan chair.  It was pink!  Next I opened up the giant scrapbooking set.  The book was pink, and it had cursive letters and print letters.  There were puff-out cat stickers and a lot more crafty things.  After that I opened up the makeup set for me and mom.  I said, "I don't know how we are going to share this," and then Mom smiled even bigger.  Suddenly Daddy came out of the kitchen.  He had a very big smile on his face.  I noticed that he was carrying breakfast into the living room!  My face lit up with glee because we were going to eat in the living room. The cinnamon rolls were so delicious I accidentally ate a little too much.  My face was very messy, so I wiped it off.  I pounced Daddy becuse he had signaled it.  Mommy acted sad by making a frown and whimpering.  I told her that I would be there in a minute or so, and of course I was.  When I was sitting I felt very comfortable.  She asked me who her favorite girl was.  When I answered, I raised my hand and in a very squeaky voice I said, "Meee."  Daddy told me and my brother to go wash up, and brush our teeth, and put clothes on.  After that we cleaned up.  My Christmas morning was really exciting, and I hope the next one will be even better.

Poetry

I am not the world's biggest poetry fan.  I enjoy some of it - Poe, Frost, Shakespeare - but for the most part, I don't care for it.

My kids, however, are entirely different kettles of fish.  They happily check out entire books of poetry from the library and dash downstairs at random times to read me their favorite passages.  M2 wants to memorize "The Road Not Taken" for fall, and M1 is debating which Poe poem he wants to memorize in time for Halloween.  This is voluntary, I should add - while we have a classical bent to our education plan, I don't insist on a lot of rote memorization of anything that doesn't require it.  Periodic table?  Optional.  6+3?  Mandatory.  I figure they'll have resources at their fingertips from now till the end of time, and I'd rather them learn to use those effectively rather than doing a lot of memorization... which isn't to say we don't memorize things.  We do.  Just not a lot.

As part of their writing curriculum, we've been doing a lot of free writing.  I started out just letting them do a true free write - anything that popped into their head was fair game to put on paper.  Spelling, punctuation, grammar, and even sentence structure were ignored for the sake of letting the kids write.  This has worked very well, and now I'm starting to throw a few guidelines at them to see how well they integrate what they know into what they've been writing.

Today, I gave them a choice.  They could either write a poem or they could write about their favorite activity.  To my surprise (especially with M1), they both chose to write a poem.

The results surprised me even further.  Without further ado, and also without editing, their poems:

M1:
Cats are sometimes naughty,
Always being haughty.
Tipping over dishes,
Slipping through niches.

M2:
quiet is gold, all sold. all the food has mold. The slaves were even sold nothing was left but cold  the food had a mood  winter was becoming very bitter and cold. all was gone exept for the lawn wich spoke to each other. one by one the lawn died. and it all melted away forever.