Well, wrestling in room 12 is not quite so refined. There is a smell in our classroom that is probably similar to the smell in the locker room of the Chase in that long-past era (sweat) but that is where the two part ways. I'm wrestling with nine-year olds. It's verbal. Emotional. Sometimes almost literal. And it's slippery.
This is to preface my whine-session (and if anyone has cheese and crackers to go with my whine, I'd appreciate you sending them my way) to
I am exhausted. Drained. I wish I could get into some writerly groove, and perhaps I will sometime soon, but I haven't gotten there yet.
Within the last week, a writer posted a comment. I'm always interested in what other blogs are like, so I read her latest posting. It is one that should be emblazoned on a t-shirt, or framed and hung up in your
Please read Dianna Graveman's Write in the Midwest blog. The post on September 26 called "Curse of the Practical Writer" is phenomenal. Perhaps I can get it tattooed onto my forehead (it is large enough) and when snooty writers look down their noses at me, I can lift up my bangs, demand that they read it, and then I can wave my hand dismissively at them and stomp away...
|Mankind, the Wrestler|
photo by Gato Ranch