Wrestling in Room 12

       If you've lived in St. Louis for a long time (50+ years) you probably remember "Wrestling at the Chase (Park Plaza)." I never went (I barely survived the phase my son went through, when he went to wrestling matches and he made sock puppets--a la Mankind--and he'd practice leaping straight up into the air and landing--with one knee--on my husband's back/kidney). However, since the Chase Park Plaza Hotel was a luxurious spot, I always imagined that their regular wrestling matches were refined...classy...and frequented by celebrities from all over the world.

      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 explain make excuses for why I am not writing every day.  Why I don't submit things on a regular basis. Why I head for the couch as soon as I get home--which is three feet from the front door--and spend a good part of the evening there.

       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 writing studio spare bedroom/clutter collection room.  (She's also going to be doing a book signing at the Big Read in Clayton tomorrow afternoon.)

        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