Momish the novel sent to agent. Hope some publisher will like it. When my subbing is less, I will get back to Echo Arizona and my Carrie Fisher story.
Writing and children and horses and raising my own kids. And there's a leaky pipe outside. And wind, like letting us know that we don't know anything. Thar she blows.
And I didn't have to make my own dinner. Huge. And I hope my sore throat will go away.
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
Tuesday, April 18, 2017
Sub Em and Leave Em
So when you're subbing, there's a point when all the tension of wrangling and directing 19 kids for unrelenting pressure packed minutes in a row that string into hours - there's a point when all the tension swells into a bubble in your throat.
The, well let's just call it the Tension Cancer, which is what no doubt it is practicing to become, the swallowed rage, the outrage turned inrage, so as not to harm anyone except of course me -- this TC becomes leaden when the teacher you're subbing for decides to go on a pot vacation or whatever she did that is keeping her out for three weeks on end, and then suddenly there is rumor that maybe this will become my class until the end of the year.
Then the fun Me that is where I function best, becomes the OH SHIT me because now these kids have to actually learn something. You know, to get to the next grade. So then I start staying late, and waking up in the middle of the night and thinking about possessive pronouns, and planning perimeter art. I once just took airplanes around the country following various boyfriends, I was whim girl, and now I am throat cancer responsibility mother.
Both good things to be. I'm not sure they would be friends, and yet, here I am, both. Layer cake.
The SUPER good news is the teacher is coming back next week, and all the tension popped for the most part so I'm not TOTALLY responsible for 19 people's 3rd grade experience. I fling that burden aside, gratefully. And I like my fake class. I am pretty proud of all my people. They're funny, and being a mom prepares you for assholes. So I can take that part in stride. And even the assholes are still only eight years old. They come around. Stickers can transform pretty much anyone.
The, well let's just call it the Tension Cancer, which is what no doubt it is practicing to become, the swallowed rage, the outrage turned inrage, so as not to harm anyone except of course me -- this TC becomes leaden when the teacher you're subbing for decides to go on a pot vacation or whatever she did that is keeping her out for three weeks on end, and then suddenly there is rumor that maybe this will become my class until the end of the year.
Then the fun Me that is where I function best, becomes the OH SHIT me because now these kids have to actually learn something. You know, to get to the next grade. So then I start staying late, and waking up in the middle of the night and thinking about possessive pronouns, and planning perimeter art. I once just took airplanes around the country following various boyfriends, I was whim girl, and now I am throat cancer responsibility mother.
Both good things to be. I'm not sure they would be friends, and yet, here I am, both. Layer cake.
The SUPER good news is the teacher is coming back next week, and all the tension popped for the most part so I'm not TOTALLY responsible for 19 people's 3rd grade experience. I fling that burden aside, gratefully. And I like my fake class. I am pretty proud of all my people. They're funny, and being a mom prepares you for assholes. So I can take that part in stride. And even the assholes are still only eight years old. They come around. Stickers can transform pretty much anyone.
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