Today I walked in from the street, where I'd just waved goodbye to Bea, poured a cup of tea, and read some poetry from Poetry Daily.
And then I wrote a short story. It is merely a rough draft, but it poured from my fingers onto the screen as Charley lay nearby, his leash still attached.
Charley was ready to call his lawyer by the time I finally ate breakfast and took him on a walk. But it is so good, and so rare, to have a morning like this one. I think the last time a story poured out of me like that was back in Pennsylvania--say, about three years ago. Most of the time it's like gardening--walk a row, bend over, drop a seed, cover it up, etcetera and etcetera. Today it was like, plant the seed, watch it grow, pick a tomato. So rare! I used to think that's what writing was. Those were the years when I thought I was brilliant and that the world was just waiting for me to drop a manuscript in their laps if I would only finally do them the favor of getting around to it. After enough rejections to paper a room-no, a small house--those years are over.
I also used to think that I was full of knowledge and wisdom and profundity that I could easily pass down to the masses--after two years of teaching, I realized that I was ill-equipped for so many things and that everything I thought I was probably good at--writing and teaching--would take years and years and years of hard work, and even then I'd be realizing how much I didn't know.
Martin sent me this great article about teachers, and what you thought you knew, and what you don't know. I can't stand it when other parents or students start tearing teachers apart for all they don't do. You want to tell them, Try it for a day. Just a day. And then get back to me.
Teachers, I salute you.
And then I wrote a short story. It is merely a rough draft, but it poured from my fingers onto the screen as Charley lay nearby, his leash still attached.
Charley was ready to call his lawyer by the time I finally ate breakfast and took him on a walk. But it is so good, and so rare, to have a morning like this one. I think the last time a story poured out of me like that was back in Pennsylvania--say, about three years ago. Most of the time it's like gardening--walk a row, bend over, drop a seed, cover it up, etcetera and etcetera. Today it was like, plant the seed, watch it grow, pick a tomato. So rare! I used to think that's what writing was. Those were the years when I thought I was brilliant and that the world was just waiting for me to drop a manuscript in their laps if I would only finally do them the favor of getting around to it. After enough rejections to paper a room-no, a small house--those years are over.
I also used to think that I was full of knowledge and wisdom and profundity that I could easily pass down to the masses--after two years of teaching, I realized that I was ill-equipped for so many things and that everything I thought I was probably good at--writing and teaching--would take years and years and years of hard work, and even then I'd be realizing how much I didn't know.
Martin sent me this great article about teachers, and what you thought you knew, and what you don't know. I can't stand it when other parents or students start tearing teachers apart for all they don't do. You want to tell them, Try it for a day. Just a day. And then get back to me.
Teachers, I salute you.
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