poems plays and puppets poops party person
Poems, Puppets, and Plays. The after-school club I offered to teach in an effort to let my little light shine. The after-school club during which Martin looked at me and read my face correctly as saying, in a Scottish accent of course, "Ooooo, you're a bunch of hellions." The same club where I experienced existential crisis as I told a first grader, "I'M the boss. YOU are NOT the boss. If you think you're the boss, you can leave the table. I'M THE BOSS!" The same club where I emerged covered in paint and stringy glue-gun muck from gluing googly eyes to socks, where I forgot all my accents except the British one (easiest under pressure), and where I animated a crazy old lady puppet named "Miss Pickles."
And with February waning at last, my club involvement is officially over. Now our house smells like relief, cilantro, and the New Mexican red peppers that Martin just roasted in the toaster oven. Soon it will smell of rice and turkey curry.
This morning, in fear and trembling, I tackled the second half of my "Sacred Vows. . ." book. I know the title makes it sound absolutely ridiculous or wonderfully marketable, like a teenage zombie book, but it is neither. I am still afraid of giving too much away; suffice it to say, it is in the midst of its third big overhaul, and though I've dreaded the process, all is well. It feels that way, at least, before I hand it off to my two most critical readers, Martin and Merry.
Merry, as you'll remember, is my harshest critic at twelve years old, telling me blunt and helpful things after a read like, "That part was really boring." She points out undeveloped character traits, flat parts of the narrative, and sets her critical, harsh match to my piles of tinder. Of course that's exactly what I need most. Flagellation by a tween! (Now, there are two words I don't get to use very often. . . .)
Sesame Street reigns in the other room again and Kermit is yelling out his newscast so loudly over the hubbub of raucous muppets that I can't think.
Maybe I've had enough poems, plays and puppets for the moment. I'm pooped. Martin wants peanuts so I must perambulate to the pantry. HA! Say that twelve times in a British accent!
And with February waning at last, my club involvement is officially over. Now our house smells like relief, cilantro, and the New Mexican red peppers that Martin just roasted in the toaster oven. Soon it will smell of rice and turkey curry.
This morning, in fear and trembling, I tackled the second half of my "Sacred Vows. . ." book. I know the title makes it sound absolutely ridiculous or wonderfully marketable, like a teenage zombie book, but it is neither. I am still afraid of giving too much away; suffice it to say, it is in the midst of its third big overhaul, and though I've dreaded the process, all is well. It feels that way, at least, before I hand it off to my two most critical readers, Martin and Merry.
Merry, as you'll remember, is my harshest critic at twelve years old, telling me blunt and helpful things after a read like, "That part was really boring." She points out undeveloped character traits, flat parts of the narrative, and sets her critical, harsh match to my piles of tinder. Of course that's exactly what I need most. Flagellation by a tween! (Now, there are two words I don't get to use very often. . . .)
Sesame Street reigns in the other room again and Kermit is yelling out his newscast so loudly over the hubbub of raucous muppets that I can't think.
Maybe I've had enough poems, plays and puppets for the moment. I'm pooped. Martin wants peanuts so I must perambulate to the pantry. HA! Say that twelve times in a British accent!
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