A found slice from my writing journal

After listing slow Sunday, rhubarb cake and a sunny walk in my gratitude journal, before reading Margaret Atwood's A Book of Lives, A Memoir of Sorts, before falling asleep, I picked up my writing journal in a hope to get inspiration for the next days's slice. I opened it in a random place. 

The words looking back at me were not familiar. It's almost as if someone else had written them, and in some ways this is how it is, because time has passed and I am not exactly the same person I was months ago. The change may be fractional and yet enough to not recognise myself. 

Reading the words more than once opened up the parts of the memory that took me back to the seaside and a quiet morning of writing and I was able to greet and meet the previous version of me and remember that some of this version will always stay with me. The words didn't feel so strange anymore. 

I like to see myself wild and free. As wild and free as a home-loving, sea-watching and tea-drinking writer can be. I'm filled with colour and spark and sometimes enough bravery to show it. Gratitude fills my cup as often as tea, warming me inside, making me honey-sweet. 

Under my writerly wings hide three yellow journals, two blue pens, four frog stickers, one horse chestnut conker and two acorns, joy jay and worry worm, seven secrets, twelve months and a half moon, sprinkle of thoughts and a spoonful of reflections, and one tiny chicken pecking holes to the soles of the shoes.  

My superpower is creating an illusion of writing, filling journals with words without rhyme and reason, heavy and stinky as mush of seaweed, all needed to fertilise the writing ground, believing that one day the seeds I've planted would sprout. 

moonlight writing

My muse arrived at midnight. The first time she nudged me, I tried to ignore her. When she gently shook me, I turned the other side. She was relentless. When she poked me, I had no other option than to listen. 

My muse had an idea for a slice of life post. 

As annoyed as I was with her for disturbing my precious sleep, I kind of understood that she hadn't had any chance to talk to me during a day with a long workshop and a bookclub meeting following it. 

I started looking for my journal and pen, but she insisted that this time I had to type up the idea. Too many times she had seen that due to my ability, or the lack thereof, to decipher my midnight scribbles I had lost some genius ideas forever. So I got up and with eyes half-closed shuffled to the living room.

The room welcomed me with a lovely light. From the gap between the curtains the full moon beamed in, illuminating the room enough for not having to turn on any other light. I sat down, opened my laptop and set my fingers ready on the keyboard.

My muse offered me a slice idea with specific details, full sentences forming into paragraphs, organised in a logical sequence. The whole package.  

The magical full moon writing with my muse resulted with a text that in the morning needed tiny spelling errors fixed and was ready for posting before seven thirty. 

This was yesterday. Tonight I slept well and now am left on my own to get the post written. 

Writing daily for a month. Can I do it? Yes, I can!

The first thing I did when entering the living room this morning was to turn a new page for a wall calendar. This is a calendar I received as a Christmas gift from Santa. I sang Jingle Bells to receive the gift. I had made my gift wish loud and clear, and directly to Santa's helper, already in July when I visited a small woodshed exhibition site in an old fisherman village and saw twelve paintings of tea scenes. On that day I bought three postcards and then waited for months for the calendar. Adults in our family get only one gift and this was mine. Happy me!

Yesterday was the last day of February. Today is the first of March. Does a change of the calendar page make a difference? When I look out of the living room window, the scene is very similar to yesterday's. After two months of snow and cold the temperatures are slightly rising and the snow has started to melt. Barely. The weather forecast has predicted that the real warmth and sunshine and spring won't arrive in near future. The snow pile right under the window is still thick and high. Underneath it though, I know, are snowdrops and crocuses waiting to make their festive appearance.  March is a spring month and knowing this makes a difference in the mind. Hope is in the air.

The change that happened over night is a personal one. For the sixteenth year I am joining the slice of life writing challenge in March. For the sixteenth time I ask who in their right mind would commit to writing and publishing daily? Can I do it? Even if it sounds insane to commit to such a thing, I have proved to myself that it is doable. Even when the month gets busy and it seems that writing might not fit into the days, it finds its place. Three things help me: starting writing when an idea is not yet fully formed, ignoring the inner critic, and trusting that what appears on the page that day is always good enough, no matter how short or how well written it is.  One word at a time. One slice at a time. I can do it. It's just for a month. 

the slow art of a blank page

Have you experienced the blank page paralysis? Of course you have. You are a writer.  

The stone still experience arrives unexpected. You have taken a sip of Marrakesh Mint with honey and sat down with the best intention to write. The sun shines on the gorgeous yellow tulips on the table. The mouth is filled with taste of oatmeal porridge and strawberries. Bubbling with excitement you open a journal and suddenly it stares back at you like Medusa. No chance of winning this staring contest.

Your can't even give up, go away, cry and complain, or give a tantrum. You just sit and don't blink an eye. 

What if you looked at the blank page as a piece of art. Whether the page is with lines, squares, dots or pure white you can experience the slow art of watching it with curiosity and mindfulness. Take your time. No rush. 

What do you notice? What might it mean? What sensations do you experience? What happens when you go "into" the page? What might be on the other side? 

My journal has on one side of the page a row of tiny holes with a wire coiling through them.  So strong. Holding everything together. Four more slightly bigger holes close to the wire hint that I could tear a page from the journal and put it in a binder. To keep it, to hide it, to forget it. The straight horizontal lines provide structure.  The rules to follow, the space to fill, the boundaries to accept. A vertical red line running through them on the left side of the page accentuates the order. This is the life line running though my unknown parallel lives. The red makes the blood warm in my body. The sensation returns to the fingers. I am able to pick up the pen. 

the midnight writing

Whether it's the mind processing daily events, bladder filled with cups of tea, or the inevitable peculiarities of getting older, but it has become an annoying habit that I wake up in the middle of the night. Try as I may - keeping my eyes closed, breathing slowly, telling myself to fall back to sleep -  I fail to return to peaceful sleep. Sometimes the mind goes into problem-solving mode and sometimes brilliant creative ideas surface. In the case of the latter, I sometimes choose to exit the bed and bedroom and go to the living room to scribble down the ideas. 

I did exactly this last night.

Today after school I decided to use these midnight notes to write a LinkedIn post (my third post ever).

I looked at my notes and couldn't decipher the chicken scratch looking back at me.

"I can't read my midnight writing," I commented to my husband.

"Perhaps you should record your thoughts instead of writing," he suggested.

"Oh, no. What if the recording would be as incomprehensible as the writing. I would sound like a lunatic. Now I can at least blame the horrid handwriting and still believe that a gem is hidden in there" I shivered at the thought.

I continued being a detective (practice with reading student handwriting helps) and picked out what I could and filled in the blanks.  

writing process in five words

Today's post is inspired by Elisabeth Ellington who herself is writing all her slices based on inspiration from other slicers. If you are stuck, you can go over to her blog and find many mentor texts there. 

At a first glance the task looked simple to me. All I needed was five words. Looking closer, I realised  that explaining one's creative process in five word is not so easy. Lifting my eyes above my laptop, I saw a picture on a shelf and I was tempted to cheat.  Changing only one word from the picture I could turn it into "Magic is something I make." I decided to try again. I closed my eyes, quieted my mind, and asked myself, "What is my creative process during this SOLSC?" Three words popped into my head: trust, ideas, words. I tried different versions and this is the final one that I like the best today. On a different day and month and year I might write something else. 

My slice writing process:

Trusting ideas, dancing with words.  

A listening fox

Ruth's writing invitation

I am the kind of writer who believes that writing in a group nudges to grow because you hear all the different approaches people take to the same task and the different insights the same text brings about. I am the kind of writer who believes that through writing we create ourselves. I am the kind of writer who appreciates the trust in a small writing group to be who I am. 

Because of this, and because of managing my state of mind as I turn fifty, and because bold is my one little word for the year, I joined a writing course, the same one I have joined three times before. I don't mind that it looks as if I am repeating a course, that I have already read some of the texts, and that some of the exercises are the same. The teacher welcomed me back. 

Last week I couldn't go to the place where we gather and had to join through Zoom. When the teacher sent the Zoom link, she also attached a poem for reading in class. It came with a request not to peek before the lesson. I was tempted, and still closed the email quickly to resist the temptation to read. The only thing I saw was that the document was titled "fox.pdf". A poem about a fox? A fox in the poem? A fox as a metaphor? I sure was curious.

After some warm up writing and sharing, it was time to read the poem. There was no fox in the poem. John Fox was the author. The poem was "When Someone Deeply Listens to You". It's a beautiful poem and I found places to write notes about, and yet, somehow I couldn't get fully into it. I missed the fox. I didn't hesitate to share my distraction with the class. Spinning thoughts and words, the teacher concluded that if there are reading dogs, we might as well have a listening fox. 

Parking this ideas allowed me to continue listening to others and participate in the writing task. 

The task was to quick write our own version of the poem. 

I wrote in Estonian. Here's a rough translation, void of the phonetic wordplay. 

When somebody deeply listens to me,

        I am not categorised by age, gender, roles, 

                             hair color, car model, shoe size,

                                   expectations, goodness.

 

When somebody deeply listens to me

        I won’t get labelled with

                   price, fears, judgement,

                             desires, glory, madness. 

 

When somebody deeply listens to me

        Out of the shadows emerges 

                the real me, gentle and vulnerable, 

                         at the same time strong and mighty,

                                    funny and quirky in my own way.

 

I am Somebody.

I am somebody who deeply listens to me.                      

Looking back, the last line is the part where I am creating myself. Growing up with listening to all the outside expectations, and doing my best to meet those, I didn't learn to listen to the whispers within, and this is an area I am still working on. What am I feeling? What do I need? What do I want? So I practice how to deeply listen to myself.  I become a listening fox.

All posts #turning50

A photo by Birgit Varblane from a natural woman photo shoot

Why do you write?

During Christmas holiday my oldest and I watched several romantic Christmas movies, the ones where the plot is comfortably predictable, snowy scenery alternates with cozy inside scenes, nobody seems to freeze outside, and everyone gets their happy ending. Two of them included young female authors, making writing look super easy, ideas just arrive, you write and the next you'll be on a book tour. They wanted to be writers and therefore they wrote. 

I am almost finished with William Boyd's Any Human Heart - a diary of a male writer from his youth to all the way to high age. He too just seemed to make a decision to become a writer and publish a book. At least he shows that not all books come easy and not all writing turns into a book. He mostly wrote to make a living. 

Now more than ever it seems that to keep a journal and to write a book is a very popular thing to do. Digital news, social media and tv shows amplify the idea even more. Journals are there to make dreams come true and the angst to get resolved. Writing a book is just a matter of will, a decision you take and a plan you make. As a result you'll be famous, and hopefully rich. 

Reading Margaret Atwood's Negotiating with the Dead: A Writer on Writing gives a glimpse to a much darker and sometimes painful world of writers, pressured by godly gifts or deals with devil and dead, torn between the mundane and the art, tortured by the lure of money and high literary desires. As a reader I am not afraid to admit that the text wasn't always easy to follow, and it might be that some of the ideas went above my head. Fascinating text.

In her introduction Atwood has compiled a list of answers from writers to the question "Why do you write?"  A whole page of reasons, including for example, to please the reader, creating is divine, for revenge, to protect the human spirit, and if I didn't write I would die. 

When I was in third grade I decided that I wanted to become a teacher like some people decide to become writers. So for a long time the reason for writing was merely because I had to. I had to write for the teachers at school and at the university. I had to write for getting to school and getting a job. I had to write for my job. Blogging and journaling for the past ten years have added more reasons to the list, not as deep as the ones Atwood mentioned, but more than just to inform, entertain and persuade. 

I wrote my list and put anything that came to my mind on the list. Some answers later surprised me and I had a strong urge to judge. Letting go of the last I'll share the list with you.  

Here's my list:

to notice the positive, to remember, to experiment, to empty the mind, to organise thinking, to choose perspective, to get out the annoying, to celebrate the wonderful, to feel that I can write, to become better at writing, to set an example to my students, it is safe to do, it is easier than singing or painting, it doesn't require complicated equipment, I can do it on my living room sofa, I don't need to do my hair or makeup, it's addictive, I like comments, others said it's good for me, others said I am good at it, to discover myself, to create myself, to be myself, to make others happy, to share my stories, writing creates magic, to make sense of the world, to understand people, to prove to myself that I can be a writer, to prove to others that I can do it, to fool myself, to console myself, to play, to be noticed, to become famous, my ego needs it, my creative spirit nudges me, others encourage me, friends invite me to write, writing is a useful skill to have, sometimes it's easier to write than to speak, it can bring joy, it's fun, why not. 

For a while I thought that I might finish blogging now that I have done it for ten years. Looking at the list I believe I have plenty of very good reasons to continue. 

Why do you write? 

I took the photo in a doll house museum in Warsaw: the writer's room

March 2, 2018

Student writing marathon

 Gathered on a carpet, the students look at me with anticipation. Since the morning, when they saw "Writing marathon" on the schedule, they have been curious about it. Bringing two totem bags to the meeting adds to the puzzlement. Time to reveal the mystery. 

"You all know what a writing marathon is. It takes time and the runners run a long distance. If you first hear about writing marathon you might think that it means sitting in a chair for two hours and writing non stop until your fingers fall off.  Maybe by the end of the year you might wish to try this, when you have trained your fingers and body enough to have the stamina to write so long. Today the marathon is different. We'll move around and write in different spots and step by step it adds up to many pages of writing," I explain. Some of them still look at me with some suspicion. Some already smile broadly with excitement.

"I did my first writing marathon this summer and it was one of the best days ever. I wrote in a cafe, in a park, on a seaside, in another cafe. Such joy. And to have a good start, you will receive a very special gift," I pull out a wrapped gift from the first bag.

"You will get your first writer's journal. Writer's journal is no ordinary school notebook. This is a special journal for writers to collect ideas, experiment with sentences, to play with words, to try out new craft moves. It is a very safe place for you to write in. You can make mistakes, not finish pieces, leave some pages empty, cross things out, have messes. It is so private that you do not have to share it with anyone unless you want to. I get to read the journal only because as a teacher I need to monitor your development as a writer. The writer's journal is not a school thing but a life thing in the writer's life. Here are some of my journals I have kept over the years," I pull out a pack of my journals from the second bag and show them some pages.

I can feel how the anticipation fills the air. Even the biggest skeptics shift closer to the gift package. 

Tearing the wrapping paper off, I reveal the simplest journals similar to the ones I first started writing in. Each student finds a colour they like, knowing that later they can decorate the covers in any way they wish. Then they get a pencil and find their first writing spot in the classroom.

"Are you ready?" I ask.

"Yes," they respond in unison.

The first task is to write lists. They write a list of what makes them happy, their favourite places, people in their lives, favourite foods, favourite animals and a random list of words that pop in their head. 

The second task is to choose one thing from any of the list and we do a quick write.

The third task is to write a "Right Now" list. Before they start I share some of my examples from the blog.

Each time they write, I put on a timer and some soft music. 

For the second round I read to them "Step Gently Out." Then they put on their jackets and outside shoes and we go to the school yard.

The fourth task is to write down observations, painting a big scene with their words. They spill around finding various spots and start scribbling.

When the time is up, I ask them to run to me to get new instructions.

The fifth task is to find an object - a leaf, a feather, a crack in the wall, a section of a tree bark, a flower, a grass of blade - and this time to write a detailed close observation.  Once again they walk off, looking around for something to write and a place to settle in. Writing, writing, writing.

When I call, they run back to me.

The sixth task is to write down any wonderings they can come up with. 

The second part of the marathon done, we return inside, they take off the jackets, change their shoes, and change with each other predictions of the possible new location. Gym? Library? Cafeteria? Teacher's lounge?

I take them to the second floor next to the library.

The seventh task is to choose a photo form a package and write about it. They take some time to choose form the photo cards I have spread on the floor, then pick one that speaks to them today, and find a place in the hallway or library. 

The eight task is to choose an illustration. I have spread Dixit cards on the floor, and they follow the same steps as with the photos - look, pick, write.

The ninth task is to write a short reflection of the whole experience. They sit on lined up sofas like birds on a wire. 

When the time is up, I ask them to do a little silent victory dance for completing their first marathon. 

We return to to the classroom for sharing.

With partners they choose what kind of a share they wish to have - content, craft, process, topic, or a reflection share. 

For the very final piece of our writing time I introduce the author's chair. A volunteer sits in a green armchair and chooses what kind of feedback she'd like form others - a question, a suggestion, a compliment, a connection, an idea or a memorable line. 

The first student writing marathon is done. It took one hour and thirty minutes. Not so much time, yet three writing spots visited, nine quick tasks written, several writing ideas collected, knowledge of ways to collect ideas noted, many pages filled in the journal, and students excited about writing - win-win-win for everyone. 

time to write

I once wrote:

It's one of my favourite slices of life I wrote during the first month of blogging. It still rings true. The sense of time for me is often related to the seasons and work-life relationship. The summer time feels slow and ample. The school time seems fast and scarce. 

I know that the only time I really have is the now, the moment I am in, and sometimes I don't even notice it because my thoughts travel back and forth in time. Like everyone else I have 24 hours a day. I once made a list of things that I had to and wanted to and wished to fit in a day and it obviously was way more than my waking hours. Choices, choices, choices. What is most important? What to keep? What to let go? How much time to dedicate for each task? I do what I have to do, for example I can't skip school and can't live without eating and can't avoid commuting to work and back, and then I see what else I can fit in and how much, like ten minutes of exercise in the morning and fifteen minutes of reading in the evening or a short walk in the neighbourhood after dinner. 

One would think that it is easier on a day off, but it is not always so. Sometimes when I have a blank day ahead, I struggle with making the choice of what to do. Like yesterday. I was tempted to stay home, snuggle on a sofa, read a book and drink tea - one of the best ways to spend time. At the same time I thought that if I stay home, I would end up opening a computer and might get sucked into school mode again. Going to the city seemed like a good option. This meant getting dressed and venturing outside, a big effort on a school free day. Then two things circled in my mind that helped with the decision - Ruth's invitation to make time for writing and my memory of my solo writing marathon. I made up my mind.

Yesterday morning, after a forty minute train ride (during which I continued reading Alexander McCall Smith's The Dog Who Came in from the Cold, a book I have read on my daily commute this week) I arrived in the city, walked to my favourite vegan cafe, ate a morning porridge, and then sat and wrote in my journal for ninety minutes. Something might grow out of those pages of words (or not) but this is not the main point. The important thing is that I took the time to write.  After this I walked some more, visited a photo exhibition, finished reading the book on the train and got home before three o'clock to make oven baked vegetables for lunch. 

One would say that the amount of time I wrote in the cafe wasn't much either but it is certainly way more I would have written at home where the chatting of family members or the domestic duty call of a vacuum cleaner and laundry or an invitation of a computer would have distracted me. Someone else might point out that if I hadn't taken the train I could have written for another eighty minutes (or even more with the walk). The train ride was well spent since I read. It might be interesting though to set a challenge to try one weekend, when no-one else is at home, how long I can stay seated and focused on writing. 

Myself as a writer

Yesterday morning I saw Ruth's invitation to write "Describe yourself as a writer." In a flash the question "Am I a writer?" followed and stuck with me for the rest of the day. 

Am I a writer?

I thought of this question while having porridge in my favourite vegan restaurant. What are the criteria for calling oneself a writer? Do I need to meet all indicators or just some of them? I wrote in this restaurant during a solo writing marathon. Participating in a writing marathon surely adds towards qualifying as a writer. The room had new fantastic fairy-tale kind paintings. "These would make into great writing prompts," I thought. Was this a writer's thought or a teacher's thought?

I thought of this question at school when I saw a writer's journal a student had left behind in spring when the distance learning started. I believe in notebooks. The fifteen journals that I have kept over a decade come in different sizes and with varied covers. I have written pages and pages of words. Some blogposts have grown out of them. Some words are undecipherable. Writers keep a notebook. I have one. I am a writer. Then again writers carry their notebooks with them and write daily. I don't. I am not a writer.

I thought of this question when choosing a book for myself in my favourite small bookshop. Writers publish their texts. I don't have a book with my name on a bookshelf in a bookstore, or an article showing up on search engines. Is it fair to say I am a writer if I have not published anything, if I don't have even one finished draft in my drawer waiting to be sent to a publisher? I have published 1110 blog posts. That should count for some points?

I thought of this question when talking to the other participants in an online writing workshop. This is my fourth module of the course. I love it. I am always surprised how varied are the responses that my fellow participants provide to the prompts we answer. More often than I wish I find myself scolding myself for staying safe and predictable in my writing. It feels as if "a cup of tea" could be an answer to all the prompts ever given. Shouldn't I be daring to dig deeper into meaningful issues and venturing further out with my words? 

I thought of this question when I opened my blog again in the evening. Instead of writing I read some older posts and comments to them. Can someone be a writer if they didn't have readers? My readers are super supportive and uplifting and often see more in me than I do. Am I writing only because my ego is tickled by the kind words of others? I wonder whether I would still write if I didn't share my writing or if nobody responded. I am not willing to run that experiment. 

I didn't know how to respond to Ruth's invitation, so I closed the laptop.

Late at night, when I had already finished reading, turned off the lights, and was almost drifting to sleep, the words came. What you read above I scribbled into a journal with eyes half closed and with little light entering form the hallway. This is what writer's do, I thought to myself. I am a writer. 

As a final thought before falling asleep I decided that the only criteria I really need is what Ruth said about her writer self. 

I write.

A page from Charley Mackesy's book "The Boy, The Mole, The Fox and The Horse" (my latest purchase, in case you were wondering whether I bought anything in my favourite bookstore) reflects my thoughts about me and my blog readers.  

solo writing marathon

When I got an invitation for the first #TeachWrite Writing Marathon on FB, I liked the idea instantly. I decided to make it a city adventure. I chose to follow the time frame in my own time zone.

On Friday late morning, before having a breakfast, at 10:00 a.m, I sat on a train and opened my journal. What do people usually do on a train? They watch out of the window, nap, play on a phone, scroll social media, listen to music, read newspapers or book, chat with a friend, work on a laptop, talk on a phone. I rarely see anyone writing. I wonder whether it is because it is so easy to get distracted. But there I was scribbling on my notebook pages, setting my intention - write for the volume and don't stress about the quality, and making a list of possible things to write about, and then all the random thoughts that visited me on the train, starting with a gratitude list. The train ride was long enough to allow me to fill four journal pages.

My second spot wasn't on my initial list of writing destinations. On my way from the train station to the cafe to have my breakfast I walked through a park and a white wooden bench looked like a very inviting writing place. I sat down. From the road on the left the vroom of hurrying cars carried through the air, with oaks and lilacs hiding the view. On the right the park lined with the old town wall and the red roofs of medieval houses peeking over it. It was a quick stop of half page writing.

I was rather thrilled to arrive at the vegan cafe and order a bowl of creamy millet porridge with date puree, blueberries, raspberries and a sprinkle of cinnamon. There was only another customer there, a young man who was sitting behind his laptop. I felt I fit right in. After finishing my porridge I took out my laptop and wrote a blog post about going on dragon hunt with my nephew. I stayed in the cafe for a full hour. When I ordered a cup of tea, the owner wondered whether I'd like a glass of wine too. The image of me sitting in a cafe with a glass of wine and writing looked so romantic but I kindly declined the offer. A cup of tea was enough. For some it may be a very ordinary thing to write in a cafe. For me this is was probably a third time ever.

It was time to move to the next spot. A week before I had seen a girl reading on a bench in a public square next to seaside apartment blocks. I was heading towards the same place. I walked down the seaside. I discovered that half of the wild promenade was blocked by a construction site surrounded by high wired fence. The sun heating my back and burning the skin on my neck, I walked on the pavement next to a street with an endless row of cars and trucks. I took my cardigan and threw it over my neck and shoulders like hunters throw a dead deer. I must have looked ridiculous but I didn't care. Half way toward my destination I was able to turn to the unofficial seaside promenade that snaked past a deserted prison complex. In my mind the distance between the cafe and my next spot was much shorter. Now it felt like my writing marathon had turned into a walking marathon.

When I arrived, I realised that I couldn't write in the  same spot without boiling in the sun. I found a similar bench in a shade between the houses. I sat down and pulled out my journal. Once again I didn't care what others might think of the sight of me. I felt confident to do what I wanted to do. I wrote about what I saw and heard, thought and felt, some snippets of creative writing, a list of possible short stories. Since I had walked longer than planned I added thirty minutes of writing time when the official time was up.

When I finally stopped writing and checked my phone, I discovered that the whole writing marathon had been cancelled. I had already done it. At least I had good practice for the future.

My reflection:
I love the idea of a writing marathon. The best part of the marathon was that it did not involve masses of people in close proximity like a running or bike marathons do, and it didn't end with a ranking list. I wonder whether I would have been as productive at home. At the same time I wonder whether the special places I had chosen added anything to my writing or simply made me feel fancy. I sure should have been less vain in choosing my shoes. The heels made me look taller but were not reasonable for the amount of steps I collected. Besides the pages of writing I had blisters as evidence of participating in a marathon. I probably misinterpreted the whole of idea of switching locations, making the distances between the spots too long, so the writing wasn't as continuous as it could have been for a marathon. But I think I still qualify. I wrote a blog post and eleven journal pages.


Here are some of my photos:

Reporting

I am sitting behind a round table in my class. The kids-have-left silence leaves space for the sound of clock ticking, heaters humming and keyboard clicking.  School is a strangely quiet place to be in the evening.

I am writing report comments and you can imagine how this could become the only writing I do for weeks. I try to keep my no school writing alive too. The flame is tiny but constant. I have secretly joined Michelle's #100daysofnotebooking challenge. Every evening I write down how much I walked (sometimes only 30 minutes), how much I did yoga (sometimes only 5 minutes in the morning), and how much I read (sometimes only two poems.) The intention matters. The writing isn't necessarily long either. Usually random thoughts and silly ideas, things to remember and wonder about, frustrations and appreciations. Nothing colorful nor pretty. Sometimes hardly legible writing because it's often past my bedtime and I speed write.

I am a bit behind with my comment writing because I had a busy weekend at a writing retreat. Stop imagining a country cottage with a breath taking nature scenery. Four of us were in a band room surrounded by keyboards and drums. An unexpected place. Perfect for writing though. We had sofas and armchair and a table and a board and a sandwich grill. The important thing was that we had a goal, and took time to write in order to achieve the goal, away form the daily distractions of home. Valuable and productive writing time.

Everyone would understand today if I continued with writing trans-disciplinary skill, literacy or unit of inquiry comments for my students. So many comments to write. So many words. Creative writing in a way too, because there are multiple ways to say the same thing, and little details to add to make the comments personal. My innovation would be to write a report with two choices: "Your child is doing fine" or "Your child needs help and guidance."

But I didn't want to miss SOL. I have a yellow post-it with "SOL" looking at me from my I-Pad cover. I consider it an invitation not a command.

I accepted the invitation. Took a break form the report comments. Set myself a timer.
Time is up.
Back to writing few more comments before I leave the school to go to a dinner and a theatre performance. Yes, you read correctly. I will go to theatre today, on Tuesday. Theatre tickets are the only gift I get from Santa for Christmas. This has been a tradition for two decades now.

Will I write in my journal tonight?
I hope so.

Inspired by Sarah Kay - Questions and Answers (in no particular order)

We had three-way conferences today. The students shared their reflections and goals and made plans. I read some Sarah Kay poetry in between some conferences. I got an idea for today's slice from there. Some of what was shared at the conferences today, and some additional questions asked, are in the following poem. This blog is my writing playground. So here is my little experiment for today. It's certainly a format to try again with more time to think and write. 

What are your strengths? 

I am a monster

What are you looking for? 

Making books with my brother

Why do you write? 

It’s only one piece of everything

What about spelling? 

Horrible and wonderful days

How can you improve?

Remind me to write

What's your favourite writing? 

The keys I lost

What do you write about? 

Use sticky notes

How can your teacher help? 

Write imaginable stories

What will you do? 

Choose a new journal

What would you like to continue with? 

Share interesting words

What next? 

A letter to my left shoe  

Where did you find them?

My writing journal 

How can your parents help? 

Experiment and play

What is your goal? 

It makes me feel good

A gift

"What's in here?" several students point at a wrapped up gift box on a shelf behind me.
"You'll see. We'll open it in the afternoon," I build the suspense.
"Candy?" comes a hopeful guess.
"It's not edible. I hope you won't chew it," I respond.
"It kind of looks like a typewriter," another idea is put on the table.
"This would be awesome, but unfortunately not," I shake my head.

Several guesses and lessons later the students are gathered on the carpet. The gift is on the floor.
"I know some of you hoped that I would have a whole box of candy or a typewriter here. I don't. This is still a gift. Remember how I told you that I grew up believing that I wasn't a writer. There were writers and non-writers. the writers had some magical talent and knew all sorts of writing secrets. The non-writers would never find the secrets. Only when I was more than thirty years old, I found out that it is possible to learn to write. You know better. And I will gladly share with you some of the secrets I have discovered. One of the secrets is in here," I pat the gift.
The kids look at me intently and with curiosity.
"The gift is a writer's journal. This is a special journal. A safe place to gather ideas and to experiment and to play with ideas and words. Nobody but you and I get to see what you write unless you wish to share. Not even your parents can look inside," I explain.
You'd think that hearing about a journal would be a disappointment but the kids are still tense with anticipation. To add to it I bring out my old journals.
"When I first got myself a journal, it was a very simple plain journal. The next time I put a sticker on my second journal. The journals that followed had different covers," I show them my journals, "You can see how some of the writing is messy, I have things crossed out, some things written sideways. This is why the journal is a safe place. It does not judge me. Everything I write is accepted. It is like a caring friend who is always ready to listen with understanding, who encourages me to take risks, who finds my ideas interesting. Your journals are extra special because you get to decorate them as you wish. Are you ready for your journals?" I ask, knowing I can count on a loud yes, what indeed follows.

We open the package and everyone gets a plain spiral notebook. During the rest of the lesson the students go  through the different craft materials, cut, and paste, or draw. The excitement is continuously vibrating in the air. Some even name their journals and write a little welcome letter on the very first page.

We are ready for an awesome writing year. I am thinking of getting myself a new journal.

"I still think that typewriter would have been a cool gift too," says one girl while drawing squiggly designs on her journal cover.

"Yes, it would have been a good gift too," I agree with her.

9 things I have learned in 9 years of SOLSC

Inspired by Brain Pickings and Lisa Keeler and Elizabeth Ellington

Blank page need not to discourage. Blank page is scary. You imagine what there could be, and then you fear how you can’t do what you set out to write, and this makes you feel that you shouldn’t even start. Blank page appears threateningly huge. You think that there aren’t enough words to fill even quarter of the page. Blank page stares at you with intensity, almost as if saying “I dare you!” I can’t tell you how many times I have had the staring contest with my laptop screen and it has won. It seems so much easier to close the page and sweep the floor instead. Blank page doesn’t care whether you write or not. Blank page threat is an optical illusion. Blank page has no power at all. It’s all in your head. As soon as you make a mark on the page you are the winner. 

It's good to have some go-to formats. Slice of Life in ideal is a short, detailed narrative. The purpose of the challenge isn’t to collect only narratives. It’s about writing, writing daily. If the narrative doesn’t feel right, or ideas are stuck, then it is fine to write differently, to use some structures that provide safety. Every month I write a book spine poem and right now slice. 

Borrowing is great! Writing is a solitary act. You sit (insert a place) and think of what to write, how to write, and then you spend time getting the ideas from your brain to the paper or screen. On some days the two questions, what and how to write, have no answer. It feels as if you are all alone, lost and miserable. But you are not. There are so many people around you sharing their writing kindly every day, and you can always borrow from them. Go read some slices. Oh, she wrote about her grandma, I can do that. Oh, he wrote about sparrows hopping around, I could write about the crows. Oh, she wrote about her breakfast, I can too. The way people organist their texts is varied too. You are welcome to use these as inspiration.

I'll never be Neil Gaiman. I knew that from the start. I’ll never be him because the world doesn’t need two Neil Gaimans. I'll be me. I can learn from him though, and learn a lot. Like I can learn from many other spectacular authors. They are who they are because they have written for innumerable hours, producing uncountable pages of text, examining every corner of their writing territories, fine tuning their voice, mastering their writing craft, receiving honest feedback from readers and editors. The authors I admire write in a year more than I will write in a life time. I had a late start, write little by little, hop here and there, whisper and roar, occasionally mumble, stay in the safety of this lovely writing community. This is ok. I am me. This is my writing. 

There is no bar to jump over or a mould to fit in.This was a strange one for me. If you grow up knowing there is good and bad writing, you can’t forget that. This is to do with the annoying little critic who keeps telling that your writing is not good enough or that you shouldn’t be writing at all. The critic convinces you of some high criteria you should meet to be eligible to share your writing with others. Yes, if you are writing a proposal, or a final paper, or a massive report to keep your business going, yes, you have to follow rules and expectations and do it to the highest level possible. Personal writing for fun in order to collect snippets of your life provides lot of space for writing any which way. There is no right or wrong, no committee to judge you, no high stakes. Hush the critic and write on.

The number of comments is not reflection on the quality of writing. Knowing that someone read is fuel for writing enthusiasm. When people leave comments, you know you have made a connection with others. The responses tickle the self-esteem. Sometimes you may write a post that you yourself feel to be spot on, the best piece you have ever written, finally something almost perfect. The next day you go and find that only two people read it. The logical conclusion would be that “I guess it wasn’t that good after all.” Not true. This just happened to be the day when people were busy – taking care of their sick kid, planning for conferences, finishing their last writing for a course, getting a new kitchen sink, hosting nieces and nephews, or going to a theatre. Or they were exhausted. We all have those days. We can barely get two sentences written ourselves and then meet the minimal three comment requirement. Sometimes your best posts might not have many reader but you still can feel happy and proud for writing them.

A writing challenge expects some adjustments in everyday life. Few first years I tried to add writing to everything else that already was in my life. I felt overwhelmed. Now I know that March is a month when I will let some things go. Rotated neglect is the term I learned. First goes the social media, then the reading lessens, and in my case also exercising reaches a low level. I am not upset about it. The priorities shifted for a month and this is understandable. 

It's ok to write about the same thing over and over.This one took me some time to understand. Even though the definition of Slice of Life calls for ordinary I felt I needed to include something special, and always look for something new that I hadn’t written about before. When you live your life, things you value and like and enjoy are there all the time. Why wouldn’t you write about them? I have no problem including my family, books and tea in my slices. This repeated writing celebrates your life, keeps you grounded, and shows who you are. For some people, the recurring things might be issues that they are trying to make sense of, or a way to hold on to some memories, or a search for their identity and place in the world. 

You get better at writing by writing. It is such an obvious statement, but when you think you can’t write, you don’t write, and then the statement makes little sense, and is of little help. Only when words appear on the page there is some hope for improvement. The writing can be very short at first. And it not need to be wonderful. When you start the writing may feel boring, ordinary, even bad. As long as the words keep coming at some point there will be a piece of text that sounds ok, and then another piece that feels good. From these little successes, you get a bit more boldness to experiment more, to write more, to learn more. It may take time though until you feel that you can write. And it does not mean that from some point on all the writing would be amazing. There will be improvement. On some days, you will be surprised to read your text and realise how much wrote, how quickly you wrote, and how well the words cooperated. Writing does become easier. 

Reflection form last year.

Last task of the last writing lesson

Before the last writing lesson. The teacher read on the sofa. The shopkeeper who always provides us tea is behind the counter. My journal, pencil and sharpener wait on the table. I arrived first. There are more bookshelves to the on my right and behind my back.

When the last minute of the last lesson was over, nobody stood up.

“We were supposed to share something,” a young woman reminded the teacher. 

The teacher looked at me because I had made the suggestion in the previous lesson.

“I didn’t mean that I want to share. I ‘d love to hear what others wrote,” I instinctively crossed my hands on my journal as if to guard my writing.

Pause.

More pause.

Until the woman who had reminded the teacher about sharing read one of her poems.

Then others followed.

Six lessons are not enough for a writing course. It took all six lessons for people to warm up to share their writing. And even then, not all. Whether the introversion was because we were Estonians or because we were secret writers, who knows. I would have loved to listen to more people reading their texts. We shared some of the writing few times. The different prompts produced completely different responses from the writers. The structures, the styles, the voices were as varied as the twelve people in the group. Fortunately, the teacher encouraged the participants to share at least some of the thinking process behind the writing. 

One of the tasks was to write about one’s life as if it was a fairy tale.  One man chose to be a hunter and one wrote from a dog’s perspective. I was a maid. Another woman was a pirate. One was a storyteller. And one woman wondered why would anyone be less than a queen in their own story.  I think I might try myself in a different role. Not sure I would be a queen but a fairy might be more like me. I'll keep thinking. Who would you be in a fairy tale about your life?

The last writing task was to choose a picture of a door and use it as a prompt. Here again the responses were fascinating. Some chose a door outside and described it, some entered through the door they had chosen, some chose a door that showed the nature outside, one took an alcove in a brick wall. The doors inspired texts about minimalism and lushness, about good and evil, about being left out, about having a void in life, about chilling forever, about invitations and choices. My door had no deep meaning behind it. I went for the most obvious picture that connects with my life and requires no imagination to write about. 

Here’s my quick write:

You can go on a journey.

You can stay home.

I stay at home. In my sanctuary. In my paradise. The library is my world.

I slide my hand over the spines of the books, browse some of them, until one speaks to me.

I savor the words and drink a cup of tea.

Rain, snow, or burning sun; morning melts into an evening, day turns into a night; time doesn’t matter, it’s time to be.

I can’t always enter all texts. I have no map nor key. Getting lost in the maze of sentences leaves me exhausted. 

Then I reach for an old friend who lifts me up. No judgement. 

I could stay here until my hair grows to the ground.

They remember

Leaving the school visitors with my colleague in the science lab I quickly hurry to the office where two students are waiting. They agreed to talk to the visitors during their lunch break, and have been waiting for five minutes already. These two girls joined us in second grade and now one of them is ready to graduate and the other one has one more year to go. They would be the best to share about their learning experience in our school.
"Sorry that we keep you waiting. The visitors will be here shortly," I apologise and join them in the office. Both girls were in my fourth grade class. Both were small, shy, and sweet. They have grown into beautiful confident young women.
We chit chat about their day, and then I ask a question I have been wanting to ask for a long time, "What, if anything, do you remember from fourth grade?"
The first one smiles and answers without a pause, "The writer's journal."
"Me too," the second one chimes in, "I still have mine."
"And I remember Slice of Life writing," the first one adds.
Of all the things we learned and did, this is what they remember the best.

being in the right place at the right time

      When I saw on FB that my favorite tiny, one-room bookshops advertised a writing course for twelve participants, I signed up in a second.
      Today was the first day.  I had two tasks to do before going to the bookshop. The first task was to buy a new journal. I went to two different stores and spent almost thirty minutes choosing. Choices, choices, choices. I decided in favor of a very simple A4 spiral notebook made of recycled paper. I bought a new pencil and a sharpener too. Everything new.
      The second task seemed even harder. The teacher had asked us to think what our goals for the course was. I didn't have one specific goal. I have two speeches to write. I could write an article for a teacher newspaper. Perhaps a love letter to my daughters might be my goal. I couldn't decide.
      Walking through the snowy city, my legs a bit sore from ice-skating with the students during a day, I wondered who else would be there, what we would do, where would my writing take me. Last year at the same time I took a photography course and then I felt I was in a wrong place, everyone else knowing more than I did, having so much more experience than I did, and taking so much better photos than I did.
      As the twelve participants (half of them women over forty, three of them young women less than thirty, and three men above thirty) and a teacher (young and smiling) gathered around the table surrounded by bookshelves, I felt I was in the right place. When the bookshop keeper offered us some tea, I felt I was in the right place. When I listened for the goals people had (and none of them said what they wanted to write but said what they expected from the course) I felt I was in the right place.
     When we read poetry, when we talked about writing, when we playfully wrote to the prompts, I knew I was in the right place at the right time in this small bookshop on Tuesday evening.

Neil Gaiman's selected non-fiction

"Make yourself comfortable. Pour a pot of tea. Hang up a DO NOT DISTURB sign. Start at page 1."  
Neil Gaiman (#6 on How to read Gene Wolfe, p.119)

Best advice ever. I can't count all the cups of tea I have been drinking while reading Neil Gaiman's "The View from the Cheap Seats." I wish I could hang the sign up more often. I love books, reading and writing. I admire beautifully expressed thoughts. The book of Neil Gaiman's selected non-fiction is perfect for me.

The first part consists of thought provoking and heart touching texts on reading, libraries, bookshops, books, writers, writing. I breathed in the words. Nodded along. Wished to sign every statement that showed the importance of reading and supported the freedom of the reader in choosing the reading materials.

The second section is about various authors Neil Gaiman has known. I don't fall in the category of intended audience he thought about when he wrote the texts. You wouldn't find me at World Horror Conventions or World Science Fiction Convention or annual conference of Mythopoetic Society. I confess that I have not read, sometimes not even heard about the authors he speaks about. I have read some of Neil Gaiman's stories. Stephen King is familiar. Nevertheless, the section engages me as deeply as the first one. I wish to expand my reading selection. I wish to continue reading. I wish to write like I have never written before.

A strange thing happens sometimes when I read Neil Gaiman's words. I sense that the words inside me hear some secret message from his words, become excited and run in my head parallel to the written sentences on the page. I get a glimpse of the thoughts they are crafting. They are ready to jump out. The magic vanishes as soon as I close the book, put it aside, and grab a pencil to write down my words. The thoughts that a second ago felt so brilliant vanish together with the words, as if they never existed.

So instead of something new, something of my own, I write down quotes from the book. Quotes that speak to me. Quotes I wish to share with my students. Quotes that with little adjustment could make beautiful comments for young writers on report cards.

"A Literature does not occur in vacuum. It cannot be a monologue. It has to be a conversation, and more people, new readers, need to be brought into the conversation." p.2

"Reread. It's better the second time. It will be even better the third time. And anyway, the books will subtly reshape themselves while you are away from them." p 118

"...shows the immense amount of craft and care that went into each book..." p.102

"...continues to write well and passionately and fiercely..."

Really, all it's about is a shelf of books, and a pile of stories written as well as he could write them when he wrote them, which is not besides the point; which is, in fact, the whole point." p. 129

"That's what these stories are about. Some of them are quite brilliant, and they sparkle and glitter and shine and wound and howl, and some of them aren't; but in all of them you can see Harlan experimenting, trying new things, new techniques, new voices..."p.128

“All too often I write to find out what I think about a subject, not because I already know,” ~ Neil Gaiman

I have the quotes on post-its, in different journals, some typed in Notes, depending where and when I read. I have read in my bed in the evenings, on a train while I commute to work and back, and mostly on my living room sofa, where I always drink a cup of tea, or more, while I read. Maybe it is a good thing that I don't have too much time at my hand to read this book. This way the joy of reading these pieces stretches over a longer period of time, and the thoughts and words can linger with me on many days and weeks. I am reminded to write to figure things out and to continue experimenting. I write as well as I can. And I keep reading.