Fantasy- Part 1

            It was an early Saturday morning as I woke to the sounds of the tree’s branches lightly tap against my window. I could feel the warm spring sun sneak in and the wind breeze through carrying the scent of the first fresh cut grass. With the winter finally leaving us, I knew the first warm day would be perfect to spend outside beneath the trees. When I was younger, my cousins and I would love spending our days wandering through the woods that stretched out behind our houses. With no neighbors in sight, we felt we had found our own kingdom. So on this beautiful day, I slipped on my sneakers, grabbed a book, and headed down the old path that leads behind the house.

            I walked along what was once the dirt trail formed by active footsteps, and which now was overgrown and tangled with vines. As I got further and further from the safety of green grass on my lawn, I began to remember the feelings of all of us cousins running rampant in the woods pretending to be kings and queens and have our own forts. We would always return to the sounds of our mothers calling us back for dinner and would shed our childish ideas in the woods until our next visit.

            I passed the old rock bed, piles of chopped wood, and down the slope that led to the flat shade protected area where our imaginations would run wild. With high hopes, I began to wade through the high grass to find the old fort we attempted to build to resemble a real house. I looked left only to see grass and trees, and looked right to only see more of the same. I began to give up, understanding it was childish to believe our fort would stay standing, when I saw matted grass off in the distance resembling what looked like a trail.

            I walked a little closer seeing a distinct trail that almost glittered in the sun, illuminated through the gap in the trees. It had lilies lining the sides as if someone had planted them.  I approached cautiously, knowing that no one has ever lived in these woods but me, and began to feel panic rise up my legs from my running shoes. A million thoughts cluttered my mind, questioning whom and why would be so deep behind my house in our woods? Why are they here and what are they doing? I crept behind the trees closest to the unknown path.  So focused on remaining unseen, I felt my breathing take over a low silent exisitence and kept my eyes targeted straight ahead for any sign of movement.

            After a few minutes of this, right as I leaned back from the tree I had been hiding behind, I felt it. The warm huff of breath on my neck sending my hair flying, and the strong, thick nudge of something into my back. Cautiously and almost statue like, I began sidestepping until completely turned around, terrified of what I might find. To my amazement, a gorgeous horse was inches from my face. It had a long brown face and thick body with a white spot. It had a long dark black mane that flowed naturally off to the side. It stood gently, watching me watch him. I knew we had our fair share of animals but I had never seen a wild horse mixed among the turkeys, coyotes, raccoons, and deer that often crossed our yard. I carefully raised my hand to touch him, and with a soft nudge of his head, I ran my head along his silky brown hair. Since I was young, I had been an avid horse rider and a dedicated horse lover. They had always amazed me. So as I stood petting this beauty, I had forgotten completely about the path, my book that fell to the ground upon the horses’ arrival, and the reason as to why this creature would be in the woods. As I walked around the horse and closer to its high muscular shoulders, it lowered it front half quickly, balancing its body on its standing hind legs and bent front legs. I took a step back never having seen this behavior before and with my movement the horse lowered even more and whined loudly tossing its head my direction.  It whined again, beckoning me closer, and I stepped forward placing my hand on its shoulder to calm the noise. It tilted its head again and tossed it up in the air, inviting me. As crazy as it sounds, I could sense the animal’s thoughts. And as crazy as it was, I swung one leg over the horses back and carefully glided into a position on its back I hadn’t sat in for years. As soon as I did this, the animal stood regaining power on all four legs and took off for the path. I held on tightly exhausting all of the power in my legs to keep me on, and tried to let the worry of where we were going not take over the ride.

            Breathlessly, I rode, unaware of direction or distance until the horse began to slow, and as he did, I had to open my eyes so wide to the sight unraveling before them. We had reached a clearing in the trees, where thousands of animals were gathered co-habitating like people at a campsite. There were deer, coyotes, wild turkeys, raccoons, turkey vultures, and groundhogs doting the landscape. The horse walked steadily among them, carrying me through. We passed a family of deer that were busy eating part of a blue hydrangea bush I recognized from my front yard. We passed two raccoons that had a small bag of garbage, from which I saw my leftover blueberry pie remnants of last night’s dessert. We rode past deer who stopped to look at us, one of which who bowed his head showing just one antler, not two reminding me of the antler I found stuck in twist of old apple tree just last week.

            This went on for some time as I rode through this collection of animals recognizing bits and pieces of my own life in theirs. They never once faltered or ran or tried to stop us. In fact, they welcomed us, some following along and others bowing their heads or making a noise as we passed.  As I began to look closer, I noticed the turkeys waddling around with an old green soccer ball that I knew unmistakably was my cousins and supposedly lost in the woods. I saw the groundhogs playing cards on what looked like benches made from the woodpile by the house. And finally, the horses, all gathered together with their heads bowed down to an old boom box us kids used to bring into the woods with us. There it sat in the middle of the animal kingdom playing the Beastie Boys tape we had forgotten in the fort so many years ago.

This is the first three-quarters of my story as I began to get carried away into my own world and unaware of where I wanted to take it. I like the active process of fantasy writing as you find yourself taking bits and pieces of your experiences and then twisting them or using them as elements of your stories. It becomes a powerful output for students to escape and truly "write" with no limitations. I also made the last paragraph bold as I realized this is when the "true" fantasy elements come into place and need to be reworked.

Writing History

I remember her perfectly manicured nails and how she expected perfectly manicured essays. It was not the content she acknowledged but the format in which they were completed. Then I remember walking into his AP English class and having the chair pulled out from underneath me. We read countless books and poems and wrote in any format and just wrote constantly. He both appraised our work and picked it apart. However, senior year in the midst of my senior-itis, he gave us something I will never forget. Our final project was to be anything we wished to write and however we chose to write it. A lifelong friend and I chose a compilation of lyrics and as seen below, painted our words to be forever read on the wall of our classroom. How's that for an authentic audience? I never felt my "writing" have so much power.

Final Copy

Painting the landscape pink,

Buds of fleeting, pastel flowers.

Honeybees stop to dote,

Millions of apple blossoms.

Roots reaching deep beneath the soil,

Planted by grandfathers here before us.

Each branch embodying the history

Of our nostalgic family tree.

Apple aroma lingers in the air,

Sweet and tenderly baking.

Hiding the secret recipes,

Of a hundred years before.

A grandmother’s house standing strong of stone,

Two brothers dedicated to the soil,

Creating to each his own.

Chicken coups once bustling with life,

Stand weathering the ride.

Tractors create the soundtrack,

To a farm very much alive.

A father’s sturdy hands made strong by the land,

Tending to soil, praying for rain.

Cousins who grew beneath the shade of the trees,

Bonded forever by the air that we breathe.

Painting the landscape green with a thousand healthy trees,

What you have given us you may never know,

The appreciation for nature and all that it grows.

A future as promising as a new apples’ buds,

A history fulfilled by those that we love.

con't

Add to and edit poem-


A father's strong sturdy hands weathered bt age,
tending to soil, praying for rain.
Cousins who grew beneath the shade of the trees,
Bonded forever by the air that we breathe.

What you have given us you may never know,
The appreciation for nature and all that it grows.
A history as promising as a new apples buds and
A future fufilled by those that we love.

Family Trees

Painting the landscape pink,

A view of fleeting, pastel flowers.

Honeybees stop to dote,

Millions of apple blossoms.

Roots reaching deep beneath the soil,

Planted by grandfathers here before us.

Each branch carrying the history

Of our nostalgic family tree.

Apple aroma lingers in the air,

Sweet and tenderly baking.

Hiding the secret recipes,

Of a hundred years before.

A grandmother’s house standing strong of stone,

Two brothers dedicated to the soil,

Creating to each his own.

Chicken coups once bustling with life,

Stand weathering the ride.

Tractors create the soundtrack

To a farm very much alive,

Painting the landscape green

With a thousand healthy trees. 

A Teenage Musical

There’s music in my veins

And I just can’t hear the beat

The record keeps playing over

The song is on repeat

The voice is getting louder

But I still can’t seem to sing

My body moves without me

It is it’s own king

I dance to the rhythm

But to my own defeat

I cant slow down the motion

I just can’t take a seat.

As the music quickens

I begin to hear the song

The guitar pulls my heartstrings

And I realize I knew it all along,

There’s music in my veins

And I know just what it is,

It’s the soundtrack that i've chosen

To go along with his.

And next time I choose a beat

I will play it loud and clear

It will be my own song

Played loud enough for him to hear.

Feature Article

Coffee Overload

By Margo Salinger

Have you noticed how a Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks has seemed to pop up on every corner? Local coffee shops have doubled in numbers, and bottled coffee drinks are flying off the shelves.  The National coffee Association found in 2000 that 54% of the U.S. adult population drinks coffee daily. But just how much coffee is too much?

How does Coffee Work?

  Coffee is said to give us an energy jolt, keeping us awake and moving during our overloaded days. But what makes coffee work? Caffeine, the main ingredient, is a natural product found in coffee beans.  Caffeine stimulates the central nervous system by blocking adenosine, a neurotransmitter that normally causes a calming effect in the body. (OverCaffeinated.org, 2008).  Because of this block, our adrenal glands pump adrenaline giving us that boost. The boost consists of a faster heart rate, tightened muscles and extra glucose in the blood.

Caffeine and its Effect on the Body : The Downside

As I stand in line for my afternoon coffee, I wonder how much is too much? What are the benefits and downsides of my coffee consumption?  Along with millions of Americans, my body is being altered by the caffeine stimulant in the coffee. This stimulant can become addictive and due to its effects on the body, make one become jittery and anxious.  Another downside of coffee is its ability to wear off, causing consumers to experience a “low” or withdrawal.   

Sleep issues are also a side effect of too much coffee as our body can not naturally calm ourselves, therefore shortening our sleep time and ultimately, making us abuse our coffee consumption the day following. Finally, a small percentage of our population should be aware to avoid coffee consumption if they already have an increased heart beat or are pregnant due to it’s effect on the body systems.

Caffeine and its Effect on the Body: The Upside

Good News! Caffeine is said to speed up metabolism. Also, as Elizabeth Scott writes for Stress Management on About.com, it can help the body break down fat about 30% more efficiently if consumed prior to exercise. Additionally, caffeine can keep blood sugar levels elevated, leaving you feeling less hungry (Scott, 2007).

Looking for even better news? Professor’s house, an online journal published an article entitled “Health Effects of Coffee” which stated, new therapeutic uses of caffeine and coffee are being introduced to health care practices. Premature babies and newborns that have undergone surgery are given caffeine to stimulate breathing, and it is thought that caffeine can be used to help asthma patients because it works to dilate airways (Professor’s House).

So How Much Is too Much?

 So far research has not provided us coffee drinkers with a set amount that’s safe to drink. However, be wise coffee connoisseur, Elizabeth Scotts warns us that risk of physical dependence that can come with four cups of coffee or more each day (Scott, 2007.)   The American Heart Association says that moderate coffee drinking (one or two cups per day) does not seem to be harmful for most people.

So order up a Venti Latte this morning and cheers your barista, for coffee lovers unite to continue the cycle. With fair advisement, coffee does alter your body, both good and bad, and more importantly, alters your wallet.

Works Cited:

Caffeine and It’s Effects on the Body. Retrieved  Wednesday, April 6, 2011

from http://www.overcaffeinated.org/effects-of-caffeine-on-the-body.php

Health Effects of Coffee. Retrieved April 6, 2011, from Publisher’s House,http://www.professorshouse.com/Food-Beverage/Beverages/Hot-Drinks/Articles/Health-Effects-of-Coffee/.

Scott, Elizabeth, M.S (2001, November 1) Stress and Your Health: Is Caffeine Your Friend or Your Foe? Retrieved from http://stress.about.com/od/stresshealth/a/caffeine.htm.

Spend my days

I will spend my days writing beneath the trees and a warm spring’s sun.

Bask in the laughter and company of an old friend.

Dance in celebration and twirl to set free,

My mind and body bottled since the winters freeze set in.

Play the music, start the record over

Live for the moment and never give in.

Here is now, and nothing is forever,

So turn up the music and sing a little louder.

For spring has sprung and the soundtrack has shifted,

And the guitar brings us a back to a place we remember.

 And into the summer the lightning storms warn,

That each day of summer is another summer gone.

As the first of the fall leaves fall to the ground,

We thicken our skin for another go-round.

We battle the brisk air and zip up our coats,

And mentally prepare for the dark winter months. 

Thousand Strokes of Luck

         Tangled between my sleeping bag and excess blankets, I struggled to find my cell phone as it rang waking me from a deep sleep. I blindly reached around and managed to find my cell phone just in time to hear the voicemail cue. It was early in the morning, early enough for a college girl after a night out to complain about. I forced one eye open, typed in my password, and listened to the hurried voice of my mother through the speakers. 

      Now at this point, between my makeshift bed on the floor being turned upside down, and the naturally loud voice of my mother breaking the silence of slumber in the room, Emily awoke. Emily, who has been a close friend for many years, looked ever so tiny as her 5"2, 100 lb. frame sprawled out on her king size bed.  

"What's all the commotion?" she asked with a scratchy early morning voice. 

"Sorry Em," I started, stuffing one foot into a sneaker while gazing around for a lost sock.

I continued, "I have to go home and finish painting the living room because my mom bailed on the "team project" she signed me up for with some nonsense excuse about going to hang out with George Clooney."

      Emily and I shared a disbelieving laugh agreeing any normal excuse would have worked just fine. I gathered all of my belongings and ventured home.

      A few hours later, as I continued to teeter high on the ladder with my paintbrush, repeating the criss-cross hand stroke pattern that my mother, "queen of projects" demanded, I found myself wondering where in fact she could be. We had been painting for days, and my mother is never one to start something and not finish it. 

      By 5 o'clock I began to seriously worry. She was not answering her phone and she was never one to skip out on family dinner night.  It was her favorite one night during the week where we were scheduled to sit like human beings at the dinner table all together and catch up.  Sure enough, as I finished covering the last remaining white spots on the wall, I heard the garage door open. I heard the chipper voice of my mother’s best friend, Leslie, and a man's voice that I couldn't quite place. I knew my dad wasn't due home from work for another hour and Leslie's husband was in the city so I knew something was up.

     The door opened and in the midst of the commotion of them entering the house I thought I had begun to hallucinate. George Clooney, as in George "I'm the major star of a million big budget movies" Clooney entered my living room. My mouth must have dropped so far open that it hit the floor, because everything went silent and he walked over and introduced himself as if I didn't know who he was! Now, one would think that in a time like this, a million questions would arise. However, at this moment in time, all of the questions that surfaced during the day about my mother's whereabouts had vanished along with any ability to formulate words. I stood gasping, like some sort of untrained animal, and my mother quickly transferred into recovery mode. 

     She began to explain how George, (apparently she was on a first name basis) had been filming his new movie, Michael Clayton, at the nearby private airport earlier that day. His production crew, a few months earlier, had called Leslie to request the use of her small yet immaculate private jet to be used in the movie. She agreed, naturally, with the condition that she got to meet the star. So somewhere between the voicemail my mother had left me earlier this morning, and him now standing my living room, my mother and Leslie convinced him to come over for dinner for a home cooked meal rather than the food his no name local hotel had to offer. 

     My head was spinning at this point, as George sat on my couch with a cocktail commenting on the "Family Guy" episode playing on the television as if this was a normal day. I sat on the chair opposite him, afraid that if I got any closer he would disappear and my dream would end, and just starred. His ash colored hair and dazzling smile mesmerized me. I immediately began to kick myself in realization of my paint splattered hair hanging loosely in my face and my ripped up, oversized sweats. 

     The few hours following his arrival in my home, continued with much of the same. I sat and starred as Leslie and George chatted about his weeks of filming in upstate New York. He went on and on explaining that he was the least important person on his set, and that he mainly stood around bored until his few minutes of fame were scheduled. He was just amazing.

When it was time for him to leave and head back to set, he graciously thanked us for our hospitality. I remember thinking, why in the earth would he thank us when we just got the chance of a lifetime. Just as I realized I had literally not said one word to him during his visit, he turned me, flashed his million dollar smile and said, “nice paint job by the way” and floated out the door. It was in this moment when I looked over at the thousands of hand strokes of paint on the wall and knew they would be forever a reminder of my day with George. 

Realistic Fiction

  I woke up to the jingling tune of a voicemail reminder on my cell phone and reached around blindly to locate it somewhere in the sleeping bag I was tangled in. It was early in the morning, early enough for a college girl after a night out to complain about. I forced one eye open, typed in my password, and listened to the hurried voice of my mother through the speakers. 

   Now at this point, between my makeshift bed on the floor being turned upside down, and the naturally loud voice of my mother breaking the silence of slumber in the room, Emily awoke. Emily, who has been a close friend for many years, looked ever so tiny as her 5"2, 100 lb. frame sprawled out on her king size bed.  

"What's all the commotion?" she asked with a scratchy early morning voice. 

"Sorry Em," I started, while stuffing one foot into a sneaker and one eye gazing around for a lost sock.

I continued, "I have to go home and finish painting the living room because my mom bailed on the "team project" she signed me up for with some nonsense excuse about going to hang out with George Clooney."

  Emily and I shared a disbelieving laugh agreeing any normal excuse would have worked just fine. I gathered all of my belongings and ventured home.

  A few hours later, as I continued to teeter high on the ladder with my paintbrush repeating the criss-cross hand stroke pattern that my mother, "queen of projects" demanded, I found myself wondering where in fact she could be. We had been painting for days, and my mother is never one to start something and not finish it. 

  By 5 o'clock I began to seriously worry. She was not answering her phone and she was never one to skip out on family dinner night.  Sure enough, as I finished covering the last remaining white spots on the wall, I heard the garage door open. I heard the chipper voice of my mother’s best friend, Leslie, and a man's voice that I couldn't quite place. I knew my dad wasn't due home from work for another half hour and Leslie's husband was in the city so I knew something was up.

  The door opened and in the midst of the commotion of them entering the house I thought I had begun to hallucinate. George Clooney, as in George "I'm the major star of a million big budget movies" Clooney entered my living room. My mouth must have dropped so far open that it hit the floor, because everything went silent and he walked over and introduced himself. (As if I didn't know who he was already!) Now, one would think that in a time like this, a million questions would arise. However, at this moment in time, all of the questions that surfaced during the day about my mother's whereabouts had vanished along with any ability to formulate words. I stood gasping, like some sort of untrained animal, and my mother quickly transferred into recovery mode. 

  She began to explain how George, (she was on a first name basis now!?) had been filming his new movie, Michael Clayton, at the nearby private airport earlier that day. His production crew, a few months earlier, had called Leslie to request the use of her small yet immaculate private jet to be used in the movie. She agreed, naturally, with the condition that she got to meet the star. So somewhere between the voicemail my mother had left me earlier this morning, and him now standing my living room, my mother and Leslie offered to have him to dinner for a home cooked meal rather than the food his no name local hotel had to offer. 

  My head was spinning at this point, as George sat on my couch with a cocktail commenting on the "Family Guy" episode playing on the television as if this was a normal day. I sat on the chair opposite him, afraid that if I got any closer he would disappear and my dream would end, and just starred. His ash colored hair and dazzling smile mesmerized me. I immediately began to kick myself in realization of my paint splattered hair hanging loosely in my face and my ripped up, oversized sweats. 

 The few hours following his arrival in my home, continued with much of the same. I sat and starred as Leslie and George chatted about his weeks of filming in upstate New York. When it was time for him to leave and head back to set, he graciously thanked us for our hospitality. I remember thinking, why in the earth would he thank us when we just got the chance of a lifetime? Just as I realized I had literally not said one word to him during his visit, he turned me, flashed his million dollar smile and said, “nice paint job by the way” and floated out the door. 

Technology vs Tradition

I found this weeks reading very insightful as to how teachers can effectively incorporate technology into their classrooms. There are endless pros and cons to each scenario and the benefits are found in a balance somewhere between the two endpoints. Students are growing up in a world where they can individually access all of the information from technology that we can. The key becomes finding a place where it is appropriate and used correctly in the classroom to tie both their home/social life to that of school. Interviews for teachers now ask if they have experience with smart boards and colleges offer online classes and all work to be sent through an online system. It is a changing world as I sit here and type into my laptop which I can also access through my blackberry or ipod. And education must change with it. (In doses :) )

Authentic Audiences

I blog to give my voice a break,
a moments silence,
a clear revision
of what my speech wont say.

I type to rest my penmanship,
save it for thank you cards,
and notes on the fridge,
ironically using it more.

We read through "nooks" to save the trees,
lose the scent of a brand new books,
to avoid libraries,
and to read like never before.

But words are words like never before,
engraved in our blogs, wikkis, and emails,
sent from a phone, ipod, or laptop,
and preserved for an audience much bigger than ours.
________________________

A ramble of thoughts in a not so correct poem, ahh the freedom to blog.

Catching my attention

"There is never just the thing that happens, there is always the whole world, the whole life in which it happens as well." (Katie Wood Ray-What you Know By Heart-Pg.15.2002)

I actively write because it clears my mind. So when I go to capture moments of my life through madly typing on my computer keys, I tend to lose myself in the world of which I'm thinking. I rarely look back and look at what was going on around the moment I am capturing, or the world in which it happened. As I read this weeks reading, this quote grabbed my full attention. Ray's ability to win power with words had me completely stop and think about my own writing. I write about what happens, and rarely about where or when or how it actually happened. We get moving so fast that my hands have typed the picture in my head and my feelings without really exploring the aspects in which I experienced it.

As a teacher, this would be a most powerful lesson to look back on. I can take an old writing piece and revisit it. I can tackle my memory for what I was surrounded by, who I was with, and the true life and times of how it happened. We can add details, settings, feelings, smells, and other elements that would finally, truly, capture the moment as it is engraved in my own memory.

Revision #3

From the early years in elementary school to the later years of college, writing was always painless to me. There was something about the process that seemed natural, as if my hands wrote down exactly what my brain was thinking without any interference. I remember when I was young how I used to write in my free time, always creating newsletters for our family store, or writing letters to my parents when upset rather than verbalizing it. Now as I grow older, I write quick thoughts and journal insights into my life. It has always been a good escape route, and required little to no effort when my topic was a "heart and mind topic."

However, in high school when we wrote about specific topics of little to no interest to me, or in college when we wrote the same response to something four different ways, I cringed. I would stall until the last minute, and then write such six page papers in an hour or less. I never drafted my work, and only revised once the paper was complete. My writing grades were always stellar despite my quick work and ill-advised process. During college years, my roommates would spend hours upon hours writing papers that I found myself write in forty minutes. They would mull it over for days, often calling on me to help them formulate thoughts into words. I remember sitting there frustrated that they had no idea what to say and no idea on how to create a stimulating sentence. I felt their writing lacked substance and often felt like third grade sentences that all looked the same. I was unaware of their mental block as writers and had to remind myself of their skills in other academic areas that far surpassed my own.

I enjoy writing very much considering the act of it caused me no time lost, and no sleepless nights before papers were due. Confident in my work, I always felt the way in which I wrote captured a way with words that some of my peers did not have. However, as college years were filled with mindless writing tasks that never developed me as a writer, I decided to keep a journal about certain times in my life. I felt that during hard times in my life it was a perfect way to draft a "novel" or memoir of such times, and allowed me to use my power with words to track it all down.

I began my little project right after my last grandparent passed away. I remember beginning to write the fun memories and little fun facts of my family tree. It was interactive and happy; yet spoke intimate details of my feelings at the time. Despite writing coming easy to me, my writing process at this time had many faults. As I began to write, the process in which I confided in, failed me. I wrote and re wrote and deleted and reworked my story as if it for the first time was not matching what I was thinking. For the first time in years, my writing became forced. I began to understand writers block and eventually just stopped starring at it.

Looking back now, after years of rereading the same piece of my story, I realize that my writing was one huge thought. I literally took everything about one time in my life and jammed it together in one "chapter." It was at this time that I, as a writer, saw the process I had learned so many years earlier. I broke up my thoughts and focused on one smaller step at a time. I looked at my word choice and sentence structure. I began to draft with bullets to keep me focused and distinguish between where one thought should end and another story should start. I found myself with a new chapter and a new confidence in my writing. The natural part eventually came back to me and I began to write in this journal again. Having forgotten the elements of what makes a writer, I spent years skipping by with what I wrote. I realized that for years even though my writing came easy and it was enjoyable, it didn’t make me a good, quality, writer.

As a teacher, and still a student, I have become aware of the importance of such writing tricks in the writing process. I found myself using every skill that I taught in my writing workshops during student teaching and applied them.  I found myself not only to be a teacher of writing, but a practicing writer finding uses for the exact things that I taught. It is this realization when we truly become writers; when we actively write, and despite the roadblocks and unknown territory we write ourselves into something greater.

Draft #2

From the early years in elementary school to the later years of college, writing was always painless to me. There was something about the process that seemed natural, as if my hands wrote down exactly what my brain was thinking without any interference. I remember when I was young how I used to write in my free time, always creating newsletters for our family store, or writing letters to my parents when upset rather than verbalizing it. Now as I grow older, I write quick thoughts and journal insights into my life. It has always been a good escape route, and required little to no effort when my topic was a "heart and mind topic."

However, in high school when we wrote about specific topics of little to no interest to me, or in college when we wrote the same response to something four different ways, I cringed. I would stall until the last minute, and then write such six page papers in an hour or less. I never drafted my work, and only revised once the paper was complete. My writing grades were always stellar despite my quick work and ill-advised process. During college years, my roommates would spend hours upon hours writing papers that I would write in forty minutes. They would mull it over for days, often calling on me to help them formulate thoughts into words. I remember sitting there frustrated that they had no idea what to say and no idea on how to create a stimulating sentence. I felt their writing lacked entertainment and substance and was amazed at the different level of writers among my classmates. I was unaware of their mental block as writers and had to remind myself of their skills in other academic areas that far surpassed my own.

I enjoy writing very much considering the act of it caused me no time lost, and no sleepless nights before papers were due. However, as college years were filled with mindless writing tasks that never developed me as a writer, I decided to keep a journal about certain times in my life. I felt that during hard times in my life it was a perfect way to draft a "novel" or memoir of such times, and allowed me to use my power with words to track it all down.

I began my little project right after my last grandparent passed away. I remember beginning to write the fun memories and little fun facts of my family tree. It was interactive and happy; yet spoke intimate details of my feelings at the time. Despite writing coming easy to me, my writing process at this time had many faults. As I began to write, the process in which I confided in, failed me. I wrote and re wrote and deleted and reworked my story as if it for the first time was not matching what I was thinking. For the first time in years, my writing became forced. I began to understand writers block and eventually just stopped starring at it.

Looking back now, after years of rereading the same piece of my story, I realize that my writing was one huge thought. I literally took everything about one time in my life and jammed it together in one "chapter." It was at this time that I, as a writer, saw the process I had learned so many years earlier. I broke up my thoughts and focused on one smaller step at a time. I looked at my word choice and sentence structure. I began to draft with bullets to keep me focused and distinguish between where one thought should end and another story should start. I found myself with a new chapter and a new confidence in my writing. The natural part eventually came back to me and I began to write in this journal again. Having forgotten the elements of what makes a writer, I spent years skipping by with what I wrote. I realized that for years even though my writing came easy and it was enjoyable, it didn’t make me a good writer.

As a teacher, and still a student, I found the importance of such writing tricks in the writing process. I found myself using every skill that I taught in my writing workshops during student teaching and applied them.  I found myself not only to be a teacher of writing, but a practicing writer finding uses for the exact things that I taught. I discovered that it is this realization when we truly become writers, when we actively write, and despite the roadblocks and unknown territory we write ourselves into something greater.

Writing Memoir Draft #1

I always felt confident about writing. From early years in elementary school to later years of college, it seemed to come easy to me. There was something about the process that seemed natural, as if my hands wrote down exactly what my brain was thinking without any interference. I remember how I used to write in my free time, always creating news letters for our family store, or writing letters to my parents when upset rather than verbalizing it. It was an escape route, and required little to no effort when my topic was a "heart and mind topic."


Now, not to say that I never had issues writing. In high school when we wrote about specific topics of little to no interest to me, or in college when we wrote the same response to something four different ways, I cringed. I would stall until the last minute, and then write such six page papers in an hour or less. I never drafted my work, and only revised once the paper was complete. In college years, my roommates and peers would spend hours upon hours writing three page papers and often call on me to help them formulate thoughts into words. I remember sitting there frustrated that they had no idea what to say and no idea on how to create a stimulating sentence. I felt their writing lacked entertainment and substance and was amazed at the different level of writers among my classmates.


Even as I write this, I do not wish to send the message that I am a well written writer. My writing has many faults. I just wish to explain that maybe because I enjoy writing, the act of it caused me no time lost and no sleepless nights before papers were due. However, as college years were filled with mindless writing tasks that never developed me as a writer, I decided to keep a journal about certain times in my life. I felt that during hard times in my life it was a perfect way to draft a "novel" or memoir of such times, and allowed me to not have to discuss it with other people.


I began my little project right after my last grandparent passed away. I remember beginning to write the fun memories and little fun facts of my family tree. It was interactive and happy, yet spoke intimate details of my feelings at the time. As I began to write, the process in which I confided failed me. I wrote and re wrote and deleted and reworked my story as if it for the first time was not matching what I was thinking. Looking back now, after years of rereading the same piece, I realize that my writing was one huge thought. I literally took everything about one time in my life and jammed it together in one "chapter."


It was at this time that I, as a writer, saw the process I had learned so many years earlier. I broke up my thoughts and focused on one smaller step at a time. I looked at my word choice and sentence structure. I began to draft with bullets to keep me focused and distinguish between where one thought should end and another story should start. I found myself with a new chapter and a new confidence in my writing. The natural part eventually came back to me and I began to write in this journal again. 


As a teacher, and still a student, I found the importance of such writing tricks in the writing process. I found myself using every skill that I taught in my writing workshops during student teaching and applied them. I found myself not only to be a teacher of writing, but a practicing writer finding uses for the exact things that I taught. I discovered that it is this realization when we truly become writers; when we actively write, and despite the road blocks and unknown territory we write ourselves into something greater.

I titled my blog "White Blank Page" because I felt it was a good reminder of the process of writing. I personally love to write, and it has always been a strong suite whereas math was similar to having teeth pulled. As writers, a white blank page is our gateway into freedom from thoughts trapped inside. We divulge in the idea of the blank page wether it be on a blog, or pencil and paper and use it to relive events, create stories, and conquer dreams. As teachers, we have to remind ourselves to sometimes just approach writing with a white blank page and not always have a prompt or set style, genre, or theme. We simply must let students write what they think and feel and then use those as prompts to further the writing process.

The act of putting pen to paper encourages pause for thought, this in turn makes us think more deeply about life, which helps us regain our equilibrium.  ~Norbet Platt