Semi-Introduction

     In my first class period of the day, I had a few students point out that they brought in journals as per my request. As if caught in the mere thought of constructing a lie, I stuttered for a moment and then blamed the copy center for not getting the Writing Project packets to me in time. Not to be defeated by technology, however, I resolved toward the end of the class period to present the instructions for my project via a document posted on my webpage. I quickly read through the direction cover sheet, finding myself oddly embarrassed by the causal (and I originally thought mildly humorous) tone I chose for the handout. Unfortunately, my paraphrasing and verbal instructional additions did little to clarify the assignment for my students, and I ended up being bombarded by questions and concerns at the tolling of the bell.
     I know I need to be more confident in this project, as it was born from my true passion as an educator. Plus, I really put a lot of thought into it and know my students can benefit from it academically. What am I so afraid of, then? Being myself as an educator? Not having the ability to hide behind a pre-determined curriculum with canned worksheets and PowerPoint presentations?
     At least tomorrow I'll have my packets to use as cover.

Conception

     The toughest part of teaching writing, I think, is that I have this tremendous amount of inspiration in me and it is absolutely impossible to transfer my own passion to these children. I am literally so excited every morning to go into my locker-room-smelling classroom and begin sharing what I love with my students, but they seriously have so much else to think about other than my lousy English class. In reality, maybe the worst part is realizing this. I'm still so in touch with the fact that simple things can complicate their little lives, making what I have planned and want to say completely irrelevant. I can't even blame them because I still find myself some days utterly distracted by my own boring life. 

     I don't mean to sound defeated here. In fact, I honestly feel just the opposite. I know the impact my teachers had on me as an adolescent and continue to have on me as a semi-adult. Even if just one kid leaves remembering how life-saving writing can be, I will consider myself successful in this endeavor. And if not...well, at least I can say I tried my damnedest.

     So, let's get down to business. This all blossomed from a not-so-little tick called the PSSAs that swooped in and took control of a few weeks in March during my first year of teaching. This year has been an absolute blessing. I sometimes still wake up and do some celebratory dance moves around my bedroom when I realize how amazing it is that I have a job. Unfortunately, there is never a shortage of wrenches thrown my way usually beginning with my retrieving items from my mailbox in the morning. The blows vary in size and strength, but come as sure as the bell at 8:10 A.M. Anyways, I was sitting at my desk during the second day of the standardized tests, after reading the directions in a monotonous tone (which one student berated me for at the conclusion of the testing), staring across my classroom at the pencils furiously scribbling answers in their answer booklets, and up popped an email from the math teacher on my team. She just wanted to let me know of a student who was utilizing the graphic organizer I taught him before writing his essay. I replied with a smiley emoticon. 

     It was not long after that moment I realized the impact I was having on these students - or at least that one student. Imagine, I thought to myself, if they can remember to use a graphic organizer, what else could I teach them? Fueled with inspiration, I began drafting up instructions and a schedule for what I thought I was temporarily titling, The Writing Project. Unable to share this idea based on my fear of scrutiny from other teachers for my taking it upon myself to supplement a brand new seventh grade writing curriculum, I sent the unedited word documents to a former creative writing teacher of mine. His response served as the extra shot I needed to propel this idea into motion. I printed the email memo out, hung it behind my desk, and resolved to carry on with my proposition.

     Although the origins of this idea are essential to understanding the overall purpose and concept of The Writing Project, I feel I would be doing a great disservice to the true conceivers of the idea, that is, my writing teachers. This brings me to the purpose of this particular post, in which I would like to explain and hereby dedicate the men serving as writing idols in my little emotionally driven, dream filled life: Stephen King, Antonio Caruso, and Mr. Spencer. I'll begin with Stephen.

     Like many writers, King's On Writing has served as a bit of a Bible for my understanding of what writing is, where it comes from, and how it works. Although I have claimed for quite some time that I read it in high school and would probably verbally attribute my awareness of the book to my second writing idol, I quite frankly don't believe I read it until just last year as a graduate student. My Teaching Writing teacher mentioned it in class one night, and after I of course lied about having read it, immediately purchased the book and devoured it. I keep a pointe shoe ribbon in it as a bookmark. (Some day, I hope to determine the significance of that and relay it to you.) 

     My second idol (although without a doubt the most important of all three) is Mr. Antonio Caruso. If it had not been for his creative writing class (which I took twice in high school), there may very well not be a writer by my name. Quite honestly, there may very well may not be a person by my name.

     Finally, there is Mr. Spencer. This is a character from J.D.Salinger's Catcher in the Rye. He is a teacher to whom Holden Caulfield turns to and offers comfort and support for the young man. I battle between admiring and completely distrusting Mr. Spencer, which is I believe why I adore him so much. I once dated a guy like him. I would drop anything to meet up with him, even though I was well aware of his deceitfulness and arrogance. But to have one more moment with him to decipher the real man within...

     

     As I type this, I am volleying between writing in my relaxed tone with cuss words splattered about carelessly and editing this for consumption by perhaps even my students. I am, after all, requiring them to take part in my project against their wills, and I am going to ask them to be honest with me at the conclusion. Hmm, something to ponder.