Back to the Future with Writing Teachers

Stumbling through a thrift store last weekend, I discovered a cache of writing books.  Most were geared to high school research papers, but there was one that was spectacular.   If You Want To Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit by Brenda Ueland has changed everything for me and just when I needed it.

She was a writing teacher who spent her time inspiring her students not criticizing them. 

Her theory?

If you can tell a story to a child (and if you can tell a really big whopper), you can write.

The importance of the whopper?  When I tell a whopper, the details are bigger, more intense, and clearer. For example:

I met Cupid's youngest son the other day in a parking lot outside of a Chinese restaurant.  He was dressed like a peacock, sort of.  His hair would have passed for feathers there were so many spikes that were independently colored. The shirt was about three sizes too large for the boy and was decorated in Hula dancers and surf boards.  At a distance, I could only count eight or nine piercings on his face and ears; he probably had several covered by his clothing. 

He crossed the parking lot in about three steps and propped his hip against the dirty door of my mini van.

"Are you Louise?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Cool.  I'm Aaron.  You're my first assignment. I don't like labels or restrictions, I hope you're good with that."

So this is my opening whopper ... not edited and not restrained, just like Ms. Ueland recommended.  It gets the muse working, the imagination flowing, and joy back in the fingers.

Who knows?  Maybe this will become something.

I thought I needed a 'new' writing teacher.  Turns out I found one in an old book.  Not bad.

29 days of giving ... day 23 - the gift of exercise, what?

I remember when exercise used to be called playing.  When anything in the yard (or in my sisters' hands) was something to play with and magically turn into something else.  We didn't need a rocket to get to the moon.  If we pumped our legs hard enough and we pushed the swing high enough, we might, just maybe, possibly, get there under our own steam. 

The important part about it was it was fun!

The gym?

Well, I'd love to say it is fun.  It isn't.  Not always.  I am working with someone who more than keeps me honest.  But I never considered a small ball to be a torture device ... that steps leading nowhere were enjoyable ... that a bench isn't just for sitting on.

Yes, it sounds like I am complaining.  And my muscles - under loved and under cared for - would agree.  But it has opened my eyes up to the possibilities of the playground all over again.  I may still not LOVE what I'm doing there, but the whole experience has been valuable.  The trainer has been incredibly kind, even though she looks like the cat that swallowed the canary after I can no longer move and am drenched from head to toes.

Besides, the recumbent bike has a great view of all of the junior college football team when they are doing their daily workouts.  I might just learn to love it despite myself.