Young Writers, Follow Maureen Johnson's Advice: Dare to Suck

One thing that beginning writers often fail to understand is that good writing doesn't just happen. It takes practice. It takes loads of rewriting. I preach this over and over again in my classroom, but sometimes I think that they don't take me seriously because I'm their teacher and what do I know?

Maybe if they heard it from an ACTUAL writer they'd be less hesitant to believe that I'm just making them do more work that they don't want to do:

I like giveaways

The gorgeous Stephanie Perkins has a cool giveaway over at her blog. Tell her your favorite romantic scene from a book or movie and you could win a trio of romantic books. Hurry though. It ends today!

Poetry... Monday?

Normally I do poetry on Friday, but this deserves a posting of its own.

This morning during 3rd hour I had two seventh grade girls knock on my door while my sixth graders were writing in their journals. When I opened the door, one of the girls said to me, "Mrs. S do you remember that poem you wrote last year about your sewing closet?"

My first reaction was, "Huh? What are you talking about?" I honestly had no recollection of what this girl was referring to. I can't even sew a button on a pair of pants. Why would I have a closet dedicated to a hobby in which I have no competence? And why did they think I wrote a poem about this nonexistent sewing closet?

"Well we were reading this poem in Mr. A's class when Jake said it reminded him of the poem you wrote last year about your closet. Mr. A wanted us to come ask you if you still had it because he wanted to read it."

It was then that I finally grasped that they were referring to a poem I wrote about my scrapbooking closet.

The poem was not that good, but I was touched that a group of seventh graders (who are a very challenging group to say the least) remembered something I wrote and made a connection to it based on a poem they were discussing in class one year later. And I'm even further touched that it resonated with them.


This is the poem they were referring to:

Memory Keeper

Inside my scrapbooking closet
a piece of paper waits to be cut
pictures wait to be arranged
an album waits to be opened
memories wait to be recorded.

Family
Friends
Travels

Life’s scrapbook

The colorful layouts
will never do justice to the
tastes
sights
smells
feelings
of the places we visited.

I can try
but my albums will never
capture
the cold sweetness of the water
cascading down Roman fountains
the overwhelming sense of smallness one feels
while gazing at ocean cliffs in Santorini
the air leaden with history
in the now youthful vibrancy of a united Berlin
the friendliness of a Polish college student
who walks you and your friends
to the Warsaw train station
just to make sure you won’t get lost
and so he can practice speaking English
to a group of four American travelers
grateful for his generosity.

I wish my albums could
capture all of these memories
but when I open my closet door
and cart out all of my supplies
I relive each experience
all over again.

My albums may not
imprison these memories
inside their dazzling pages
but the very act of opening
this closet door
reminds me
that these memories
exist
and are not to be confined
to a page
but rather
kept warm and safe
inside my heart.

- Beth Shaum

Poetry Friday

The poem I chose today comes from the book Poems in Black & White by Kate Miller. I read this book last year when I was checking out masses of poetry books from the library to give my students lots of choices for choosing a poem to memorize and recite in class.

Lots of kids really liked the poems in this book because the drawings really brought them to life. And despite the fact that everything is in black and white, the is rife with vivid images - mental and physical. Lovers of meaningful, literary kid poetry should check this book out.

The Cow

Because
she wears
a bristly map
of milkweed white
and midnight black

it seems
as though
she’s
strong enough
to carry continents
upon her back

with oceans
in between

and islands on her
knees.

-Kate Miller

The Maze Runner by James Dashner

When Thomas wakes up in the lift, the only thing he can remember is his first name. He has no recollection of his parents, his home, or how he got where he is. His memory is black. But he’s not alone. When the lift’s doors open, Thomas finds himself surrounded by kids who welcome him to the Glade, a large expanse enclosed by stone walls.

Just like Thomas, the Gladers don’t know why or how they got to the Glade. All they know is that every morning, for as long as they could remember, the stone doors to the maze that surrounds them have opened. Every night, they’ve closed tight. Every thirty days a new boy is delivered in the lift. And no one wants to be stuck in the maze after dark.

The Gladers were expecting Thomas’s arrival. But the next day, a girl springs up—the first girl ever to arrive in the Glade. And more surprising yet is the message she delivers. The Gladers have always been convinced that if they can solve the maze that surrounds the Glade, they might be able to find their way home . . . wherever that may be. But it’s looking more and more as if the maze is unsolvable.

And something about the girl’s arrival is starting to make Thomas feel different. Something is telling him that he just might have some answers—if he can only find a way to retrieve the dark secrets locked within his own mind.

- taken from Goodreads



I was hooked by the first paragraph! In fact, I did a book talk for my students on this book only after having read the first chapter. That is unheard of for me.

What's great about The Maze Runner is that it's sort of the boy's equivalent to The Hunger Games. As much as I've tried to get the boys in my classes into The Hunger Games, they just don't seem to connect with the female protagonist. The Maze Runner has all of the dystopian suspense of HG but with boys as the main characters.

I will say that the writing in this book is not nearly as lyrical as that of Suzanne Collins. It's a bit clunky and feels like you're far removed from the story rather than directly inside of it. Perhaps it's unfair to compare the two writers, but despite my fondness for this book, I sort of felt like I was in a fog as I was reading, whereas The Hunger Games always felt vivid and clear as a bell. Had this been written in first-person I think that might have helped to engage better with the story.

At the same time, I think that the plot-driven suspense will help boys better to engage with the book than the more character-driven (and female protagonist) Hunger Games.

i carry it in my heart

About a year and a half ago while lying in bed, I leaned up against my husband's chest to cuddle with him as I had done many times before. But on this particular night, things went a little bit differently. For some strange reason, I actually stopped to listen intently to his heart beating. I had heard his heart beating previous to this occasion, but it had always been more like background music. This time, I made sure to actually listen to the song lyrics. And it was at that point I realized I had never listened the words before. Wanting to make sure I heard right, I leaned in even more and discovered the sound I was hearing was an irregular hearbeat. A few weeks later I mentioned something to his younger sister who's a nursing student and she got out her stethoscope to listen more accurately. There was immediately a look of concern and she said, "You really should see a doctor about this."

Today was the culmination of that fateful comment. I'm sitting here typing this entry in an empty house while my husband sleeps peacefully (I hope) at U of M Hospital. He had a catheter ablation performed today to eradicate the pathway in his heart that was creating his arrhythmia. Everything went well and his doctor is pleased with the results. I can't tell you how relieved this makes me. As long as I live I don't think I'll ever forget that feeling of dread I felt when we were shuffled into the consultation room to talk to the doctor after the procedure. My logical mind told me, "Beth, this is a routine procedure. Everything is fine." But then my irrational mind took one look at the comfy couch and chairs along with the low, warm lighting that decorated this consultation room and all I could think was, "I wonder how many times doctors have had to deliver bad news in here..."

So of course when he came in and said that everything went fine, I had to hold back my tears of relief for fear of looking like a blubbering idiot.

Other than the fact that his procedure ended at 3:00 and he didn't get a room until 9:15, I have nothing but good things to say about the staff at the U of M Cardiovascular Center. The doctors, nurses, nurse practitioners... they were all competent, caring, and congenial. Given the grandiosity of the U of M Medical campus, I was amazed at how personable everyone has been thus far. I feared we'd feel like nothing but a number, but as a whole, everyone made us feel like we matter (with the exception of the room debacle, but I'm just going to try to let that go).

Despite the success of today's procedure, I'm still having a hard time letting go of my irrational fears long enough to go to sleep. I worry that the morning will bring some unexpected twist of fate that no one had anticipated and that, in reality, the procedure wasn't as successful as they initially thought. Of course this is a ridiculous thought and should be shoved out of my mind, but I can't help thinking it.

So I'm going to shut this computer down, turn off the lights, and fall into a light, turbulent sleep hoping that no results, cardiac or otherwise, get overturned in the morning.


In honor of my husband, I thought today's poem by E.E. Cummings was appropriate:

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

The movie was better than the book? Say it isn't so!

A couple months ago, I declared here on my blog that I had abandoned the book Julie & Julia due to its crassness. Given what an iconic, almost regal figure Julia Child was, it almost felt blasphemous to read such obscenities and narcissism in Powell's memoir of her year cooking Julia's recipes.

So this is one of the few times that I'm actually declaring my love for a movie more than the book. I curled up on the couch this afternoon and popped in the DVD of Julie & Julia that I checked out from the library, and it is one of the most feel-good movies I've watched in a long time. I can't remember the last time I sat down to watch a movie and thoroughly enjoyed every single moment.

Meryl Streep was brilliant, the food made my mouth water, it was funny and endearing without TRYING to be. And yet another pleasant surprise was Jane Lynch's performance as Julia's sister Dorothy. Given how accustomed I've become to watching her play larger-than-life, comedic characters (a la Glee and The 40-Year-Old Virgin), it was lovely to see her play such a dignified, subtle role.

I guess it's only fitting that I watched Julie & Julia today given Meryl Streep's Golden Globe win last night. She not only played Julia, she became her. I loved every second of seeing her on film.

Now that I'm thoroughly starving after watching all of the delectable (and even not-so-delectable, hello, aspic?) food scenes, I'm ready to purchase a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, or at the very least, check it out from the library.

Bon Appetit!