Pronouns and Acticles...

Finding time to write is never an easy task; but taking on the challenge to write in different styles takes great determination. Each quarter I assign various writing exercises, within English Composition. With only eleven weeks, I try to present as many writing methods as possible to motivate students to present well-organized, direct and clear thoughts.

Week five is always a favorite; each class handles it differently.

When I was young, I spent days flipping through the pages of a book filled with Norman Rockwell paintings. Each image told complex stories. So, week five, I ask students to write a three paragraph description of Norman Rockwell’s “Freedom from Want.” So far, the true difficulty assigned is to not get hungry while staring at, and writing on, a delicious golden-brown cooked turkey while sitting through a four hour class. Then I throw in a couple curve balls.

You can’t use pronouns in your writing.

Furthermore, you can’t write with definitive articles.

Usually students—once hearing all restrictions—instantaneously voice the impossibility of the assignment. Making it a necessity to preface (before students unite together to stone me for the soon to be 30 minutes of writing frustration) they first attempt the challenge. Try before saying, “It can’t be done.” (Recognize defiant pronoun use?)

Tonight, class didn’t make a peep of complaint. Instead, each student set to the task.  As an instructor, it was a pleasure to see students hard at work. Lets face it, instructors love baffled stares from students: opened mouthed hoping words might miraculously arrive on the page, all pronouns and articles removed as by magic. But what makes this assignment my favorite is the final instruction.

You have to share your writing.

Each quarter, I’m astonished at the creativity students achieve. I have heard descriptive paragraphs that range from research to the introduction of a horror story (still wondering how horror and Norman Rockwell mix, all I can say is the voice of the student made it work). And this quarter, students have given me homework. In other words, they’re asking for me to prove myself. Someone how, I accepted the task of writing a story from beginning to end: with no pronouns, no definitive articles, first person, and present tense--all within 15 minutes and the inspiration of The Scream by Edvard Munch.

If you noticed all the lined out writing within this short bit of writing, you know this won’t be an easy task (and if you have insights in how one would write in first person without the use of I, my, or mine, I’m all ears). This task will be completed, and if all my students hand in their research papers it will be shared in class and posted tomorrow. Fingers crossed I can accomplish the task as well as they have.

Fifteen Minutes...

With all the talk of needing to find the time to write, I find myself a hypocrite. For the last year, every class that comes my way there is a moment in the quarter when these words are uttered from my mouth:
  
“You just have to do, it. Write. Find the time to write. Even if it’s only fifteen minutes a day.”

And then what do I do. I spend the week, bouncing from one job to the next, free time is spent developing lesson plans, searching for full time work, or cooking a rare dinner in the hopes I have enough calories in my system to not fall over while teaching.

What isn’t found in my routine; what I preach every quarter.

Make the time to write.

I’m tired of it. Being a hypocrite is not what I want to be. I want to be that instructor whose students look to and say, “Well, damn… If she can do it, so can I.”

So I have fifteen minutes to write before the thirty-five minute drive to teach class. And in this rare fifteen minutes, I have found time to write. I have also decided I must write at least fifteen minutes a day. I must find the time as I tell my students they must. And so begins a new journey for this blog, journal, thingumabob, or whatever you want to call the random postings I’ve been placing haphazardly on-line the last few years.

It’s time to write every day, all the time, maybe even for contests. I don’t care if what I write is drivel to most, what I want (what I think all writers want) is that rare moment when a sentence works; a moment when it all comes together, even if it’s just one paragraph out of many. I promise to you I will write, and when I say “to you,” I mean me. Who knows where the words will take us. No matter where, it will sure be better than sitting in an office chair crunching numbers. It will be better than the re-run of Criminal Minds you have seen for the hundredth time (no offense to the T.V. show, as you can see I was willing to watch your show repeatedly). Not anymore though.

In fifteen minutes, I could walk on sandy beaches while having my cat cuddle with me in my chair as I type. In fifteen minutes, I could be inventing a machine that doesn’t exist and flying across galaxies. In fifteen minutes, I might be in a fantasy kingdom with strong and vivacious princesses and cunning masculine knights (did you notice how I threw a bit of romance in there). With fifteen minutes, I could change my life.

I have fifteen minutes, do you want to listen.

Dear Santa,

Originally, the plan was to write to you last night, but after two glasses of champagne along with two glasses of Malbec wine... well lets just say it would have been an interesting letter. Besides I thought you might appreciate a letter after peak hours.

It's Christmas Day! And oh what a delight it was to wake up in a new state, my parents new house, and still feel as though I was home. It is the best gift you have ever sent me Santa.

Hopefully, you and the reindeer are finally resting. Instead of sugar plums dancing, may your time of relaxation fill your mind with all the smiles you have placed on those who believe.  This year I didn't request anything from you. Your gift to me has always been the continued ability to believe (Mom is still waiting for deer to appear in the yard though, so if in your sleep you could nudge a few this direction, that would be great).

I write you today to say thanks. Thanks from all the people like me, who are kids at Heart and will never stop believing. Thanks for the Hope you spark each and every year. Thanks for the Gift to explore the impossible in a fantastic and magical way. Thanks for all the Inspiration in wanting to help in the largest day of giving there is. Thanks for the enveloping HO-Ho-HO's  that make us respond with our own giant Laughter. Thanks for the nudge to Play as if we will always be young. Thanks for being you Santa. You truly are a wonder!

Wishing you the Merriest (and dream filled) Christmas there ever was!,

D.dot

Keys Resound...

In passing, I saw Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach all trying their hand, but they were in far off lands in times long past. Now it's the street players, the eager experimenters - the shy traveler - or the energetic child that touch these keys. Keys humming - humming in my mind, anticipating hands to play upon white and black. Stationary and refined with wood structure - wheels to guide music across streets. Waiting.

The days of classical teaching forgotten - the school room abandoned - each note resonating in mind. An instrument left to be touched; to be played if even one person would strike a note. Sitting on angled cement made the sound more prominent - prominent and silent.

They pass without playing. Yet every now and then there is a Master - the master of sound and rhythm who takes a chance to sit at my bench and perform. Perform for the world around them - for anyone willing to listen - for no one to listen and merely for the pleasure of creating sound. Hand to keys and the chords touch hammer to string echoing a resounding voice through buildings and trees - businessmen walking to lunch, homeless panhandling on the streets - the Master plays to change the view of the day. Moving in routine - a new sight seen. Music fills the streets and a painting consumes their ears.

Each key is waiting. Waiting for a hand to push the ivory white bones to life. Two hands to play the soft keys and breath. But for now the keys are humming - humming with anticipation. Waiting for the next adventurer to take the challenge and play.

Find the Instagram photo that inspired this short bit of writing by following @chadosaurus (click on name to see photo).