For those of you who aren't in the know, NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) is one of the single best ways to jump start the writing process. Why? Because for the 30 days of November, your job is to write crap, plain and simple. There's no time to go back and fret over that sentence you couldn't craft just right, no opportunity to redraft an earlier scene that doesn't make sense when your story took another direction. It's just pure, innocent storytelling at its best.
When I first tried NaNoWriMo in 2007, I failed miserably. I couldn't turn off my inner editor. I kept retooling things in my story that ultimately had to be changed again later. I was so obsessed with writing the perfect first draft that I barely wrote 10,000 words. The worst part? Those 10,000 words were stilted and had no life. I was so determined to be in control that I forgot to listen to my broccoli and wouldn't allow my characters to tell me their story. It an epic failure and a huge learning experience.
In 2008, I was determined to just tell a detective story. I didn't know much about my character or the story, but I played with it and eventually squeaked out 50,000 words and won! (Winning NaNo for you non-WriMos is finishing 50,000 words before midnight on the 30th.) The plot isn't great, but the characters are life-like and full of vigor. Plus I found out all kinds of quirky folks live in the worlds I create if I just let them thrive.
This year, though, was a totally different series of events. I had been offered a JVII basketball coaching position and was actually torn back in August about accepting it. Since basketball starts in November and practices are six days a week, I figured that would totally shatter my dreams of repeating NaNo success. But I accepted the job because I miss hoops so much and figured if I was meant to be a writer, I'd find a way. In reality, I assumed that my coaching life would kill my writing life.
It turns out that wasn't the case at all. Though I often fell behind, I didn't get discouraged and I ended up completing my NaNoWriMo story two days early! I learned this time around that I can write all day long and really enjoy immersing myself in a fictional world. I learned that when I give my characters freedom to do what they want to do, they surprise me with plot points I never knew were there. Most importantly, I learned that I can write despite my crazy schedule...and sometimes I write because of it.
I finish NaNoWriMo with a sense of renewal. It's funny how stressing myself out over writing actually creates a desire to do more of it, but that's where I'm at. I don't plan to write another 50,000 words in December, but I do plan to write about 1,000 words a day until I'm finished with the draft of the novel I really want to write.
So bring it on, December. I will write!
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Living in the Fog on Planet Jessica
So far this summer, I've been working a lot on my YA book. I can't stop thinking about it. At times, I feel like I live on Planet Jessica where nobody else is invited for conversation or good times except for the fictional characters I'm busy creating. It gets frustrating when I'm actually hanging out with real humans because I'm certain they think there's something wrong with me since I'm not my normal, intuitive self.
Those people are right, of course, there's something very wrong. But it isn't with me - it's with my story. I have an inviting premise. I have interesting characters. I have a fabulous setting. I have great snippets of scenes written down. I even have details that make me smile.
The problem? I have no plot.
This week I set myself the task of remedying that little problem. If you've ever attempted to write fiction I'm sure you can relate. Here are some of the things I tried:
1. Change my main character from a male to a female.
Well, that didn't work at all. I couldn't see the story any differently from a female's perspective. And, if anything, writing it that way limited how I saw the world I'd already created. It suddenly threw into shadow many of the things that I'd clearly defined. Nice idea, but my main character is a boy. The end.
2. Change the way I've been narrating it (from third person limited to first person).
While it totally changes my involvement with the story, writing from my main character's perspective may actually help in the long run. The one thing this does, and the thing I was really struggling with for a while, is that it gives my main character a clearly defined voice. I have him all figured out in my head, but I don't think his personality has transferred very well to paper just yet (of course, that could be the absence of plot). When I started writing in first person, he came alive. I don't know if this change will stick, but it's helping me for now.
3. Interview my characters.
My main character will eventually have three close friends. I haven't had the opportunity to get to know them quite yet because I'm not to the point where their roles become prominent (it's a school setting and they've all just met and don't really like each other). But, as I've stated before, I really believe that characters drive the plot. If I get to know them, they will tell me their stories. So when I went on my three mile run yesterday morning, I spent the whole time interviewing them in my head. I asked questions about their childhoods, why they came to this particular school, and what they plan to do in the future. I uncovered all kinds of secrets that are sure to help. (And, no, I'm not crazy. Writers do these sorts of things - ask anyone who writes.)
While these three "fixes" haven't exactly nailed down my plot, I'm not as frustrated about it as I was a week ago. I once read that writing a book is like driving a car on a foggy night. You can only see what's just in front of you and you have to trust in your ability to get you to your destination.
I trust myself.
Those people are right, of course, there's something very wrong. But it isn't with me - it's with my story. I have an inviting premise. I have interesting characters. I have a fabulous setting. I have great snippets of scenes written down. I even have details that make me smile.
The problem? I have no plot.
This week I set myself the task of remedying that little problem. If you've ever attempted to write fiction I'm sure you can relate. Here are some of the things I tried:
1. Change my main character from a male to a female.
Well, that didn't work at all. I couldn't see the story any differently from a female's perspective. And, if anything, writing it that way limited how I saw the world I'd already created. It suddenly threw into shadow many of the things that I'd clearly defined. Nice idea, but my main character is a boy. The end.
2. Change the way I've been narrating it (from third person limited to first person).
While it totally changes my involvement with the story, writing from my main character's perspective may actually help in the long run. The one thing this does, and the thing I was really struggling with for a while, is that it gives my main character a clearly defined voice. I have him all figured out in my head, but I don't think his personality has transferred very well to paper just yet (of course, that could be the absence of plot). When I started writing in first person, he came alive. I don't know if this change will stick, but it's helping me for now.
3. Interview my characters.
My main character will eventually have three close friends. I haven't had the opportunity to get to know them quite yet because I'm not to the point where their roles become prominent (it's a school setting and they've all just met and don't really like each other). But, as I've stated before, I really believe that characters drive the plot. If I get to know them, they will tell me their stories. So when I went on my three mile run yesterday morning, I spent the whole time interviewing them in my head. I asked questions about their childhoods, why they came to this particular school, and what they plan to do in the future. I uncovered all kinds of secrets that are sure to help. (And, no, I'm not crazy. Writers do these sorts of things - ask anyone who writes.)
While these three "fixes" haven't exactly nailed down my plot, I'm not as frustrated about it as I was a week ago. I once read that writing a book is like driving a car on a foggy night. You can only see what's just in front of you and you have to trust in your ability to get you to your destination.
I trust myself.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Poop Bags, Sidewalk Chalk, and Michael Jackson
Odin and I live next to Evergreen Park. It's a pathetic little thing set in the middle of six or seven different apartment complexes. Odin can't run off-leash, chase balls, or even go after one of the many squirrels living there (though he often tries to drag me along on such adventures). He can walk with me and do his business and that's about it. In fact, the park's lone perk is the stations of free poop bags that dot the walk and the plethora of available trash cans to throw the used ones away in. Because of this, you can usually find us there strolling along in the afternoons which is exactly what we were doing right after I found out about the King of Pop's passing.
The death of Michael Jackson was a profound experience for many of us. It wasn't the fact that this super famous weird dude kicked the bucket - that was bound to happen sometime. Nor was it that this instant "family" of mourners suddenly formed on Facebook - the first time I felt connected to a real, caring community via the Internet. But I wasn't quite sure what made it profound until that afternoon with my dog in the lame-o park: the sidewalk chalk made it all make sense.
Despite being a pathetic excuse for a green space, Evergreen Park does actually have two small groves of trees - there might even be as many as twenty to thirty canopied conifers hiding small groups of teen pot smokers at any given time. It was as the paved path wove its way through this shady area that Odin and I came across a huge section of chalk art dedicated to the late King punctuated with many pink, blue, and yellow stars:
"Michael Jackson is always a real true star!"
Okay, despite the obvious lapse in grammar, this statement composed with child-like handwriting made me realize why I was so struck by Michael Jackson's death: it wasn't about the man or the music; it was about the memories.
It isn't really his death we're lamenting, but the death of something that once meant so much to us. We grew up with this guy in our heads, well, his music anyway, and those tunes punctuated many of our memories. His passing killed some of those bits of previously untouchable innocence and made me nostalgic for what once was.
I took a couple of photos of the artwork with the camera on my phone, but they didn't turn out well. I suppose that's the nature of memory itself: what we remember is often richer than what we can physically hold on to. So though I can pull my copy of "Number Ones" off the shelf and grasp in my fingers the magic that once was Michael Jackson, the CD doesn't even begin to compare to that summer in 1987 or 1988 when my friend Jeremy and I serenaded the cars whizzing down highway 47 from his front porch. We sang "Bad" and "Beat It" over and over again. We danced. Jeremy even wore a single glove on his hand and grabbed himself yelling the tuneful M.J. signature "he, he!" We weren't playing the music, we were living it. That's what I miss.
The death of Michael Jackson was a profound experience for many of us. It wasn't the fact that this super famous weird dude kicked the bucket - that was bound to happen sometime. Nor was it that this instant "family" of mourners suddenly formed on Facebook - the first time I felt connected to a real, caring community via the Internet. But I wasn't quite sure what made it profound until that afternoon with my dog in the lame-o park: the sidewalk chalk made it all make sense.
Despite being a pathetic excuse for a green space, Evergreen Park does actually have two small groves of trees - there might even be as many as twenty to thirty canopied conifers hiding small groups of teen pot smokers at any given time. It was as the paved path wove its way through this shady area that Odin and I came across a huge section of chalk art dedicated to the late King punctuated with many pink, blue, and yellow stars:
"Michael Jackson is always a real true star!"
Okay, despite the obvious lapse in grammar, this statement composed with child-like handwriting made me realize why I was so struck by Michael Jackson's death: it wasn't about the man or the music; it was about the memories.
It isn't really his death we're lamenting, but the death of something that once meant so much to us. We grew up with this guy in our heads, well, his music anyway, and those tunes punctuated many of our memories. His passing killed some of those bits of previously untouchable innocence and made me nostalgic for what once was.
I took a couple of photos of the artwork with the camera on my phone, but they didn't turn out well. I suppose that's the nature of memory itself: what we remember is often richer than what we can physically hold on to. So though I can pull my copy of "Number Ones" off the shelf and grasp in my fingers the magic that once was Michael Jackson, the CD doesn't even begin to compare to that summer in 1987 or 1988 when my friend Jeremy and I serenaded the cars whizzing down highway 47 from his front porch. We sang "Bad" and "Beat It" over and over again. We danced. Jeremy even wore a single glove on his hand and grabbed himself yelling the tuneful M.J. signature "he, he!" We weren't playing the music, we were living it. That's what I miss.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
I've hired myself as a writer...
I've hired myself as a writer for the summer and, after six days of recovering from a school year's worth of stress and last Friday's oral surgery, I think it's time to put away the pain medication and get to work. The job doesn't pay much now, but I'm hoping that by the end of the summer I'll have something more valuable than a check: a working manuscript that I can schluff off on would-be editors/friends for feedback :)
Two novel-length projects have been simmering in the back of my head for at least six months now. Maybe it's the inexperience speaking, but I truly think it will be a joy to finally get these tales down on paper (and by that I mean typed up in the magical thing that is Microsoft Word: I praise you, O Holy Computer Program, and pray that you continue working flawlessly on my laptop all summer long. We don't need another meltdown any time soon).
So, what am I writing about? One story is what I would categorize as upper elementary age fiction; the other is a non-fiction passion project of mine. That's all of the details I'm willing to divulge at the moment...more later, I'm sure.
But perhaps even more important, what does my writing space look like? Well, let me tell you about that. I sit at my old high school desk that's traveled with me from living space to living space for the past 15 years or so. It's currently stationed at the back of the living room behind the love seat facing the wall in what I like to call my little nook. My chair is a red exercise ball that I bought for ten bucks at Target two or three years ago. Actually, I think Dave bought it. On my left sits a lamp and a small stack of books: a blue composition book with all sorts of important notes on my projects hidden inside, my new day planner calendar thing, and a copy of the 2009 Writer's Market (because I like to get ahead of myself). In front of me (besides my ancient laptop) is a framed certificate that says I completed the most recent NaNoWriMo: it reminds me that, above all else, I need to give myself permission to write crap every day. Finally on my right sits my printer, a jar full of wine corks and writing utensils, and an empty bowl of gelato (which, if I'm not mistaken, means "soft but delicious" in Italian).
So with my writing nook all set up, my mouth nearly healed from having my wisdom teeth removed, and nothing but the good 'ol dog days of summer before me, I am ready to embark upon my writing mission. I hope all goes well....
Two novel-length projects have been simmering in the back of my head for at least six months now. Maybe it's the inexperience speaking, but I truly think it will be a joy to finally get these tales down on paper (and by that I mean typed up in the magical thing that is Microsoft Word: I praise you, O Holy Computer Program, and pray that you continue working flawlessly on my laptop all summer long. We don't need another meltdown any time soon).
So, what am I writing about? One story is what I would categorize as upper elementary age fiction; the other is a non-fiction passion project of mine. That's all of the details I'm willing to divulge at the moment...more later, I'm sure.
But perhaps even more important, what does my writing space look like? Well, let me tell you about that. I sit at my old high school desk that's traveled with me from living space to living space for the past 15 years or so. It's currently stationed at the back of the living room behind the love seat facing the wall in what I like to call my little nook. My chair is a red exercise ball that I bought for ten bucks at Target two or three years ago. Actually, I think Dave bought it. On my left sits a lamp and a small stack of books: a blue composition book with all sorts of important notes on my projects hidden inside, my new day planner calendar thing, and a copy of the 2009 Writer's Market (because I like to get ahead of myself). In front of me (besides my ancient laptop) is a framed certificate that says I completed the most recent NaNoWriMo: it reminds me that, above all else, I need to give myself permission to write crap every day. Finally on my right sits my printer, a jar full of wine corks and writing utensils, and an empty bowl of gelato (which, if I'm not mistaken, means "soft but delicious" in Italian).
So with my writing nook all set up, my mouth nearly healed from having my wisdom teeth removed, and nothing but the good 'ol dog days of summer before me, I am ready to embark upon my writing mission. I hope all goes well....
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Go boldly in the direction you've chosen
These past few weeks I've been working on a college research project with my AP juniors. On a daily basis, students approach me with the following concern: "how am I supposed to complete this project when I don't even know what I want to study in college or do with my life?" I'm forced to remind them, for the umpteenth time, that colleges don't necessarily care about what you want to do, they care that you're driven and motivated to do something. Once you get there, you can change your mind. So I tell them to pick something and go boldly in that direction.
Inevitably when I'm giving such repetitive advice, I find myself pondering whether or not I'm following it myself. Am I going boldly in any direction right now? It turns out I'm not.
I've had this non-fiction/memoir in my head all year long, but haven't exactly been able to get a solid start on it. Why? Fear. I'm afraid I'm not a talented enough writer and that I'll let people down if I attempt something too great and totally fail. I keep spending time on the little things (like putting together a scrapbook of old newspaper clippings about my subject or reading books by other authors who wrote in a similar genre to start thinking about my own "angle") in order to sidestep the actual writing work I know I need to do.
Listening to my fear of failure is a trap I fall in far too often. It looms over me every time I sit down to write, every time I start researching, every time I think about setting up interviews. But the truth is that I can either fail right now as I sit typing at my computer - I can quit and nobody will judge me for it because not too many people know about this passion project of mine and because I'm good at making excuses - or I can persevere and get through drafting a manuscript that, after many editing sessions, I can attempt to find a publisher for. If I fail then, fail to publish a memoir I'm proud of writing, what of it?
The truth is I don't know. I've always been too scared to pursue anything that I deem "risky". I take the safe road, plain and simple. Why did I become a teacher? Because I knew the system, I knew the schedule, I knew that if I followed a prescribed path I would easily attain the goal. That's why writing scares me. There's no "do these things and you'll be a writer" formula out there. It's sheer luck, a lot of hard work, and a bit of talent emerging at precisely the right moment.
But it will all be worth it. I figure if I can run a marathon (Portland Marathon, 2007) and complete a 50,000 word draft of a novel in a month (NaNoWriMo, 2008), then I should be able to go boldly in the direction of writing an actual memoir and see what happens.
Inevitably when I'm giving such repetitive advice, I find myself pondering whether or not I'm following it myself. Am I going boldly in any direction right now? It turns out I'm not.
I've had this non-fiction/memoir in my head all year long, but haven't exactly been able to get a solid start on it. Why? Fear. I'm afraid I'm not a talented enough writer and that I'll let people down if I attempt something too great and totally fail. I keep spending time on the little things (like putting together a scrapbook of old newspaper clippings about my subject or reading books by other authors who wrote in a similar genre to start thinking about my own "angle") in order to sidestep the actual writing work I know I need to do.
Listening to my fear of failure is a trap I fall in far too often. It looms over me every time I sit down to write, every time I start researching, every time I think about setting up interviews. But the truth is that I can either fail right now as I sit typing at my computer - I can quit and nobody will judge me for it because not too many people know about this passion project of mine and because I'm good at making excuses - or I can persevere and get through drafting a manuscript that, after many editing sessions, I can attempt to find a publisher for. If I fail then, fail to publish a memoir I'm proud of writing, what of it?
The truth is I don't know. I've always been too scared to pursue anything that I deem "risky". I take the safe road, plain and simple. Why did I become a teacher? Because I knew the system, I knew the schedule, I knew that if I followed a prescribed path I would easily attain the goal. That's why writing scares me. There's no "do these things and you'll be a writer" formula out there. It's sheer luck, a lot of hard work, and a bit of talent emerging at precisely the right moment.
But it will all be worth it. I figure if I can run a marathon (Portland Marathon, 2007) and complete a 50,000 word draft of a novel in a month (NaNoWriMo, 2008), then I should be able to go boldly in the direction of writing an actual memoir and see what happens.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
The Wrestler
I love Oscar season and I love independent films. Of all the pictures nominated for an Oscar this year, The Wrestler is the one I was most attracted to. From what I'd read, it just seemed like my kind of movie: a down-and-out guy gets another chance at being great. Though that's not exactly how the plot went, I enjoyed every moment of the film.
I haven't seen many other Oscar contenders at this point, and I can certainly see why The Wrestler didn't make it into any directing or writing categories, but the acting is definitely worth watching. I really felt for the guy on screen - felt sorry for him and rooted for him and wished he could go back in time to make better decisions in his life - felt how he was great at something that totally tore him apart. How often in life are we willing to sacrifice everything for our one passion? I don't think that's the question the film asks us to ponder, but it's what I was left thinking about.
Some other specific things I enjoyed:
Thinking about the parallels between The Ram's life and the life of the actor, Mickey Rourke, who seamlessly portrayed him.
The Christ imagery and references.
The ending (it was like one of those multiple choice questions where the testing folks ask "what do you think happened next?" but you know there's really only one correct answer).
The 80s Butt Rock music.
The scene where The Ram is selling his souvenirs with a bunch of other washed up wrestlers and, even though it's clear he's been doing this for years, it's like he's seeing his world for the first time. Brilliant.
I haven't seen many other Oscar contenders at this point, and I can certainly see why The Wrestler didn't make it into any directing or writing categories, but the acting is definitely worth watching. I really felt for the guy on screen - felt sorry for him and rooted for him and wished he could go back in time to make better decisions in his life - felt how he was great at something that totally tore him apart. How often in life are we willing to sacrifice everything for our one passion? I don't think that's the question the film asks us to ponder, but it's what I was left thinking about.
Some other specific things I enjoyed:
Thinking about the parallels between The Ram's life and the life of the actor, Mickey Rourke, who seamlessly portrayed him.
The Christ imagery and references.
The ending (it was like one of those multiple choice questions where the testing folks ask "what do you think happened next?" but you know there's really only one correct answer).
The 80s Butt Rock music.
The scene where The Ram is selling his souvenirs with a bunch of other washed up wrestlers and, even though it's clear he's been doing this for years, it's like he's seeing his world for the first time. Brilliant.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Four Influential Books
The other day I was writing my "25 Random Things" on Facebook and it struck me that I can identify four books that changed my reading life forever, but I didn't fully explain why. Here's why:
1. The Mystery of the Dinosaur Graveyard: It's the first chapter book I remember reading, so that certainly changed the way I saw books. At the time (1st or 2nd grade, so probably 1987 or 1988) I was obsessed with dinosaurs. I even had a combo dino themed birthday party with my brother at our gymnastics place. I also owned a pair of low-top Converse with little colorful dinosaurs on them; my brother had the high-top version. (Consequently, if any of you know where to purchase such shoes in adult sizes, please let me know.)
2. The House of Dies Drear: I vividly remember reading this book about the underground railroad while I was in the 5th grade. I was too young to comprehend much about slavery or the importance of finding freedom in the north, but I was captivated by the idea of escape and hiding out in a house with many secret passages. Years later I recognized this book as my first foray into what would eventually become a fond field of study: literature about slavery in America and the frightening idea of human ownership.
3. The Color Purple: I had always been bored in English class until junior year. Then Mr. Paige (my favorite teacher ever) recommended I read this book and, quite suddenly, real literature came to life for me. I was finally reading something that challenged my intellect and affected me greatly on a variety of levels. I will always look back on this book as the turning point where I realized for the first time what I would eventually become and perhaps had always been: a lover of English and the written word.
4. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone: For years after The Color Purple, I delved into literature with a fiery passion that ultimately shaped me into an uncompromisingly intellectual snob, especially when it came to the types of books I chose to read. My mom (a 5th grade teacher with no appropriate adult taste in books, or so I thought at the time) kept nagging me about reading the Potter books. I had no intentions of doing so until I came down with nasty illness right before spring break during my junior year of college. My friends left for a road trip that I was supposed to join them on and I went home to spend time on the couch. Tired of listening to my mom, bored out of my mind, and certainly feeling sorry for myself, I picked up the first HP. I read all four of the books over the next five days and loved every moment. I couldn't wait for the next book to come out. Mom was right.
Where does that leave me now? I get to teach the classics and try to convey my passion for things like symbolism to teens on a daily basis as an English teacher. But, as an aspiring writer, I am now free to write fun, entertaining fiction that is most likely aimed at middle school kids instead of the intellectual stuff I had previously thought was the only thing of value I could ever compose.
1. The Mystery of the Dinosaur Graveyard: It's the first chapter book I remember reading, so that certainly changed the way I saw books. At the time (1st or 2nd grade, so probably 1987 or 1988) I was obsessed with dinosaurs. I even had a combo dino themed birthday party with my brother at our gymnastics place. I also owned a pair of low-top Converse with little colorful dinosaurs on them; my brother had the high-top version. (Consequently, if any of you know where to purchase such shoes in adult sizes, please let me know.)
2. The House of Dies Drear: I vividly remember reading this book about the underground railroad while I was in the 5th grade. I was too young to comprehend much about slavery or the importance of finding freedom in the north, but I was captivated by the idea of escape and hiding out in a house with many secret passages. Years later I recognized this book as my first foray into what would eventually become a fond field of study: literature about slavery in America and the frightening idea of human ownership.
3. The Color Purple: I had always been bored in English class until junior year. Then Mr. Paige (my favorite teacher ever) recommended I read this book and, quite suddenly, real literature came to life for me. I was finally reading something that challenged my intellect and affected me greatly on a variety of levels. I will always look back on this book as the turning point where I realized for the first time what I would eventually become and perhaps had always been: a lover of English and the written word.
4. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone: For years after The Color Purple, I delved into literature with a fiery passion that ultimately shaped me into an uncompromisingly intellectual snob, especially when it came to the types of books I chose to read. My mom (a 5th grade teacher with no appropriate adult taste in books, or so I thought at the time) kept nagging me about reading the Potter books. I had no intentions of doing so until I came down with nasty illness right before spring break during my junior year of college. My friends left for a road trip that I was supposed to join them on and I went home to spend time on the couch. Tired of listening to my mom, bored out of my mind, and certainly feeling sorry for myself, I picked up the first HP. I read all four of the books over the next five days and loved every moment. I couldn't wait for the next book to come out. Mom was right.
Where does that leave me now? I get to teach the classics and try to convey my passion for things like symbolism to teens on a daily basis as an English teacher. But, as an aspiring writer, I am now free to write fun, entertaining fiction that is most likely aimed at middle school kids instead of the intellectual stuff I had previously thought was the only thing of value I could ever compose.
Friday, January 23, 2009
This quote is brought to you by the letter E
I came across this quote while reading last week's issue of Entertainment Weekly. I wasn't going to blog about it, but then I realized yesterday's post was depressing. I feel better now. Thus:
"The silent e is the ninja of the English alphabet."
It just makes me smile.
Please enjoy. That is all for today.
"The silent e is the ninja of the English alphabet."
It just makes me smile.
Please enjoy. That is all for today.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Why English Teachers Shouldn't Do Math
I shouldn't have let myself do the math.
Feeling unappreciated and overworked today, I decided to crunch some numbers. I wanted to know how many hours I spend per month grading essays in the three sections of AP Language I teach and how that compares with the allotted amount of prep time I am given during that very same month.
Ack and alas! The results were not favorable.
In an average month, I receive six essays per student. I have 105 AP students. That's 630 essays per month that I read through, comment on, assign a grade to, and ultimately enter into my grading program.
Each of these essays is typically two pages long. That's 1260 pages. I'd estimate that it takes me about two minutes per page, conservatively, to grade for a total of 2520 minutes or 42 hours.
In that same average month, I receive 1.5 hours of prep time per day. Assuming a month is four school weeks long (which is what the above figures are based on as well) that's a total of 30 hours of prep time.
30 hours of prep - 42 hours of AP essays = -12 hours of time to do work
This figure doesn't include any prep for what I teach (planning lessons, copying, etc.), meetings I attend, the rest of the grading I do for AP (weekly vocab tests, grammar tests, in-class work, homework, etc.), or the other two classes I teach and grade work for.
No wonder I'm exhausted. No wonder I occasionally bite a kid's head off when she innocently asks me if I'll stay after school so she can take the two hour final she couldn't make it to. No wonder teachers tend to leave the profession after 3-5 years.
No wonder I hate math.
Feeling unappreciated and overworked today, I decided to crunch some numbers. I wanted to know how many hours I spend per month grading essays in the three sections of AP Language I teach and how that compares with the allotted amount of prep time I am given during that very same month.
Ack and alas! The results were not favorable.
In an average month, I receive six essays per student. I have 105 AP students. That's 630 essays per month that I read through, comment on, assign a grade to, and ultimately enter into my grading program.
Each of these essays is typically two pages long. That's 1260 pages. I'd estimate that it takes me about two minutes per page, conservatively, to grade for a total of 2520 minutes or 42 hours.
In that same average month, I receive 1.5 hours of prep time per day. Assuming a month is four school weeks long (which is what the above figures are based on as well) that's a total of 30 hours of prep time.
30 hours of prep - 42 hours of AP essays = -12 hours of time to do work
This figure doesn't include any prep for what I teach (planning lessons, copying, etc.), meetings I attend, the rest of the grading I do for AP (weekly vocab tests, grammar tests, in-class work, homework, etc.), or the other two classes I teach and grade work for.
No wonder I'm exhausted. No wonder I occasionally bite a kid's head off when she innocently asks me if I'll stay after school so she can take the two hour final she couldn't make it to. No wonder teachers tend to leave the profession after 3-5 years.
No wonder I hate math.
Friday, January 16, 2009
About Broccoli
I think I should explain the title of my blog. I was reading in my favorite creative writing book the other day, Bird by Bird, and came across one of the greatest quotes about writing I've ever read:
"Listen to your broccoli, and your broccoli will tell you how to eat it." - Mel Brooks
At first, I just thought it was funny. And then, for no particular reason whatsoever, I pulled an index card out of my desk at work, scrawled the words across in a green pen I chose especially for the occasion, and taped it to a pile of books sitting front and center. I put my feet up on the desk and admired my handiwork.
It entertained me profusely. Mostly because my students who noticed it were like, "uh, Ms. Richter - broccoli?" in that 'are you okay' kind of voice.
"Yes, broccoli," I would reply in the most sane, matter-of-fact voice I could muster. That's when the magic started to happen.
"Do you know why broccoli?" I'd ask, seriously.
A blink or two. Blank stares. An eyebrow raise.
"Because it's a metaphor for life!" I'd say, enthusiastically.
My students would reply with "Cool" or "Oh" or "What’s a metaphor again?"
Then I’d sigh because the magic was almost there.
I am hungry and my broccoli will teach me how to eat.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
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