Nothing About Writing Here, Just My Thoughts on Resolutions

As soon as Christmas passes, we're bombarded with new year's resolutions.  I've never been big on these, mostly because it's all about talking big, dreaming big, then falling flat on your face.  Overwhelmingly, new year's resolutions don't work.  Need proof?  If you're an active gym member, you see this annually.  The gym is packed in January (so much so that I mainly stick to home workouts during this month rather than get kicked in the face by a confused resolutioner in a too-packed kickboxing class), begins to taper off in February, and by the beginning of March is back to normal.

(I actually wonder sometimes if resolutioning isn't a gimmick promoted by the fitness industry.  I'm pretty sure that all those year-long contracts that aren't used March-December are actually making the gym more affordable and enjoyable for those of us year-round users.)

Think about it this way:  New year's resolutions will last about as long as it takes to start writing "2012" automatically.

When people ask me what my resolutions are, I will jokingly respond that I make St. Patrick's Day resolutions.  Have I ever actually made a SPD resolution?  No.  It's an arbitrary day, just like January 1, Monday, the Ides of March, or the second Thursday of the month.  There's nothing special about the first day of the year other than the meaning we assign it as the beginning of a new us.

The truth is that we change when we want to change, and not a second sooner.  Real change sneaks up on us, and it's usually not something we have to think about, we just do it.  And while these changes are subtle, they can have dramatic effects.

For example, sometime this year, I shifted from vegetarian to mostly vegan.  I can't tell you exactly when it happened--sometime around March, probably-- but it started with substituting soy yogurt into my morning smoothie and ended up with seven or eight additions to my cookbook collection and a 90% vegan diet.  I expect that I'll maintain this way of eating for the rest of my life.

So why did this "resolution" stick while others (such as folding the laundry immediately after removing it from the dryer) fail?  Most importantly, I was ready.  I'd laid the foundation by eating vegetarian for several years and experimenting with vegan cooking.  This "resolution" was a change I really wanted, and I could transition into.  And secondly--and maybe even just as important--I have room to cheat without failing.  I know it's not realistic for me to be 100% vegan 100% of the time.  I LOVE ice cream and cheese.  Plus, some baked goods just aren't the same without a real egg in there.  But these are things that I can live without on most days and use as special treats.  Plus, having the wiggle room makes eating out less stressful and is easier for my friends and family to comply with when they want to make something this crazy vegetarian will enjoy.  (Vegan cooking is actually quite simple, but it does take a certain amount of research and resources to get comfortable with.)

So the bottom line--when change is important enough to make, then make it, whatever day of the year, month, or week it might be.

My Favorite Books from A to Z...but not Q or X

In the summer of 2007, I started keeping an annotated bibliography of all the books I read.  I am currently at 253 titles.  As I updated it today, I wondered if I had covered all the letters of the alphabet.  Unfortunately, I am missing titles for Q and X, but that didn't stop me from compiling my 26--make that 24-- favorites:

Art of Racing in the Rain, The by Garth Stein
Born to Run by Christopher MacDougall
Columbine by Dave Cullen
Dirty Job, A, by Christopher Moore
Eyre Affair, The, by Jasper Fforde
Freakonomicsby Stephen D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner
Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society, The by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows
Hunger Games, The by Suzanne Collins
Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, The by Rebecca Skloot
Joy Luck Club, The by Amy Tan
Kite Runner, The, by Khaled Hosseini
Last Unicorn, The by Peter Beagle
Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson
Night by Elie Wiesel
Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell
Pillars of the Earth, The by Ken Follett
Q
Room by Emma Donoghue
Slam by Walter Dean Myers
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
Unwind by Neal Shusterman
V for Vendetta by Alan Moor and David Lloyd
Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen
X
Year of Wonders by Geraldine Brooks
Zorro by Isabel Allende

NaNo 2011--My First 2,000ish Words

I sit in the observation room as they lead Ryker toward the huge machine.  “Will it hurt?” he asks.   His voice, tinny through the speakers in the wall, betrays his fear.  Flanked by two armed guards, the nurse offers both pity and warmth through a practiced smile.

                “You’ll be sedated,” she assures him. 

                “Why would he ask that?” asks a girl in the room.  “He’s seen enough of these to know.”

                A couple other kids snicker in response.  A boy, Thatcher, speaks up.  “He’s got to be terrified.  I have nightmares about this happening to me.”

                “You should be terrified,” the first girl says.  “You’re always at the bottom of the intelligence list.  And being scared is just another form of weakness.  You’ll be in there soon enough.”

                Thatcher’s face pales, and he doesn’t attempt a comeback. 

There are about ten of us who have come to watch Ryker’s eradication, one of the annual requirements for all students in Brighton Academy over the age of four.  We have to witness the consequences of not measuring up.

Ryker trembles noticeably and shoots glances at the door.  One of the guards moves to block the exit and put to rest any idea of fleeing.  The other stays close, ready to restrain Ryker if necessary.

This is my eleventh eradication.  I’ve seen students attempt to flee, try to fight off the nurse, even attack the guards.  School lore maintains that one student, long before any of us existed, fought so fiercely that a guard had to shoot and kill him.

“Five callens he makes a break for it,” says a girl behind me.  “You in, Elizabeth?”  I shake my head, but the other students start placing bets.

Ryker won’t fight.  He’s a nervous type, not confrontational, which was probably his downfall.  The tests made him nervous, and his nervousness made him sloppy.  It’s not uncommon among us, but there’s no room for error.  If you can’t take the pressure, then you’re not meant to be a Gent.

I watch Ryker sit back in the seat and hold out his arm for the sedative injection.  His face and body calm as he slips into oblivious sleep.  While Ryker drifts off, the nurse attaches several wires, clamps, and needles to his scalp with experienced efficiency. 

I hear callen tickets exchanging hands behind me as the students tease each other.  “I told you he didn’t have it in him to struggle,” and “With those powers of observation, you’ll be eradicated next.” 

Meanwhile, the nurse finishes her routine, securing Ryker’s head and shoulders to the chair and restraining his wrists.

I’ll miss Ryker.  We weren’t especially close, but he always said hi in classes, and he looked out for me.   When I was nine, I came in dead last during an intelligence assessment.  The boys and girls teased me for weeks, placing their fingers on my head in imitation of the eradication machine.  Ryker stood up for me, batting their hands away and reminding them of the precariousness of our continued existence as Gents at Brighton Academy.

The students fall silent as the door to Ryker’s room opens and the Eradicator enters.  The nurse has finished with Ryker and steps back to allow the Eradicator to check her work.  He’s an unpretentious looking man, small and slight with light-colored, thinning hair.  His rimless glasses reflect the machine’s lights while he works.

My stomach drops as the Eradicator and a guard each produce a key card.  They use both to open a drawer beside the machine.  A retinal scan of the Eradicator’s eye finishes the process, and the drawer opens.

This used to be easy.  When I was young, I didn’t know the students who lost their education to the eradication machine.  I didn’t miss them when they joined the ranks of the Regs, and I couldn’t imagine a life of menial labor among the insufficiently intelligent.  Now, each year I watch another eradication, I feel new fear, which is the whole point of forcing us to witness the procedure.  I promise myself never to procrastinate this responsibility again.  I shouldn’t be watching Ryker—I should watch someone I don’t know and have never spoken to—but his is the last eradication before my year runs out, so I have no choice.  If I fail to meet this requirement, I’ll have points against me, and I’ll be one step closer to being in his shoes.

From the drawer, the Eradicator has withdrawn a syringe filled with a thick, sickly yellow liquid.  He inserts it just behind Ryker’s left ear and depresses the plunger.  It takes ages to empty.  Tense breathing fills the room around me.  For all their pretended callousness, Brighton students understand this reality.  One slip up and this could be any one of us.

The Eradicator waits thirty seconds, checks Ryker’s vital signs, and nods to the nurse.

She flips the switch.

“I’ve heard the smell is horrible,” someone says.  Lasers and needles work on his brain, searing his hair from his scalp in jagged patches.  His body occasionally jerks in response to the stimulation in his brain, causing a similar reaction from the observers.  We never get used to the painful-looking convulsions.  The machine, however, senses the movement and corrects itself, locating the precise pattern unique to Ryker’s brain.

No one speaks for the remaining ten minutes of the procedure.  Ryker jerks, the machine adjusts, and the Eradicator runs around Ryker’s chair monitoring his vital signs.  The nurse stands ready with a case of syringes, all treatments for possible side effects of eradication.  He might stop breathing, become paralyzed, or have a seizure.  Most eradications go smoothly—I’ve only seen the Eradicator use those treatments three times—but he’s always prepared.  I’ve heard that the Brighton Eradicator is one of the best, and I only hope those aren’t rumors.  No Brighton student has ever so much as spoken to someone in another academy, so I don’t know for sure.

We all let out a breath as the machine slows down and stops.  The Eradicator removes another syringe from the previously locked drawer and the nurse pulls a privacy screen between the observation room window and Ryker.  We see the green liquid and large needle before it disappears behind the curtain.  Although we can’t witness it, we know what is happening.  Sterilization. 

It is over quickly, and the nurse removes the screen and sets to work freeing Ryker’s sleeping form from the machine and restraints.  The Eradicator injects Ryker one last time, this one in his neck to counteract the sedative, and then puts his instruments away.  

Ryker slowly begins to stir.

“Here goes nothing,” a boy says in a quiet, low voice.  It’s been silent for so long that this interruption feels like an intrusion.  We all know this is when we find out whether the eradication was successful.

After eradication, Ryker should remember how to read and write, as well as other simple facts and procedures.  He will remember how to feed himself and who the commander is.  He’ll know his colors and basic math.  But everything he learned after turning six has been taken, eradicated. 

He sits up, and the Eradicator approaches him.  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

Ryker rubs his head, exploring the bare patches of scalp with his fingers, flinching when he hits a tender spot.  “Where am I?” he asks.  I unclench a little.  Ryker can still speak, and he knows how to put a sentence together.  His simple cognitive function is undamaged.

“You’re at Brighton Academy,” the Eradicator says.  “But I’m sorry, you can’t stay.”

“Isn’t that a place for Gents?”

“It is a place for Intelligents, yes.”

Ryker looks down at himself.  He is wearing denim pants and a dark blue cotton shirt—the uniform of the Regs—instead of the crisp, short lab coats and trousers of a Brighton Academy Gent.  “This is odd,” he says.  “I look like a Reg, but I can only ever remember a life at school.”

The Eradicator offers his hand and helps Ryker stand.  “Walk for me,” he says.  This is the second and final test.  If Ryker’s physical function is intact, he can move on to an occupation among the Regs.  I don’t allow myself to think about what would happen if he fails to take a step.  I silently encourage him.

Effortlessly, Ryker’s foot moves forward, and he takes two solid, if a bit groggy, steps.

The Eradicator smiles at his work and finally answers Ryker’s previous question.  “You remember living here because it’s all you’ve ever known.  You were born here and educated here, but you’re not suited to this life.  Today, you will experience your new life for the first time.”  He nods at the guards, who open the door and allow two young women to enter.  “These young ladies are here to take you home,” the Eradicator explains.  “Meet Penny and Kellie.  Ladies, this is Rykie.”

“No,” says Ryker.  “That doesn’t seem right.”  He thinks for a few long seconds.  “What’s my name?” he asks, panic beginning to show.

“Your name among the Regulars is Rykie,” the Eradicator says.  “It will take a little getting used to, since you can’t recall your former name, but that is how you will be known from now on.”

The girls come forward and each take one of Ryker’s elbows.  They will give him the scripted explanations as they walk him into his new life among the Regs.  He’s heard it before—we all have—but his memory is lost now, so it will be new to him. 

They will tell him that he’ll find a trade among the Regs, something suited to his abilities, which are already known.  He will perform his work in exchange for food rations, housing, and medical care.  It’s hard work, but the living conditions are comfortable.  Ryker—Rykie—now has a new purpose.  His work, and the work of all the Regs, supports the Gents, who use their extraordinary intellect to solve the world’s evils. 

The young women will tell all of this to Rykie, reiterating the idea that the Regs do important work by spending their own energy in order to allow the Gents to concentrate on real problems.  I don’t know what will happen to him after that.  I hope with a guilty conscience that I never find out for myself.

“That’s another one down,” says one of the observers.  We all stand and retrieve our tablets from various bags, purses, or over-large pockets.  As we exit the observation room, the nurse presses her fingertip to each screen, which scans her fingerprint as evidence that we observed the procedure.

I take my tablet from her and wipe her oily print off the screen.  The eradication verification form appears.  I already know what it says, since signing it is a formality every year.  I check off the medical accomplishments of the Gents: preventing or curing seventy-five percent of all cancer, developing ways to prevent all birth defects, curing diabetes and most degenerative diseases.  The next section focuses on agricultural feats: creating taize, a hybrid supercorn, by cross-breeding strong, energy-rich types of corn with other grains and plants, converting taize into tysene, a renewable, powerful, and efficient fuel, bioengineering meat products that don’t require the space, resources, or slaughtering required by traditional animal husbandry.  I check through the list quickly and get to the educational philosophy of Peter Tamson, the first commander of the New Establishment. 

Hundreds of years ago, the average intelligence was frightfully low, and education was wasted on everyone instead of being viewed as the finite resource it is.  Why spend time, money, and attention educating those who cannot or will not use it, will not make a difference?  Because of the Radical Reorganization, Tamson’s revolutionary method of selected breeding and education, the New Establishment State now leads the world in wealth, education, and progress.   We only allow the most intelligent members of society to procreate, then we identify the best among their offspring and focus on developing their talents and abilities.  With more and more countries following our lead, we must redouble our efforts to remain the best.

 I sign off on the line, my signature saying that I will work toward the goal of bringing glory to my Academy and country, and should I be found unfit to do so, I will accept my role among the Reg population, where I will work to support those whose abilities exceed my own.  Once I submit the form through my tablet mail, my to-do list pops up, and “Annual Eradication: Age 16” moves into the column of completed tasks.  Ryker lost years of education and a chance to change the world for the better.  I crossed off a chore.

I Love to Hate You

I've been thinking a lot lately about what inspires me, and I have to say that I am often inspired by the sick and twisted.  Need proof?  Well,one of the first things I assigned my seniors to read was "A Modest Proposal" by Jonathan Swift, a satirical essay in which he proposes that the Irish (who were oppressed, starving, and overpopulated) ease their suffering by selling their one-year-old babies to the British...for food.  (Remember, this is SATIRE.  If you're not sure what that means, just imagine I said that Stephen Colbert came up with that plan, and then you'll understand.)

Anyway, I am inspired by the bad guys.  I love them, and a lot of people think that's strange.  I understand when this confuses people.  After all, I'm the mostly-vegan vegetarian living with fifteen mammals and reptiles who is all about making love, not war.  Had I been around earlier in history, I would have made an awesome hippie.  I even have the hair for it.

But what a lot of people don't do automatically is to separate between fact and fiction.  Real bad guys freak me out.  People are responsible for terrible deeds, and that never fails to sadden and disturb me.  These bad guys do not inspire me, and I really wish there were a way to cure the world of them.

But in the fictional world, the bad guys have one job: to create conflict.  Every story centers around that conflict, so no bad guy = no story, and stupid bad guy = stupid story.  Following that logic, great bad guy = great story.  They appall us, they offend us, and they make us cry, but that just means they're doing their job of causing the main characters pain.  And if the main characters aren't suffering, then you aren't cheering them on, and at the end of the book, they wouldn't have achieved anything. (You'd be so bored you would have put the book down unfinished ages ago, anyway.)

So the journey of a writer is to find that conflict and that perfect bad guy and allow them to torment the good guys.  It's the neverending story of good vs. evil, and as readers (and viewers), we eat it up every time.

My NaNo Best Friend

Al and I discovered Teavana when we visited the Mall of America in October 2010.  I'd heard about it before, but going into the store was...life altering.  We brought home a tin of their chai/chai blend, and later mail ordered the German rock sugar, youthberry/orange blossom blend, masala chai, earl grey, and a bunch of others.

Online ordering was necessary, since the closest store to us was in Vegas.  So last July when I stocked up on rock sugar at the Vegas location, I was THRILLED to learn that two Teavana stores were coming to Utah--one at University Mall in Provo, and one in Fashion Place Mall in Murray.

Al and I set out to Fashion Place this past Sunday morning.  Not only does Fashion Place have this Teavana store, they also have the only full-sized Sephora in Utah, as well as the only Cheesecake Factory.  (Coming soon, Utah's first H&M!)  We brunched at Cheesecake Factory, then did some shopping.

So what does any of this have to do with writing?  Well, I found this:

(I now own the gray one.)  For a $33 splurge on this Contour Tumbler, I can brew tea in the fine mesh strainer, then seal it all up in a spillproof, vacuum-sealed, super-insulated tumbler.  This thing is so crazy insulated that I can fill it with boiling water and it will be only slightly warm to the touch on the outside.  Anything below boiling, the tumbler remains deceptively cool.

I love hot drinks when I'm writing.  (Ok, I love hot drinks all the time, even in the summer, but they're especially nice when I'm sipping and writing.)  The problem is, I sure can nurse those hot drinks, so they never stay hot.  I will often place my mug on a candle warmer in an attempt to keep it toasty.  This tumbler keeps things hot for hours.  (I was still taking cautious sips 3 hours later!)  It is AMAZING.  I love it.  All $33, way-to-expensive-for-a-travel-mug inch of it.

So bring on NaNo.  Tumbler and I put in over 1800 words today.

And by the way, my birthday is coming up next week, and I've been eying the purple one...

NaNo Eve

Here it comes!

November is National Novel Writing Month, lovingly referred to as NaNoWriMo.  The goal: 50,000 words during the month of November.  That breaks down to 1,667 words per day.  Hundreds of thousands of writers participate every year in this frantic writing tradition for the sole reward of bragging rights.

But who really cares about bragging rights?  It's great to be a part of something big.  It's great to get words on the page.  It's great to have that accountability.  It's awesome to get over the excuses and ourselves and actually accomplish something.

Excuses for not writing are everywhere.  Work.  Family.  Leisure. Exercise.  Chores.  Responsibilities.  Crises.  As writers who have other obligations, it's often difficult to find that time, and it's easy to let the writing slip by.

I think the biggest reason writers don't write is fear.  Fear of failure.  Fear of getting bored.  Fear of losing out on other experiences.  Maybe even fear of success.  That just makes it that much easier to fall victim to the excuses.

Last year, I got my 50,000 words with three days to spare.  Of course, I had two prep periods and wasn't teaching any new classes.  (If you're unfamiliar, a prep period is time during the day when teachers do not have classes and can prepare lessons and such.)  This year, I have one prep period, and I am also teaching senior literature for the first time, so I'm flying by the seat of my pants.  I have more work and less time built into my schedule to complete it.  Much of my lesson planning is done on my own time...which also happens to be my writing time.

So what can give?  What's my strategy?  I'll cut way back on TV.  I'll make sure Al has a couple of awesome new video games to keep him happy.  (Which isn't hard, thanks to the November flux of highly anticipated titles for the holiday gifting season.  He's already obsessed with Arkham City, and Modern Warfare 3 is released November 8.)  I'll read less--and only on the elliptical.  I will NOT skip the gym.  I'll spend a lot of time playing catch up on the weekend.  (That's one of my biggest goals.  I need to be on track each Sunday.)

So here comes NaNo.  I'll be updating my word count on Facebook, and you can also register at www.nanowrimo.org and follow me there.  My username is Awoiwode.

The Payoff

I've been thinking a lot about what I call the "payoff" scenes.  Basically, it's when an author includes a seemingly insignificant scene or fact that later on has much more significance.  Since most people out there have read Harry Potter, I'll use that as an example.  We learn early on that Hagrid was expelled from Hogwarts, but it isn't until the second book that we learn the entire story, and it all fits together in the intricate workings of a complex plotline.  Jasper Fforde and Douglas Adams are also great at this. (Is it a British thing?  I don't know.)

It's a quality that I admire in other authors and greatly enjoy as a reader, so I do try to emulate it in my own writing.  It's also just common sense for writers.

But the payoff doesn't have to be that extreme.  When I'm writing, I'm constantly asking myself the point of each scene. Every scene, especially early on, is an investment.  It has to serve a purpose so it can pay off later.  It can introduce a character or conflict, highlight a characteristic, or advance the plot, among other things.  But it can't just be there.

Right now, I'm dragging my feet in the transition of my story.  My main character and I have experienced the big climax and are working through the fallout. We know where we're supposed to get to, but we're having trouble figuring out which investment to make.  Which scene will have the best payoff later in the story?

Dueling plotlines have taken over my brain.  It seems that the only way to narrow them down is to write it all and let natural selection decide.  The fittest will survive.  However, that seems like an awful waste of time, so I guess I need to dig in and outline...for real...our final moves.  Hopefully, this will help me figure out which investments to make: which scenes to write, which characters and moments to focus on, and which ones to keep in the background.

Jumping Right In--Technology Joys and Woes

I'm a big fan of technology.  Trust me, if someone had told high-school me that one day I'd be able to carry 400 CDs in my pocket, I would have done a little dance of joy, complete with a high kick or two, because I was good at those then.  But when does technology impede what we do?  When does it detract?  Is that even possible?

I used to have to write creatively on paper.  Getting my fingers on a keyboard felt foreign and clinical, so I reserved it for school assignments and developed drafts.  When I hand wrote, I could watch my handwriting change with my thoughts--neat and precise when my brain worked slowly and methodically, then frantic, messy, and large when my hand fought to keep up.  I bolded important or angry sentiments, pressing hard into the page and leaving a fading shadow of the significance on the leaves below.  I loved the mess of revisions--it showed the path I'd traveled to get from then to now: imperfect words perfected, awkward sentences made graceful, and  characters developed into lifelike people.  Different shades of blue, black, green, red, and purple crowded together in the areas I worked the hardest on, each color from the closest pen available at the time and creating a timeline of my work.  A beautiful chaos that word processors eradicate.

One of the problems I had with typing was the lock-down feel it gave.  I had to be at the computer, which didn't move.  I felt chained to a desk--the same place, the same view--and if inspiration hit when I was nowhere near Mr. PC, I was up the proverbial creek.  I could carry my notebook everywhere.  I could write outside in the sunshine, in the corner of a coffee shop, or at my desk during a lecture I felt like ignoring. 

But now, I'm addicted to typing.  The change was gradual, beginning with my fondness for the easy, digital organization offered by disks (and later the flashdrive) and the "convenience" of laptops.  (I guess they are convenient, but to me, I felt like I imagine mothers of infants must feel.  Do I have all your gear/necessities?  Great, now let's pack you into this giant case/carrier and lug you around.  Oh, now you're hungry.  Let's find a corner with an outlet/privacy.)  But I've digressed.  Yes, laptops are (mostly) handy, and flashdrives are AWESOME, and as I've collected more and more files and reference material, these things make my life so easy.


And so I turned.  I went almost completely digital.  I used to hand write 90% of the time, and now that's reversed.  I even invested in a netbook this past summer, and it's usually within arm's reach.

Books have undergone the same transformation.  I looked at those Kindles (I'm a complete Amazon junkie, by the way) and thought, "How cool!  I can have all that information on one little device.  My purse will be so light without the giant fantasy novel or hardback edition in it.  But I can't."  I had a lot of (really great) reasons, too.  I love the feel and smell of books.  I love to pass them on to people who will read them and discuss them with me.  I love watching my bookmark progress from front to back.  And I love staying up way too late just to get to the end because I can see with my very own eyes that I'm nearly there!

That's when my parents bought me, my sister, and my brother each a Kindle to share with our spouses.  That was in December.  Those original four Kindles (the three gifts plus my mother's) has grown into nine.  My dad, husband, two sisters-in-law, and niece have all purchased their own since then.  I thought I'd hold out, but I fell in love at an almost embarrassing pace.  I explain this attraction with our shared Kindle account.  We all have access to the same books.  And since my family is spread out between California and Kansas, this device has actually brought us together and opened several great discussions about reading.  If it weren't for my family's shared Kindle love, I'd definitely still be a "recreational user," but I'm glad I've given in.

I do miss the feel and smell of paper.  It bothers me a little bit that digital isn't as permanent as tangible.  And sometimes I do feel like the outsider when I can't lend a book that I have on Kindle.  However, all I have to do is walk into my library, the product of 10 years of collecting.  There I have all the paper feel and smell I need, and I'm reminded that I can fit maybe two more shelves in before my books start needing a second room.

As I pack my netbook and Kindle away in my purse, I realize that I'm a traitor in the worst degree.  I can admit it because I love it.

The Terrifying Inaugural Post

Apparently, writers are supposed to keep blogs.  I'm not sure who at this point will really want to read this blog, and I can guarantee that I will be sporadic with the postings, but I'm definitely willing to give it a try.  But first, a few details:

1. I will periodically make mistakes in grammar, spelling, and mechanics.  It happens to the best of us.  But I must admit that such public humiliation is terrifying for us English teachers.
2. Yes, I'm an English teacher, but please don't feel anxious about commenting on my posts.  I promise I will not pull out the dreaded red pen. Casual conversation is never grammar-perfect, and I understand that commenting tends to do the same.
3. I will be honest, but it will always be my own opinion.
4. I won't get political...often.  I dislike it when people use social media as their own personal political soapbox, so I avoid it myself, but occasionally, an issue comes up that needs to be discussed.  I can guarantee that any such posts will be writing-centered.  And If I offend you, see #3.
5. I won't always post about writing or reading.  I love that stuff, but there's more to life.  That being said, it won't be one of those journal/diary blogs.  Although I'd love to regale you with the cuteness of my dog Thursday and kitten Merlotte playing tag, I'll refrain.
6. While I'd love for each post to be deep and meaningful, I know better than to make any promise to that.  I'll blog about what's on my mind.

If this seems like something you want to read, then stay tuned!  It should be an interesting ride.