Okay, so the first week of school got the better of me. I celebrated completing the very first day with students by indulging in dinner. Karma intervened, however, and the meal wasn’t even that good. Usually I do cartwheels for shrimp parmesan with pasta from this local pizzeria and restaurant, but it was only okay this time around. It serves me right, I guess, for trying to break my diet. OH! The Giants lost and I was devastated. It made me cranky on Thursday, but on Thursday, I stuck to my diet. I was not able to write or read. I had school work to do and I had to drive my dad twenty minutes to retrieve his medication for PTSD that a coworker had brought home with him. My dad’s foot was crushed beneath a 300 pound utility pole at work. He might need surgery and he’s likely to be out four to six weeks … returning after the union goes on strike. It was all terribly convenient – ha ha! – until Dad’s foreman called yesterday and announced that the strike, which seemed imminent, was now NOT going to happen. All’s well that ends well, eh?
Friday, I relaxed after work with some colleagues at a local watering hole. I meant to go to the freshmen football game and I meant to get some serious grading done, but I did neither. Exhaustion got the better of me and I just crashed. I think I was in for the night by something like 9:30PM, which is absurd. Although, I did get exciting news – my gallery pages were done! I was able to glimpse what my book will actually look like when its printed, and it is amazing! My wonderful, beautiful and glorious editor, Melissa Newman, knew exactly what I wanted to say and knew exactly what I was trying to create. She amplified the writing and made it successful, more complex, and more entertaining. I am still so excited! I am so anxious to physically hold my novel in my hands. I am more than ready and willing and able to hit the streets to get the word out, drive profits up and make a name for myself in the literary scene. My mom worries I’m letting my imagination run wild, but so what? I truly believe that this is the beginning of something special. And like a close friend quoted to me on one of my darker days, “Keep on dreaming even if it breaks your heart.”
Saturday was Mikey’s birthday, and it was a really nice time. I love him and I am proud of him. I think it is so cool that I get to see him every day at school and be a part of his life in another integral way. I doubt he’d say the same, but what does he know? He just turned fourteen.
In contrast to Friday, I was SUPER productive today. I finished reviewing my gallery pages late last night and sent them on their way first thing this morning. I graded. I made copies. I sent important e-mails. I organized. I was, essentially, SUPER efficient. I hope I can keep that up for more than just the first week of school though. If I know myself like I think I do, then I will definitely have to work at it.
Hopefully tomorrow’s blog won’t be all about work. I don’t want to be one of those people who only ever talks about work. When I was with my colleagues Friday afternoon, the majority of the conversation was about school and blah, blah, blah. I understand that is a commonality for us and it is logical to discuss what we all know, but I want to be so much more than that. I don’t want to just be a teacher. I want to be a writer. I want to talk about both. Does that make me pretentious? I worry that it does.
PROMPT: A boy and his father awaken early to watch the sunrise from their mountain campsite, but they begin to panic when the sky remains dark long into the afternoon.
PIECE: Big Chris and Little Chris, as father and son were respectively known, were sitting beside one another on a decidedly uncomfortable yet entirely appropriate, considering the situation, log. It was bumpy – just as Little Chris had expected; he knew logs were bumpy because he had been called a “bump on a log” more times than he could count by more people than he cared to count, Big Chris included. Thinking of his other nickname made Little Chris cranky, as did the bumpy log, as did the fact that Big Chris had rudely awakened him well before the crack of dawn. Torn from his warm, cozy sleeping bag, Little Chris was now being forced to sit and stare into darkness. It was pointless. It was dumb. Little Chris would rather be sleeping. He thought this sucked.
Big Chris, on the other hand, was sitting on the edge of his portion of the log, nearly breathless. He had been remarkably proud of his idea to watch the sunrise with his one and only son. Big Chris thought it would be a real moment, the kind of moment he had never shared with his own father, the kind of moment Little Chris would recollect in the twilight of his years fondly. Their campsite was perfect for it; they’d be able to see the whole process and the view would not be broken by trees or craggy cliffs. It would be majestic – a word Big Chris had never had the opportunity to employ until now. His smile was big and cheesy, and his pearly whites were the only thing Little Chris could make out in the near total darkness.
It was 6:30AM – just two more minutes until the sun began to rise. Unable to control it, Big Chris let loose with a booming laugh and an affectionate pat upon his son’s back. Little Chris only shivered and crossed his arms over his chest. He was already over it.
It was 6:40AM – and it was still completely dark. Big Chris was puzzled and did his best to rationalize the sun’s notable absence. From beside him, Little Chris asked, “What time is it supposed to start? I mean, shouldn’t it have started by now?” Little Chris voiced his questions in a small whisper. He did not know why he was whispering.
It was 7:00AM. Both father and son sat silent and motionless, trying to control their breathing and desperately searching their minds for a cause. If they knew why the sun was refusing to shine, then maybe they could figure out how to make it shine.
It was 9:00AM. Little Chris had retreated back inside the tent. He didn’t want to be alone, but he didn’t want his father to see him cry. He was ten years old, and that was too old to be blubbering, to be holding onto Dad around his waist, and to be wiping a snotty, stupid nose against Dad’s tee-shirt. Also, the only plan he had for making the sun come up was to sleep. Maybe if everyone went back to sleep and accepted that it was still nighttime, the sun would be there when they woke up, like it always had been and like it always should be. Little Chris had known that getting up so early was a bad idea; maybe the sun was angry that him and his dad had tried to outsmart it. Maybe the sun didn’t like anyone watching it rise over the landscape. Little Chris knew these ideas were childish, but they gave him some comfort as he lay down and cried inside the tent.
Big Chris was on his cell phone. He was trying to talk to his wife, to calm her down some because she had risen to find that the sun had not. Hysterically, she was trying to relay reports and expert hypotheses but she was crying so hard she couldn’t breathe, so she couldn’t really talk, and service was spotty at best. Soon, the call was lost. It was unnaturally dark, and father and son were alone.
It was 1:00PM. Little Chris had woken from his “nap,” only to find that his plan had failed, as he knew it would. He now was cradled in his father’s lap, still crying and shaking. Big Chris was doing his best to rock his son back and forth, shushing him and trying to soothe him, trying to convince him of the impossible – that nothing was wrong. Big Chris wanted to cry, wanted to just sit and cry, but he couldn’t do that. He had to be strong. He had to keep his son safe. He was trying to come up with a plan. Was it worth it to grab some flashlights and try to get back to the truck? Should they bring the tent and all the gear?