When I say I teach writing, I
really mean that I teach auto mechanics. I teach grammar, showing which words
are subjects or verbs, how to correct run-on sentences, how to avoid fragments,
how to show respect for the mighty comma. Semester after semester, I am amazed
at the verbal calisthenics students undergo trying to make their writing sound
intelligent. They seem to believe that it is not about communication, not about
making every word matter. It is about stringing as many words together as
humanly possible, regardless that the meaning of the sentence has been left on
the road with treadmarks across its belly. But it is job security for me, and I
like to imagine that once in a while a student has an epiphany and decides to
drop the nursing or computer programming class to become a writer.
Today is the last day of Spring
Break. While I did not write every day as I had planned, I did accomplish two
important goals. I applied for an SCBWI grant, and I finished the rough draft
of my MLA project. The first is a long shot. I really have no chance since
there are probably thousands of people applying, many of whom have much more
experience applying for grants. But why not? The second is looking sweeter.
My mentor, Edith Hemingway (Road to Tater Hill and Broken Drum) is excited about my story,
and that makes me even more excited. My revision includes tracking the arcs of
each character, rounding out the main character, and smoothing out one of the
minor characters who ended up being a little creepier than I intended. Then we
look for someone who wants to publish it.
Meanwhile, midterm essays come in
for me to grade this week, and the semester plows ahead. I try not to let the auto mechanics suck my
soul dry. This semester’s schedule has be brutal since I teach at least one
class every day of the week. When I get a chance to write, I find myself
writing fiction in an essay mindset, then re-reading to find that none of my
characters use contractions. It’s like listening to a bunch of Spocks having a
conversation. What helps is to read good fiction. I read Rebecca Stead’s Liar and Spy, and I loved it. I confess
I was not at all a fan of When You Reach
Me, but I expect to re-read it this summer to see if I missed something.
Currently I have Three Times Lucky on
my nightstand, as well as Lisa Graff’s Tangle
of Knots. For my morning walk I have Seraphina
on my iPod. Reading a chapter or two every day, sometimes stopping in the
middle of writing to read, helps to raise me above nuts and bolts and refresh
my sense of poetry.
How I wish my students would read. It’s
so obvious that they don’t. (It is so obvious that they do not.) They write
sentences like, “Being an only child is good because there is no sibling
bribery, and one does not have to wear hammy downs.” They write the way they
hear, then click on spell-check and accept the first suggestion, even if it is “defiantly”
wrong. See what I mean about the sucking of my soul?
The most frustrating part is that I
am not even molding future readers of my own books. At this point in the
semester’s program, they detest reading and writing so much that they are
willing to do whatever is necessary to succeed just so they never have to read
or write again.
So it pays the bills. It is a job
that allows me to write, that may even allow us to buy a house where I will
have a room just for writing. And for that, am I willing to do whatever is necessary
to succeed? Defiantly.
