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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The thing I love most about the quote and the reason I named my blog "Searching for Broccoli" is because I truly believe that as a writer if I get to know my characters well enough and patiently listen to their stories unfold in my mind, I will know how to write them.

I am hungry and my broccoli will teach me how to eat.