Today was the National Day on Writing, sponsored by the National Writing Project. Last year I wrote this in honor of the day. I have approximately 76 blog posts bubbling under the surface here: an update on my reticent class, a tribute to the beauty of imitation poems, a reflection on some drastic teaching changes I've made, etc. Those posts will wait for another day, though. In honor of the National Day on Writing, we participated in an all-period writing marathon in College Comp. I gave 100 one-word prompts, set the timer, and let my young writers free. At the end of class, everyone chose something to share. You can find all of their responses here. Blake wrote this lovely poem: Tree After that first life-bearing seed fills the ground with gnarly roots and your initial leaf breathes that fresh spring air, After that strong summer storm fills the sky with lightening and rain, your branches stretch so far that you almost touch the dark clouds above, After that first piece of bark fills with a blackened mold and falls to the ground so lightly that nobody hears or sees, You whisper your last goodbye Before another seed takes your place. Carson wrote this stormy description: One. The first drop hits and is muffled by the blanket of dust that covers this world; blurring trees, rocks, people, into one immeasurable void. Two. Three. They hit in quick succession, puncturing the sand. Four. Five. Six. An increase in pace reveals the true secrets of the desert. Dust turns to silt and is washed away, brown fading to reveal every shade of foliage imaginable. These are the colors that make one fear God, for no man could match such beauty. Seven. Thunder cracks and the mountains answer, echoing his call. Eight. Blinding light allows for a single glimpse of a mesquite tree, smoldering and broken. Metal permeates the air. Another flash. Nine. The wind screams, ripping the fabric of the world as earth and sky rise to meet each other, boiling, dwarfing mountains. This is nature: unimaginable, uncontrollable, universal. The world pitches black. Ten. The last drop lands and the skies recede. Calm, blue, peaceful; once again baking the earth. Little is left behind as evidence of the storm, save a slight rumbling of frogs up from the riverbed, birthed by the storm. Graced in God's green with thunder in their throats. Tyler played around with fiction: My car was as black as night and more menacing than the dark knight. That's actually the reason I bought the car. Upon buying it though, I found it's more than just a car... It sounds crazy, but it's alive. Every morning it's in the same spot that I left it the night before, but something is always a little off. I came to the realization that it's alive while I was detailing the car and found drops of blood in the door jam. I looked to my hands fully expecting a cut to be there, but I was fine. It wasn't my blood. I drove to my parents house for our usual Sunday supper and was watching the news just before I left for home. I saw a car similar to mine cause a fatal accident and then drive away. The blood drained from my face instantly. My mom innocently commented "Wow! That looks just like you car." The words "Grim Reaper" were written in red on the windshield. I left right then and there. I went outside and the car was sitting there as if nothing happened. I drove home and decided to sleep it off and hope it was actually all a dream. The next morning I woke to find the car sitting in the driveway exactly like I had left it. I checked the news and nothing involving the car was there. It was all a dream. I got in the car and drove to work as I normally do. Relief covered by body as I was about to get out of the car. It was all a dream. I pulled the door handle to get out, but it was locked. I unlocked the car and tried again. Still locked. I tried the passenger door. Still locked. Just then, blood started dripping down the windshield spelling the words "Grim Reaper". The car started moving while I was frantically trying to escape. I tried stopping it, but it was no use. I was going to experience whatever the car wanted me to. After that point all that I can recall are the thuds and screams of the "Grim Reaper" claiming its victims. Bailey dipped his toe in fiction, too: Lucas stopped dead in his tracks. Near the bottom off the stairs was his father. Fear gripped his heart as his father's gaze went over him. His father's eyes were cold , like dark pool simply reflecting the image of the boy in front of him. His father sighed then walked out the door. Rachel wrote this reflection: I work until the late hours, because there's never enough time in the day. I work late because I persevere, quit, and pick it up again. I work late because I am an artist. An artist who dreams. And Megan, well, Megan wrote about writing: It was the 20th of October in the year 2015. Megan had just entered Mrs. Witt's classroom. As she made her way to her usual seat, she let out a sigh of relief. The room had a cool breeze, which was very refreshing after Megan's previous class, Adventure P.E., where she had just finished playing a very competitive game. Megan started to feel not so regretful about wearing a cardigan over a long sleeved shirt. And so Megan took her seat. She opened up her school-issued computer, and was greeted by a Google Chrome window with over 10 tabs open, all associated with her college plans. Although Megan was still unsure about what she wanted to do or where she wanted to go, she continued in the application process. But Megan did not want to think about college, so she shut her computer abruptly. Mrs. Witt entered with a bounce in her step, her shade-of-purple skirt adding an intense pop of color to the otherwise dull, neutral front area of the classroom. Megan noticed that the other students in the classroom still continued to chatter until they realized it was time for class to begin. Mrs. Witt walked around the room quickly, slipping small sheets of paper in front of each student. Megan reached to the top of her table and brought hers closer. The paper revealed a chart titled "100 Writing Prompts Challenge," with a cut off list below it. What could this be for? Megan wondered, her mind spitting out many possibilities. Megan's attention was brought to the front of the room as Mrs. Witt explained what the students would be doing that day for their quick-write. "You can write whatever you want." she exclaimed, "I will set the timer for eight minutes." And so she did. Megan paused, feeling panicked. She had no idea what she was going to write about, and she was terrible at making decisions. She then has a brilliant idea. What if I write about not knowing what to write about? Megan smirked, and began writing. She started off by writing about her experience while she was entering the classroom, and she tried to include as many small details as should could during her time limit. Megan wanted to end her quick-write by simply writing the words "so she stopped" at the very bottom of the paper. Her hand hurt, and although she still had three more minutes, (on a counting clock) she no longer knew what to write about. So she stopped.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AboutTeach. Archives
September 2020
|