Some Thoughts on Comfort Food Writing (or..Writing an Essay about Not Being Able to Write an Essay)

(A quick note: if you want to read some of these posts in an easier-to-navigate essay format, simply go to www.derekleif.com. It's that simple.)

I keep journals. Long ones. 

I hardly read them. 

Okay, better explain this...

There is a type of writing I do--a type of writing I've done for almost 25 years, in fact--that I playfully call "comfort food writing." 

This is a euphemism for "writing that accomplishes little, if anything, but fills a part of my day." 

I often do this writing in the morning, when I'm drinking my coffee and can't think of anything to write. Often, it will go something like this:

Can't think of anything to write, can't think of anything to write, can't think of anything to write. Stuff on the counter includes the new issue of Wired, a microfiber cloth for cleaning fingerprints off of my iPad, a 3.5mm audio jack for said iPad, something from National Grid concerning meter readings in the wake of Hurricane Sandy, and a Christmas card for the previous owners of the house, who clearly didn't tell everyone that they've moved.

And then I'll move on to the self-indulgent stuff. I love the self-indulgent stuff:

Still writing. Why do I just write this self-indulgent stuff that will never see the light of day? Why, for 25 years, have I gotten up and written what, at times, has been upwards of 2000 words that have no practical use whatsoever?

Then I'll probably start talking about my past. I so enjoy doing that:

Why, in college, did I not take up the ukulele? Now I know how to play an instrument in which I can actually write down ideas for chord progressions, which means that, had I known how to do this back then, I would have been able to collaborate with all those folks in the dorm who played instruments. True, I played drums, but that's not exactly an instrument that you can play on your own to get song ideas. 

And don't even get me started on karate. Boy, could I have used that in eighth grade. I would have beaten the people who bullied me to a bloody pulp. Those would have been good times. 

...then, of course, I come to the wallowing self pity. Love it. Love it, love it, love it. 

Why am I just sitting here, drinking coffee, doing nothing? I could be practicing karate. I could be composing songs. I could be writing novels. Why, in God's name, am I not doing this? I have friends who seem to do so much with their day, so much with their lives. 

And these people seem so capable of getting things done. They're posting to their blogs. They're working on their websites. They're composing songs. 

I could be doing this. If I actually had started doing things years ago, I would be...

Stop. That's enough. I think you get the idea. 

Self indulgent writing--my term for the writing in which you write it for no one but yourself--is, as I said before, the comfort food of writing. 

Yes, there's a place for it. For the first fifteen minutes of the morning, there's something to be said for just letting go in a free write. Peter Elbow recommends this in Writing With Power, another writing advice book in which I read the first 15 or so pages and then gave up. 

(There are many, many books in which I've read the first 15 pages and given up. You have no idea.)

Anyway, yes, there is a place for that kind of writing. Ray Bradbury also talks about a second cousin of this type of writing in the introduction to his massive story collection. In Bradbury's case, it's all about making stream of consciousness lists, such as:

The moment in time. This moment in time. A second. One fraction of a second. The Big Bang. The first instant of The Big Bang. Slicing that first instant into ever smaller pieces, paper thin, molecule thin, element-splitting thin, electron-spinning thin, quark-spinning thin. 

Thin enough to split a quark. I like that. I like that part. 

Janet Jackson saying "I like that part" from the song "Nasty Boys," which my friend Naomi played in her Toyota Supra endlessly during 1986, when Ashe battled zombies in "The Evil Dead," and asked who's laughing now as he cut off his arm with a chainsaw. Wendy O. Williams of the Plasmatics saying that theres's nothing more beautiful than a revved up chainsaw. 

And so on. 

And so it goes. 

Linda Ellerbie signing off at the end of NBC's evening show "Overnight," when she would say "and so it goes, and so we go." This before the age of infomercials, when you actually had to put something of substance on the air between 12 and 6 in the morning, although most stations signed off well before six with the national anthem. 

The national anthem, and then snow on the TV. Think about it: most people growing up in this day and age have never seen video snow; just a blue screen and a message on the set that says something like "signal not located." 

But we don't have a signal. No frequency. What's the Frequency, Kenneth? An assault on Dan Rather, and an REM song. 

Billy Bob Thornton on Real Time With Bill Maher talking about 60s music, and saying "alright, I'll give you U2 and REM...what else came out of the 80s?" 

Forgetting, apparently, The Pixies, The Replacements, Public Enemy, Boogie Down Productions, Big Daddy Kane, NWA, Fishbone, They Might Be Giants, Husker Du, The Dead Milkmen, Miracle Legion, Black Flag, The Suicidal Tendencies, The Stray Cats, Fugazi, Minor Threat, The Silos, The Feelies, X, Billy Bragg (who yes, started performing in 1977, but who really didn't rise to prominence until the 80s), The Smithereens, The Raybeats (okay, formed in 1979, but their first record didn't come out till 1981), Jane's Addiction, Tracy Chapman, The Indigo Girls, The Cowboy Junkies, Throwing Muses, and a host of others I've forgotten about, but which someone far more knowledgable about music could add to. 

But enough about useful writing like that, the kind of writing that could actually inspire something of worth.

No, I'm talking about writing that really doesn't accomplish any purpose whatsoever except to justify sitting in the same place, drinking coffee, and doing nothing of any consequence. Yeah. That's the kind of writing that I'm talking about.

Writing such as:

Okay. Here's what I'm going to do. Today I'm actually going to write some fiction. I'm going to practice my uke and write a song, or at least get started on one. I'm going to practice karate. 

Above all, I'm going to get up and stop writing this self-indulgent crap and stop drinking so much damn coffee.

But here I go again, making plans on which I will never follow through. 

Friends of mine follow through on their plans. They do things. They make things. They are the correct weight. I hate these people. 

And, once again, I'm off.

Sometimes I think that I will simply spend the rest of my days writing things that will never see the light of day. 

I will be haunted by this till the end of my existence.

Yeah, Yeah...I know. Long Time Since I Wrote. I Included Some Cool Links to Make it Worth Your While.

(First off: this photo was just to get your attention. It's a picture of Prince Randian, "The Caterpillar Man." Born without arms or legs, he appeared in sideshows for years, and stars in the 1932 Todd Browning film Freaks. Here's a clip of him in that movie, lighting a cigarette with nothing but his lips and teeth.)

(And a bit of trivia: he rolled that cigarette, too. Think about that.)

So there are reasons that I haven’t written in ages. Honest.

…and that’s all I’m going to write about that.

Look, if you’re one of the three or four people (on a heavy web traffic day) who even reads this thing, here’s what I notice when I read other blogs:

I notice that I give up at about the seventh line. It just goes on and on, and it bores me until I can either click away from it, or chew aluminum foil.

What I’m saying is: do you honestly, really care about why I haven’t written in a while?

No.

I wouldn’t.

If I were reading my blog, it would be because I was first:

--done checking my email

--done checking to see if someone liked my Facebook post

--done using Stumbleupon for a while..

--done looking up the Wikipedia article on Robert Wadlow (The Alton Giant, the tallest man in history at 8 feet 11.1 inches).
(Here's an article about Wadlow, and here's a video of him.)

--done looking up Robert Earl Hughes (who Robert Wadlow reminded me of, being that Wadlow was the tallest man, and Robert Earl Hughes, at 1069 pounds, was, for a number of years, one of the heaviest, and you can read about him in this Life Magazine article; of course, since then, the mass production of hydrogenated soybean oil and high fructose corn syrup made made it necessary for me, before reading a blog, to also be…)

--done looking up Wikipedia’s list of the world’s heaviest people (the heaviest of whom was John Brower Minnoch, at 1400 pounds; you can read about him by clicking here)

--Done contemplating the fact that John Brower Minnoch married a 110 pound woman, and fathered two children with her.

--Done laughing as this in turn makes me cackle at my contemplation of the horror of the conception of Pebbles Flintstone, whose mother was thinner than one of her father’s fingers

--Done continuing to laugh as I contemplate the David Cronenberg filmlike image of Pebbles’s birth, considering that her head was wider than her mother’s body

--Done flipping through the notepad I carry with me, which includes quotes from the utterly wretched film Manos: The Hands of Fate, which I’m currently putting to a song for my electric ukulele.

--Done picking up my ukulele and writing down some chords to my song Manos: The Hands of Fate.

(here's a link to a wonderful Entertainment Weekly article about the film.)

--done looking up Harry Earles (the diminutive star of Freaks, who appeared as a member of The Lollypop Guild in The Wizard of Oz, who I looked up because all of this writing about unusual people).
(Earles, by the way, performed with his entire family of midgets under the stage name The Doll People. You can read about them by clicking here.)

--Done watching an amazing video of Jamy Ian Swiss doing some card tricks on Craig Ferguson (click here for that video)

--Done watching an amazing video of Ricky Jay doing a card trick (click here for that trick)

--Done watching Marco Tempest doing a remarkable magical presentation at a TED conference (click here for that video)

--Done watching carnival sideshow historian and all around cool guy Todd Robbins eat a light bulb (click here for that video)

--Done rereading the extremely cool email Todd Robbins wrote me, in which he included directions for walking on glass barefoot without cutting yourself

--Done reading a page of David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, which I plan to finish sometime in 2014

--Done with many, many other time wasting things that come to mind

Then, after all that, after I’ve exhausted all the stuff that I can do to avoid getting back to editing my book, I just might want to have my time wasted in such a way that I feel as if I did something besides waste my time.

Here’s what I’m saying: if I’m gonna take the time to check the local news of what’s going on in my friend Derek’s life, I want that news show to be awesome.

(Speaking of which, you might be getting bored at this point, so here’s a video of a massive explosion at a Danish fireworks factory.)

Admittedly, when I think of the friends who are unfortunate enough to actually read my blog (all two or three of them), I’m well aware that my life isn’t all that interesting.

But maybe that’s actually a plus. A blog that’s too interesting is depressing, because when I compare the interesting life that the person is leading to the depressing life of quiet desperation that I’m leading, I get depressed.

This is why I never, ever read Neil Gaiman’s blog.

No, when I’m reading blogs, I know that I have to punch my weight. I don’t want one of those blogs by someone who’s flying off to the Philippines to sign Tagalog editions of his books. I compare that to my sad, sorry existence and feel an enuui that is as weary as Clint Eastwood’s scrotum.

No. What I want is something I enjoy reading, something from someone who’s just living life the way I’m living life, and trying to make it readable.

And speaking of readable, if I’m reading the news of my life, here’s what I want:

First off, I want short paragraphs. I just can’t read the long paragraphs.

You know those paragraphs in Thomas Pynchon novels (and David Foster Wallace novels, for that matter) that go on for, like, seventeen pages? I get lost in those. I drown in black ink.

(Speaking of which: this is the reason that I’ve gotten hold of a version of Infinite Jest in Word format, where I actually chop up the paragraphs into shorter, more readable paragraphs. For the record, there’s something gleefully empowering about rewriting David Foster Wallace. I’m just waiting for some intellectual snob to shriek about how I’m defiling a master, just so that I can look at him or her and say “look…it’s not worth killing yourself over.”)

(and it's been far too long since I put in a link to something interesting. Here's a link to a video of Harry Kahne, "The Multiple Mental Marvel," who was able to write backward, read, and speak at the same time, among other things. Trust me this video is incredible.)

I admit it: when I’m reading online, I want those James Patterson paragraphs, the ones that are maybe three sentences, tops.

In fact, I really don’t mind one sentence paragraphs.

Come to think of it, I don’t even mind one-sentence paragraphs that come one after another in rapid succession.

They’re just easy to read.

And I like things that are easy to read.

Sorry.

I just do.

I guess what I’m saying is, even if there’s nothing going on, I want the nothingness to be amusing. Yeah. Amusing.

If I’m forced to read my own writing, I find myself saying “Derek…if your life is dull, you gotta put in other things.

Write about the joys of the greatest show of all time, World’s Scariest Police Chases. While you’re at it, write about World’s Wildest Police Videos.
(For kicks and giggles, click here for an awesome video in which a guy steals a tank and drives it on the freeway. The only thing that would make me happier than watching this video is finding out that Richard Rostholder, who terrorized me in eighth grade, is dying of terminal cancer).
(if you want to be technical, Richard Rostholder changed his last name to Perello for some reason, and went on to produce the film Beerfest. As is the case of all victims of bullies, I Google people who made my life miserable.)


Write about the challenges involved in taking a drink of water, and then, with the water still in your mouth, attempting to listen to former Life Goes On star Chris “Corky” Burke’s rendition of The Mamas and the Papas’ California Dreamin’ without spraying the water all over the place.

And yes, I know that for writing this, I must go to hell. Yet I offer this: if ever there was a great line that belongs in a summer action film just before the hero does what a hero’s gotta do, it would be “hey…somebody’s gotta go to hell.”

“Yeah,” the hero’s sidekick would reply “the same way that, if we listen to Chris “Corky” Burkes rendition of “California Dreamin’” with water in our mouth we spray it all over the place.”

“Life goes on,” the hero says.

And I tell you, at that point I cry. I cry as if Dino De Laurentis’s monkey just died.

I cry the way I cry harder that Jerry Lewis’s clown cried when those kids went to the gas chamber.

(I oughtta stop here and say that the previous sentence is a reference to the 1972 Jerry Lewis movie The Day the Clown Cried, in which Lewis played Helmut Doork, a supposedly-real-life clown who entertained concentration camp victims. Really. Here’s a link to a great article about this film from the gone-but-by-no-means-forgotten Spy magazine).

(Oh...here’s a video of Chris “Corky” Burke in concert.)

Anyway, back to things to write about:

(Oh, and…uh…if you’re getting bored, here’s a link to the video of Evel Knievel wiping out after his jump over the Caesar’s Palace fountain. It’s glorious.)

Write about Ed Gein, the inspiration for the films Psycho and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Here is a link to the December 2, 1957 article about him).

Write about Willard Wigan, who creates works of art that can fit inside the head of a pin (here’s a gallery of work from his website, by the way).

Write about The Museum of Jurassic Technology, perhaps the coolest museum on the planet (here’s their website).

Write about Phineas Gage, the guy who had a five-foot pole pass through his head…and lived. Oh, wait…I already wrote about that; here’s the link.

In short, be kind. Write words that people want to read.

The Kids Who Create (and Blow Up) Worlds (and Cover Them With Lava)

“Okay..Mr. Leif, the first thing you have to do is make a shelter. If you don’t make a shelter, the mobs will kill you (creepers, most likely, but ghasts, zombies, spiders, slime, and silverfish are also out there). Just use your pick to dig through the trees, and grab the logs when they appear. Use those logs to make sticks. Use those sticks to make a crafting table.“

“And remember, Mr. Leif, you have to kill a cow. If you don’t kill a cow, you’re not going to have food, which means you’ll starve. Also, you’re going to need the the leather that you can make from the dead cow.”

These are the exact words spoken by one of my students during seventh grade lunch recess, which takes place during seventh period (that would be 12:36 to 1:20, for those who don’t have our school schedule memorized). 

This student was trying to help me stay alive. I was, after all, playing the “Survival Mode” of Minecraft, not the “Creative Mode,” which, for some reason, all of my students tell me to avoid at all costs. 

So it’s survival mode. Yes. I must survive.

And I’m realizing that it’s going to take a long, long time for me to have the slightest idea how to survive. 

Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself. For those you who know about Minecraft, just…just skip a whole bunch of paragraphs. You don’t need to read it. Go play whatever video game your parents let you play.

Okay, now…for those of you who’ve never heard of Minecraft (meaning, I’m going to guess, an awful lot of parents who are utterly bewildered by their child’s fascination with Minecraft):

“Minecraft” is a low res game (the graphics are blocky, as if this is a game from the late 1980s), and it’s a first person game in which you build things as opposed to shoot at them. You start out with a simple tool, and with this tool—with which you dig resources, starting with wood—you gradually build more tools. Having then built tools, you build a dwelling, and as you keep doing this, you start acquiring tools that allow you to collect ever more specialized resources, which in turn allow you to build more specialized things. 

Or, to put it another way:

Minecraft is a game where you go from prehistoric to civilized human, and, once you’re there, gives you vast power over the world you’ve built.

I still haven’t really played “Minecraft,” but I’ve watched my seventh graders play it, and I’ve watched them explore it, and I’ve watched them establish domination over their world, and furnish it with incredible structures (there are single-player versions, where you’re the only settler, and, therefore, God). 

I find this incredibly cool, but I must point out something: 

Every boy who plays this game likes to blow things up, and/or cover everything with lava.  

Every last one of them. 

Yes, you can create gunpowder in this world, and it seems that once boys have built their virtual palace and gathered all of their earthly needs, their legacy, when people in this Minecraft World write about them, will be “He was a cruel God who blew up endless things, and covered whole cities with lava.” 

Yes, I have seen an entire mountain covered in lava. 

I believe the student who did this said something like “Mr. Leif, come over and look at the mountain that I covered in lava.” 

This is what middle school boys would do to the world if they had dominion over it. 

Which is why I think girls should play Minecraft. 

To be sure, I know that many girls enjoy blowing things up, and probably enjoy the prospect of covering the earth with lava. 


It's just that I think girls would do other things besides blow things up and cover them with lava. I'm sure they would create certain zones in this world where you could blow things up (and cover them in lava), but then have other parts of this world in which people exchanged ideas on such topics as “what else is there to do besides blow things up and cover the world with lava?”

Soon girls would, I don't know, be organizing virtual dances in these worlds, and everyone would immediately feel comfortable dancing, no one would be awkward. Every style of dancing would be in fashion at these dances, so even jumping up and down would be an acceptable dance move. 

In this virtual world, many male and female Minecraft players would meet while jumping up and down at one of these virtual dances. Then they would each think that the other looked cool just jumping up and down, and would subsequently start to hang out together in the real world as well. Aw...

Then they each build worlds in which, from a distance, you would see that the entire world was a carefully designed mosaic portrait of that person they met at that virtual dance, a portrait that you could only see when you traveled through virtual outer space. 

And of course, by this point, having created space travel in this virtual world instead of blowing things up, girls would create whole galaxies of worlds whose inhabitants live in harmony and dress well. 

And the boys in these worlds do other things besides blow things up and cover them in lava. 

So now, perhaps in this other place, girls would finally get a chance to show a guy the right way to build a world. 

The Kid With the Neon Green Racing Flats (Not Running Shoes, Racing Flats)

"They are RACING FLATS,  Mr. Leif, not running shoes."

So said the email from the owner of the racing flats (not running shoes) shown in the photo above. Said student would also like me to add that she plays the cello, is a high honors student (not simply an honors student, she would like me to clarify, but a high honors student), took Math Research (which entails so much more work than the general research class that I teach that they really should call it Honors Research, or, more appropriately, College Level Research), and, presumably, solved the country's debt crisis before lunchtime.

I have written a paragraph about this student, and already, I am tired.

I suspect that this student does not sleep. Or, quite possibly, said student is like rechargeable batteries, where she talks (a lot) and moves around (a lot) and does (a lot) of things (well), and then, quite suddenly, says "Tired, must sleep," and simply lapses into a coma-like sleep for a couple of hours, after which her eyes snap awake, and she says something like "Awake. Day begins," and once more starts doing (a lot) of things (well).

I was not like this in middle school.

Okay, to be sure, I did stuff. I acted in shows. I played drums in the band and orchestra, and was, in fact, the section leader. I was in honors classes.

I was not, however, a high honors student.

I was one of those kids who drove teachers mad. I scored high on aptitude tests, but somehow couldn't quite make the jump from the standardized tests that measured my intelligence to academic tests that measured my grade point average. When it came to academics, I was often...average.

Anyway, about this student:

She is a middle school student, and she runs a mile in six minutes.

...and here we get to the heart of the matter.

Okay, when I was 19 and in the best shape of my life, I ran a mile on a whim. Granted, I ran it in jeans and a tee shirt, and I ran it at night, so I couldn't check the stopwatch setting on my wristwatch to push myself a bit more. Still, I cranked out a respectable 5:51.

In other words, as an adult, I was only able to beat this student's time by nine seconds.

Such things are humbling. And if you work in a middle school, that is only the start of it. For if you really get to know your students, you will find out that there are countless people who are already, in their early teens, doing things better than you ever did (or will do) them in your life.

In other words, I have had numerous students who I know could run circles around me athletically, musically, and academically.

You get used to it, and you learn humility; if you don't have this humility, I can't see how you'll make it as a teacher (or, in my case, a school librarian). You learn to accept that many, many people will do many, many things better than you. And having accepted that, you are free to do something genuinely life affirming: you can cheer these students on. And having done that, you are then free to notice something equally wonderful: this is a great way to make a living.

Too often, there are news stories about kids doing awful things (particularly now, the day after Halloween). You would often think, from reading these stories, that the next generation is basically a brainless, shambling zombie attack, bent on nothing but destruction.

The more that I embrace my central tenet of this blog--to write nothing but positive things about students--the better I feel about the future.

Today, when I was discussing my writing of this blog entry, a number of other students said that I should write about them.

"Fine," I said, "just come in tomorrow ready to talk about something you're proud of."

I know that the more I do this, the more students will approach me (I hope) about aspects of them--their accomplishments, their abilities--that they want the world to know about. I know, if this becomes a steady source of writing, that I will often write about students who already have a level of mastery of various skills that will leave my abilities far, far behind. This, I now know, is a great, great thing.

This student is already a better academic, a batter athlete, and a better musician that I will ever be. Good. There are many other students like this student.

I want to talk to them, and I want to write about them. So many of them embody what journalist Pete Hamill called "The Talent in the Room."

And Pete Hamill writes far better than I ever will. Trust me. Click here if you don't believe me, and you can read some of his stuff and see for yourself; this guy rocks.

The Kid Who Gave Me a Shoutout

One of the things that takes some getting used to is the fact that people actually take the time to read the things that I post. 

Astonishingly, it would appear that my readership has grown to the double digits. 

My ode to a student who dares to wear steampunk welder's goggles (which you can read here) made me nervous for a day or two. I feared I would get email from concerned relatives of the student, saying that I had somehow traumatized said student by mentioning him in my blog.

Surprisingly, the opposite was the case. I got some genuinely kind emails from folks (not just this student's family) saying that it was wonderful that I wrote about this student. People need encouragement and approval, they said, and to let this student know that there's an adult who prizes their individuality is an awfully good thing. 

To which I say: this works both ways. 

I would love to tell you that I'm able to work without the slightest concern as to whether students respect me, or, for that matter, like me. I would love to tell you that I am able to make all of my decisions without the slightest thought as to my own ego. I would love to tell you that I completely, thoroughly, totally understand that school is all about the students, and that as a teacher (okay, librarian), 100 percent of my concerns involve nurturing my students intellectual and emotional growth, and I'm able to completely shut out any desire for their approval. 

Alas, I am human. 

I know. I get it. I cannot let concern over student approval get in the way of the need for a disciplined and well-run classroom. I cannot let this concern get in the way of stepping in when I see student disrespect of any kind, be it for the school, for teachers (and librarians), or other students.

(I need to stop, by the way, and underline something: ESPECIALLY OTHER STUDENTS. Few things bring me closer to the boiling point than witnessing students disrespecting other students, either through physical torment, or even more insidiously, through verbal taunting. Anyone who said "names can never hurt me" never attended middle school. Hating is real, and it destroys the soul, particularly in this modern age of social networking; I find it disgusting.)

(Oops...another digression before I go on. I don't have too many iron-clad rules for my blog, but one of them is this: I WILL ONLY WRITE POSITIVE THINGS ABOUT MY STUDENTS. There are a number of teacher blogs out there that complain about students; this will not be one of them.)

So...anyway. About receiving student approval:

Heck, it's a nice thing. 

Yes, the graphic at the top of this blog entry is from a student's Tumblr blog, and the student in question sent me a link to that entry. I would be lying to you if I told you it didn't make my day. 

When you work in a school, you live in something of a vacuum. You don't really know what students think of you behind your back. There is, after all, that vast world that exists beyond the boundaries of school, which is that world of The Rest of Their Lives, when they talk about what they really think of you, and, occasionally, empty those thoughts into their text messages, their social network posts, and, yes, their blog entries.

It is a life affirming thing to have a student let the world know that you are doing the right thing. 

To that student, I offer my sincere thanks. 

(And, by the way, to said student, I offer my sincerest apologies for not including a link to your Tumblr blog. It is worth explaining why, and in doing so, might help shed a light on the minefield that is writing about students at the school in which you work.)

(The world of the middle school student--in fact, the world of anyone between the ages of about 11 and about, oh, 30 or so--is replete with expressed thoughts and feelings that may not always contain words and ideas appropriate within the walls of a middle school. I do not use these words or expressions in school, and, in fact, to set an example and be a role model, I don't use them in this blog.) 

(I want students to express themselves. At the same time, I have a reputation to uphold. Alas,  posting links to student blogs invites an avalanche of implications and insinuations that will tie my writing to my student's lives. Sadly, even in the virtual world, I must draw a line.) 

(So, though I don't provide a link to this student's blog, I nonetheless, once again, offer that student a sincere thanks for the shout out.) 

(And by the way...the zombie thing has to do with a research project I have students do in which they study how to survive in the event of a zombie attack. As any reader knows, this is a valuable and useful skill to teach the future of this country.)

500 (Or, a Writing Ritual)

I need to get to sleep, because I'll be getting up at 5:30 tomorrow. I will then shower, shave, and get dressed, but I won't put on my button-up shirt over my undershirt just yet.

I need to write first, and It's not as comfortable to write while wearing a collared shirt and tie. I need to be relaxed. I listen to Brian Eno's "Ambient" music while I do this. I've referenced Brian Eno's "Ambient" music in another journal entry; I love that music.

I now know this: I'm a morning writer, and I have a quota: 500 words.

It doesn't take long. I'm working on the first draft of a novel, and I just put the words down. I've charted out the plot. I know where I'm going. I write 500 words, and it advances the plot by another inch or so.

I didn't do this until recently. For more than 20 years, I kept journals, dumping random thoughts onto many, many computer screens over the years.

And until recently, that personal obsessive writing (I called it "comfort food writing") was pretty much all the writing that I did. Then I went to Los Angeles. I have no idea what it was about Los Angeles that snapped me into this groove, but now I can't get through a day without writing 500 words of fiction.

I do it this way: I pick one project (I have a whole bunch of other projects lined up), and I call it my JWTDT project. This stands for "Just Write the Damn Thing." I have no idea whether it's any good. I don't care, really. I just want to finish it, polish it, and then be able to say "hey...I wrote a book."

Then I will start another, and this next project will, too, be a JWTDT project. After I'm done each morning with my 500 words, I'll spend some time revising the previous JWTDT project.

I will write these books one after the other.

I'm in good company with this sort of thing. Anthony Trollope wrote every morning for three hours, making sure to write 250 words every fifteen minutes.  If he finished a book while he was in the middle of writing session, he would write "The End," and then start another book. That's the way I am, and that's the way that I'll write.

I've already gotten into this mode that doesn't dwell too heavily on how good this is going to be. I know that whatever I write, the next thing that I write will be better than the previous thing that I wrote.

And once I write those 500 words of JWTDT writing, I'm free. Free to write emails to friends. Free to write a stream of consciousness rant. Free to scribble an outline for a vague plot so that it starts to take shape.

It used to be 500 words of journal writing, and then 250 words of fiction in the morning. Now it's in reverse. I write those fiction words, and then type out my journal entry. I often pick up my uke in the middle of these sessions and strum a few chords. Right now, I'm teaching myself to play a classical ukulele version of "Waiting Room" by Fugazi. I am enjoying it, and making progress on shifting from F Minor to C# Major. Soon I will learn the chorus; it's tricky.

I don't have much more to say about this. I write every morning. On weekends, I'm going to shoot for 1,000 words. that's 4,500 words a week or, if I just write 500 words on the weekends, it's still 3,500 words.

Anyway. Tired. Bedtime. Good night.

The Kid With the Steampunk Welder's Goggles

To all my loyal readers, all half-dozen of them: you're rolling your eyes, I know. Steampunk has become a cliche. You've been all over this stuff for years, what with your manual typewriter computer keyboards, your penny-farthing motorcycles, your round-trip tickets to Europe via airship, and your autographed copies of The Difference Engine. 

As for me, I had no idea welder's goggles were such an integral part of the whole steampunk getup until one of my students came into the library wearing them. 

I asked to try them, and immediately, I wanted a pair. 

I now have a pair. They make me happy. 

When I ordered the goggles on Amazon, by the way, every comment said "Great Steampunk Goggles!" 

I felt behind the curve.

My affinity for welder's goggles, by the way, had nothing to do with the steampunk thing. I like them because I liked Dr. Horrible's Sing Along Blog. Also, the goggles make me look like one of the scientists from La Jetee, or as if I belong on the cover of Thomas Dolby's The Golden Age of Wireless. 

Now, about the kid:

There's something life affirming about a middle school student who wears a Victorian vest, a pair of welder's goggles, and proudly carries around "The Steampunk Bible." It would be one thing if this were a middle school trend, but no; this kid is alone. 

Most of us would never have been able to pull something off like this back in the crushingly conformist environment of middle school. This kid, however, does it effortlessly. 

One of the best parts of my job is seeing a student who has the courage to be different, to completely be their own person. I meet a number of these students, as they often seek refuge in the library either after school or during lunch recess. They are not out of sync with the world; the world is out of sync with them. 

It gets better. 

As this kid showed me his welder's goggles, he talked about how he took a pair of 3-D glasses, and, with a Dremmel, fashioned a pair of 3-D lenses that fit inside his welder's goggles. 

So he wears welder's goggles to 3-D movies. 

This kid deserves a medal. 

I know that among the geekeratti, steampunk is mainstream, past its selling date. But it's still barely on the radar here at middle school. And this kid is there, with his welder's goggles, thinking of plans, no doubt, to create a clockwork interface for an Ipad, and to use, in the place of a cel phone, a flock of passenger pigeons. 

Priceless.