Becoming a Writer

For the last week or so, my fifth graders have been working on a project about animals and adaptations.  Based on research they've done and on the whims of their imaginations, they've been creating creatures with adaptations that would allow for survival in the animal's ecosystem.  Part of the task is to create a sketch of the animal, but the majority of the project is writing an article in the style of National Geographic (which is my potentially ingenious way to make their writing better and my grading less boring).  However, despite the style suggestion, I've found many of the rough drafts to be painful to read.  So today, before they started working again, I read off an example of an in-progress piece that a student had written the day before that I thought best exemplified descriptive writing in a way that other students could understand and emulate.  After reading it, I had them explain to me what made the writing interesting.  The first class was pretty on top of it.  "It's descriptive and really detailed," one said.  "It was like watching a movie," another chimed in.  The second class was less forthcoming with ideas (I think because the kid who wrote it was bragging loudly in the corner and nobody wanted to indulge his ego further).  In both cases, though, there were several kids in the class half-tuning me out.  I could see the look on their faces: You're a science teacher.  What do you know about writing?

So, I set them straight.

"You don't know this about me, but I'm a writer.  I spent three years at NOCCA studying creative writing, and I've been doing it ever since.  That's why I feel comfortable giving you writing advice."

I am not lying to you when I say that two kids gasped.  Like, out loud.  A few other exchanged surprised looks with their friends.

It made me think of that time in child development class in college when our professor explained schema during a lecture on brain development.  She told us that when a kid sees dog kibble, she might call it crackers and try to eat it, categorizing it as part of a group that she knows: things to put in my mouth.  When the mom freaks out and explains, no child, you can't eat dog food, it's meant for Fido and might make you sick, the kid learns that what a dog eats and what a person eats are different, and s/he creates a new category: things only dogs should put in their mouths.  Her understanding of the world, her schema, has changed.

Today, a few schemas were changed.  Including, I hope, mine.

Because today was probably the first time since high school that I actually said the words "I am a writer" out loud to another human being.  For over a year, I've been writing a blog on a mostly daily-to-weekly basis, and yet I've considered myself a person who writes and never A WRITER.  It's not my job, and I'm not yet convinced that I have enough experience with it to claim such a title in person (I prefer to hide behind a screen and do it like a good millenial).  I would feel the same way about calling myself a pianist.  Sure, I play the piano, but being a pianist requires a little more skill and experience than I've got.  Same would go for being a singer, a volleyball player, a blah-blah-blah.  In fact, whenever I tell people I play volleyball, I always make sure to add the disclaimer: "But I'm still not great yet."  I don't want anyone assuming I play Open and coming back later to say, "I thought you said you were a volleyball player!"

I have no problem with calling myself a teacher, though.  I'm well over my 10,000 hours, and there's a contract in my house that would beg to differ with anyone who chooses to argue otherwise.

"I'm a writer."  When I said those three magic words today, I actually felt different.  I know that sounds weird, but it was like when you get the shivers and you realize for the first time since you stepped outside that you're actually cold.  I'm actually a writer.  Yikes.

Something about participating in this National Novel Writing Month has helped me turn the corner from "someone who writes" to "a writer."  Sure, I'm not published.  Heck, I only have one chapter written.  But something about writing a book makes it seem more real.  Maybe it's the commitment.  Or the word count.  Or the format.  But it feels more...writer-y.

And I love it!  I always thought that writing a novel would be terrible, arduous and miserable, and that I would get lost in the aimless wandering of my main character.  But I haven't.  (I mean, I'm three days and a single chapter in...give me time.  I might regret this hasty statement later.)  In fact, I actually look forward to writing about my main character.  Even today, when I realized that I'd ended my first chapter and would have to come up with a whole new idea for a second chapter, I just opened up to a fresh page for a new mind map (my new favorite brainstorming tool) and pretty soon I had a foundation for Chapter Two: Eyebrows.  I decided (though it's requiring some self-discipline on my part) not to start writing that second chapter today in favor of focusing on this blog post, but when I start tomorrow, I know I'm going to get that rush all over again.  The words just flow out of my fingertips.  My character is coming to life, and I love her.  I love what she learns.  I love the world she lives in.

For those of you I haven't already shared this with, my novel is tentatively called Things My Grandfather Gave Me.  It's told from the perspective of a twelve year old girl, and it bounces around from scene to scene, story to story, character to character based on the various things that her grandfather has given her over the course of her life.  Beyond loving the writing process and what it's created, I really love the opportunity to honor one of the most important and incredible men I have ever known, my own grandfather who passed away in April.  I miss him in a big way, and writing this grandfather character (also called Papa) gives me a chance to relive some of our time together.  It makes me sad to remember that he's gone, but blessed to know that he was in my life for as long as he was.

As a present to myself for committing to this novel (slash a way to avoid zombie eyes when spending hours on the computer every day), I purchased a pair of glasses that are supposed to block blue light from electronics so that they doesn't interfere with your sleep.  As a present to you, I will share a photo of just how ridiculous they make me look.

You're welcome for that laugh.