Colleen Conrad

This is my first of several entries in recognition of libraries.  With the Texas Librarians Association annual conference this week, I want to reflect on the ways that libraries have influenced and enriched my life.  

 

Library Memories 

Fall 1993

I was in junior high, and I’d just made the decision to take “advanced” social studies—a class that had daunted and thwarted many a student before me.  But we were working on a group research project on Ancient Egypt, and the atmosphere in the expansive library was electric.  (Did I really just refer to the atmosphere in a library as “electric?”)  My junior high library had high ceilings and windows that stretched long and tall, letting light fall across the room in sweeping arcs even in the dead of winter.  Across the table from me, my would-be boyfriend bent his head over an encyclopedia.  My best friend doodled on her notes with a practiced hand.  Our fearless, authoritative, but somehow good-humored teacher calmly walked between tables, looking over our shoulders and nodding quietly.  Studying was cool in this class, and I felt more at home than I’d ever anticipated.

Spring 1997

My high school library was unfortunately cramped and small.  We hadn’t transitioned yet to digital cataloguing, which made it feel even further outdated.  I was looking for reading on feminism, and stumbled across an old, tattered copy of The Feminine Mystique in the stacks.  I thumbed through it while sitting across from the impossibly-cute but hilariously-geeky Antone, who was avidly pounding away at the keys on his calculator.  (Antone would later be voted “Class Calculator.”  And I’m not kidding.)  I was intrigued by the book I’d just picked up, but I wasn’t sure how to access it yet.  Second-wave feminism?  The 1960’s?  It all felt so foreign to me.  Who knew that roughly ten years later I’d return to the Friedan text as a graduate student and devour it like a bag of Doritos?

Spring 2001

I was a senior in college, living off-campus, desperately in need of a quiet study space.  And I was lucky enough to have a library that was every bit as old-school as my liberal arts college.  It was filled with long, heavy wooden tables, marble floors and columns, and vaulted ceilings.  It was breathtaking to the point of distraction.  So of course it also had the requisite study carols, where I’d hide away with my laptop and push through my undergraduate thesis.  After hours of interviews, I was assembling stories about adolescent female athletes.  It was as much a process of self-reflection as it was a piece about other girls’ experiences, and I learned about myself as well in that library.  I learned who I was as a student, as a female, and as an athlete.  I could argue that I became an adult there, too, but I still don’t feel like an adult now…So that’s out.

Fall 2004

I was in graduate school and feeling absolutely shredded by the intense reading load and academic politics.  My brain needed a break, so I went to the undergraduate library and headed straight for the fiction section.  Picking up a copy of Wicked, I sought refuge in an imaginary world on an industrial couch in a library that was far more institutional than the one I’d known at my own undergraduate institution.  I buried myself in Gregory MaGuire’s version of Oz, and quickly fell asleep to the hum of fluorescent lights and pencils on notebook paper.  When I woke up, I wondered if I was too old to be taking naps in academic libraries.  But I quickly decided that you’re never too old for naps…Or for libraries, for that matter.

Summer 2010

Through some email listserve or another, I’d heard about a reading at my newly-opened neighborhood library.  I’d returned to fiction-writing with greater conviction roughly six months before, and I was trying to access as much of the writing world in Austin as I could.  A massive summer thunderstorm blew through just before the event was slated to begin, but I was determined to make it there.  I slipped and staggered my way through the sliding doors, shaking rainwater off my sandaled feet and out of my hair, just in time.  The author was warm and gracious, and the crowd was small enough that I learned everyone’s name and chatted comfortably.  By the end of it, I’d met someone who is now a very dear friend and critique partner.  My local library gave me yet another gift that summer.  It wasn’t a book, but it was something infinitely more valuable.

 Winter 2010

I was a language arts teacher, putting on a play with my classes just before the winter holidays, as I’d done for the last five years.  But this year, I had an incredible librarian who opened up her space to my classes, and we changed the format.  We turned the library into a theater, with rowed seating and flashing lights.  We had a staging area, props, sound, and a “lobby” where parents arrived with food and donations to our clothing drive.  The library was an open, welcoming, lively place for our performance.  The old notion of a library being stuffy and quiet was thoroughly debunked by the energy of 150 seventh-graders, their pre-holiday frenzy, and the adult enthusiasm that mirrored them.  There wasn’t a “shush” in the house that day.

“Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and cannot remain silent.”

–Victor Hugo

Among the many things that I love about Austin, I really appreciate the tremendous talent here and the often small-town feel.  A few months ago I had the pleasure of lending some female vocals to a cover band comprised entirely of Ultimate players.  Had I known the level of talent and professionalism of the other people in the group, I may have been too intimidated to accept the invitation.  Thankfully, I lived in blissful ignorance until rehearsals began, and it was too late to back out! 

Among the fray of frisbee/music people was a pair of brothers who make up half of the Austin band, Full Service.  Hoag and Bonesaw are ridiculously talented, but they’re also incorrigibly funny, generous with praise, and admirably positive.  Following our show, I checked out their website (and you should, too!) and learned a few key things right off the bat:

1. Their most recent album is an acoustic turn titled Roaming Dragons.  
2. Their next tour is acoustic and entirely fan-booked.
3. This fall they did a show in an English classroom that doubled as a lesson on lyrical interpretation.

This chance meeting, crossed with these facts, led up to a very exciting start to National Poetry Month in my class.

As luck would have it, I was just about to start a seven-week unit on poetry when I stumbled into the Full Service circle.  And I hadn’t planned so much as a day of the curriculum yet.  It had occurred to me to infuse the lessons with music, though, so it seemed that this opportunity was too good to pass up.

Enter Bonesaw, who not only taught middle school history for several years prior to starting the band, but who also functions as the structure of the Full Service system.  In just a few days he and I set a date, and I put a plan in place to bring the guys into the classroom. 

In the weeks that followed, I worked with my students on poetic beat, meter, and rhythm.  We used poetry by Alfred Lord Tennyson, Robert Frost, Shel Silverstein and others to discuss tone, mood, theme, symbolism and imagery.  Then I introduced the Full Service music and lyrics (focusing on Roaming Dragons), and the lessons came alive.  The kids completely bought in.  The combination of poetry and sound was an ideal way to analyze tone (the feelings of the author) and mood (the emotion created in the reader), and there’s simply nothing like music playing in a classroom.  It was like daily therapy.  And trust me–coming from a middle school teacher, that’s really saying something.

The fact that the band came in on April 1^st—the first day of National Poetry Month—was sheer coincidence.  But it was perfect.  The 90-minute “in-school field trip” flew by.  The kids were engrossed, and I joked later that they made me look good with their attentiveness and insightful questions.  They prompted Hoag to identify the symbolism behind his lyrics on the album’s title track.  At one point there was an impromptu haiku war (think seventeen-syllable rap battle), as requested by a particularly feisty student.  The discussion ranged from intense, like the actual emotions and experiences that inspired “Rocketships,” to playful, like the audience participation in “Chickens” and “Trumpets” and the Snow White reference in “Hi Ho.”  The band made poetry relatable and approachable for the kids with their down-to-earth attitudes and easy rapport with the audience.  In short, it became personal.  It wasn’t just academic material anymore; it meant something to them.

It was difficult to go back to a regular lesson, to say the least.

The student response following the show was overwhelmingly positive, and it was clear to me that they’d really connected emotionally with the material.  I realized that it was an academic experience many of them will never forget, and of course my hope, then, is that they’ll remember the skills and literary elements that went along with it.  The merging of music and poetry made the curriculum resonate with them, to the point where they were truly entertained.  Both the kids and the Full Service foursome of Bonesaw, Hoag, Smell and Twinky-P brought sheer joy to the activity.

The best writing makes the reader feel and connect, and poetry is no exception.  There’s no question in my mind that, on the first day of National Poetry Month, my students had an emotional experience.  What more could I ask for?

You want to know why I write primarily about girl athletes?

This week, one of the female Ultimate players on the middle school team that I coach was feeling left out.  Our team is almost entirely comprised of boys, and while I’ve had a largely positive experience coaching them over the last six years, I know that it can be difficult for the girls to find their figurative place on co-ed teams at this level.    

I don’t think that the boys set out not to throw to the girls, but I think that some of them have a knack for developing tunnel vision.  Male and female athletes have different styles and particular strengths.  No matter how open a girl may be, there are boys who will look her off every time without even realizing it.  I was seeing this habit play out at my practice on Wednesday, and my heart went out to my new player.  Not only is she new to the team, or new to the sport.  She’s new to team sports in general, and I realized that this could be a critical moment in her budding athletic career.

I suggested that she attend a college women’s Ultimate tournament that was in town this weekend.  Women’s Centex has become one of the premier tournaments in the country, and this weekend it welcomed 52 teams from across the United States and Canada.  The top 32 were closely matched, and all were impressively athletic and well-trained.  I imagined that it might be good for my young protégé to see the talent, the support, and the camaraderie on these teams.  While her current team is co-ed, I thought that she might like to see that there are opportunities for girls to play with other girls exclusively.  And that women’s sports are, undoubtedly, different.  I wanted her to see that there’s more Ultimate in her future, if she wants it.

I hosted the University of Michigan at my house for the tournament.  Twenty girls piled into my house beginning on Thursday night, sprawling out on every open space.  We had sleeping bags, pillows, blankets, air mattresses, cleats, field bags, dirty uniforms and water bottles scattered throughout every room.  And I loved it.

I woke up on Saturday morning to the sound of excited chatter outside my bedroom door.  My dog had adopted the girls overnight, opting to curl up in someone’s sleeping bag rather than my bed.  I heard captains reminding their teammates to start drinking water now, to remember their sunscreen, to figure out who was riding in which car.  They talked about the blue-and-yellow nail polish that they were all wearing. 

One girl asked, “Is there any chance in the world that it will rain today?,” and she was met with a resounding NO when her peers looked outside at the sunny, 75-degree Texas day.  “I’m going to kill all of you who said no if it does!” she sniped.  But there was no question that she was laughing through the statement. 

Another player talked about frantically slamming a moth in her laptop in the middle of the night, much to the delight of her hysterical teammates. 

My favorite part?  Before leaving, the girls opened a batch of banana-nut muffins, baked by someone that I assumed to be a former teammate or coach, or perhaps an injured teammate who couldn’t be there.  She’d attached individual messages for the girls, and one for the entire team.  The team message had four directives for the weekend:

1.        Respect yourself.

2.       Respect your teammates.

3.       Respect your opponents.

4.       F**k them up!

Why do I love this message so much?  Because it embodies one of the great things about women’s sports:  That you can have integrity, maintain pride, be supportive, and show respect…at the same time that you are aggressive, competitive, and confident.  And there was no denying the emotional connection between these young women as they each opened and read their personal notes.  These girls are all unique and different, but they have a true affection and respect for each other.  They are loyal, true friends.

Another highlight of Centex began during my first season playing college Ultimate.  That spring, my team bet another that we’d win the next time that our teams faced off.  We agreed that the losing team had to perform an interpretive dance at Centex a few months later.  We won the game, so indeed the other women came to Austin prepared with an elaborate dance…and much to everyone’s joy, it was a spectacle and a hit.  The next year, a few other teams arrived at the tournament with choreographed routines.  And since then, the Centex Dance-Off has morphed into a full-blown tradition that includes the vast majority of the attending teams, props, costumes, and a prize for the best routine.  It represents a sense of community among female athletes.  The girls go out and fight hard against each other all day on Saturday, cheer each other on in the dance-off after dinner, and then go back to the mattresses first thing Sunday.    

I wanted my young player to see the beauty of Ultimate as a sport, and the special connections on women’s teams. 

Is there really any question, then, why I write about girl athletes?

Last summer, my fabulous friend Allison me a copy of Anthropology of an American Girl by Hilary Thayer Hamann.  It was accompanied with a birthday card that read something like this…

Outside: 

A good friend will visit you in jail. 

A great friend will bail you out.

Inside:  (With a note at the top from Allison in her typical purple script that said, “Let’s just call a spade a spade…”) 

A friend like me will be in the next cell.

That’s Allison in a nutshell, and it explains part of why I adore her.  Needless to say, I don’t take her book recommendations lightly.  When she gifted me American Girl I was sure that it would be a keeper.    I put the book in my extensive “to read” pile and let it percolate there for a while. 

Last month, I finally arrived at it, and I’m now roughly 1/3 of the way through.  Normally I tear through books much faster than this, but Hamann’s tale just isn’t that kind of a read. 

I read a lot of young adult fiction.  I mean, a lot.  So I’m used to a particular vernacular, a specific style, and a very different pace.  Right off the bat, it was clear that this book would require commitment.  The novel follows Eveline, a girl on the brink of adulthood on Long Island and then in New York City in the late 70s and early 80s.  She’s artistic and almost painfully observant of the world around her.  At times she comes across as merely a passive watcher.  She’s so vastly different from who I am, and who I was at that age, that it took me some time to adjust to the frustration of letting this character stumble.  I still have to work hard not to scream at the pages, Why doesn’t she do anything?!  And in fact, very little actually happens.  The plot is arguably slow, and the language dense.  At first, I would read bits aloud, rolling my eyes at the laborious vocabulary. 

But I trusted Allison, and I persevered.

And, indeed, I’ve found that the book speaks to me.  It isn’t a page-turner.  I’m taking my time with it.  I’m surrendering to the language and the narrative arch, without letting the book become an action item.  As a writer, I’m often told to read everything—even the bad stuff—and so there are times when I push through a text that I’m not enjoying for the sake of finishing it, analyzing it, and determining why it wasn’t successful. 

This isn’t like that.  It’s rich.  Packed with gems that I remember long after turning the page.  I let the words roll around in my head—and my mouth, at times—as they work their magic.  The tone is haunting and dark.  Now, I’m hard-pressed to find sections that I find so irritatingly wordy.  I’m fully engaged in the world that Hamann has created. 

Unlike much of what I read and write, Anthropology of an American Girl is an adult novel about a teenage girl.  (And I expect that this will become even more pronounced as Eveline ages in the novel and faces more adult conflicts and situations.)  In this way, it reminds me of Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld, in which an adult woman reflects back on her high school years.  I’m used to reading books written about teenagers, for teenagers.  This is another obstacle that I initially faced when I came to the American Girl.  Hamann’s work is wrought with adolescent angst, but I’m confident that Eveline navigates the same issues of identity as many adults.  She’s confined by the relationships around her, even as she wrestles against them. 

Here I am, more than a decade out of high school, and I still wonder who I am.  I battle the assumptions and limitations placed on me by the other people in my life and my relationship to them.  For that matter, I struggle with my own expectations of myself and others.  Hamann taps into the reality that, as humans, we are inextricably connected to other people.  We’re bound by the culture in which we’re raised; to the schools we attend; to the country where we live.  This interconnectedness is simultaneously glorious and wonderful, limiting and agonizing.  Eveline never stops looking inside at who she is, individually, outside the definitions of these relationships.  Indeed, should any of us?

Read more about the book and the author here:  http://www.anthropologyofanamericangirl.com

And more about Curtis Sittenfeld and her books here:  http://www.curtissittenfeld.com

And don’t forget to check out Allison (a.k.a. Fortune Cookie Junkie)’s blog at http://www.notafortune.com/

“Sometimes someone says something really small, and it just fits into this empty place in your heart.”

–Angela Chase, My So-Called Life

 

            You’d think that following your dreams would feel just right.  When I was debating whether to leave teaching and write full-time, I actually put “follow my dreams” in the pro column for writing.  But even though it seems like that should trump everything else, it was still an agonizing decision.  And so far, this experience has been isolating.  Writing is often a solitary experience, and it’s like I feel preemptively lonely.  One day I’m thrilled, the next I’m racked with fear and worry and—dare I say it?—regret.  I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about the job that I’m leaving behind.  About the way that I could be painting myself into a corner, limiting my options, burning my bridges.  My students have told me that they want autographed copies of my first book, and I feel the weight of their expectations bearing down on my shoulders.  I mean, how can I justify leaving them when I know there’s a very real possibility that I’ll never be published at all?    

            Just a few days after resigning, though, I got an email from a very new friend.  Someone who’s only known me for a short time.  And the message was short and sweet.  A few words of encouragement about my recent choice, and remarkably, I felt lighter.  More confident in my choice.  That one email—those few sentences from a veritable stranger—made a world of difference.

            The reaction to my decision has been unanimously supportive.  My closest friends, my family, and colleagues I deeply respect have all expressed their excitement for the chance that I’m taking.  I’ve been called brave, told congratulations.  But even with all of that enthusiasm, I’ve still doubted myself.  Something about that email was different.  Maybe it was the way that it was framed—almost like something a coach would say in a huddle—or maybe it was the fact that this person barely knows me and still has confidence in my decision.

            Remember when you were a kid, and your mom would tell you how cute you looked in that dress?  Or your dad was sure that you were the best player on your soccer team?  Remember how you never really believed it until one of the kids at the dance, or on the field, said the same thing?  It’s a sad fact, but strangers can sometimes be more influential than our nearest and dearest.  Our friends and family are just too damn close to the situation to be reliable sources.  They’re supposed to compliment and love us no matter what.  You could say that they have to; it’s their job, for crying out loud!   

            But like Angela said, sometimes it’s the smallest things that fill the voids in our hearts.  I’m distant emotionally from the people who know me best right now.  And perhaps that’s the power of the stranger.  When it’s someone who is completely outside of your inner circle, someone who can act as an outsider looking in, without any bias or motive…well, that person offers a different perspective.  Or, at least, you perceive it as different.  And it’s exactly what you need to hear.

            We all wish that one person could fulfill all of our emotional needs, but how realistic is that?  How fair is it, even, to ask that of someone?  I’m surrounded by amazing people, and I’m so lucky to have the community that I do.  But each of them is so unique, so special, and I go to them with different things all the time.  Why is it so surprising, then, that a new person would access—and help alleviate—the heart of my insecurities?

            A near-stranger helped calmed my troubled mind, probably without even realizing it.  And I’m thankful. 

 

 

Disclaimer: I realize that I have a bit of a streak going right now, in that I’ve only been writing about my decision to write full-time.  So I promise to change that up in my next post.  Cross my heart.

This week, my creative writing class delved into the murky depths of sensory details in fantasy texts.  Among other things, we discussed Philip Pullman’s The Golden Compass.  Naturally, many of my students have read the series and they were enthusiastic to talk about books that hold such a special place in their hearts. 

At one point, a student spoke up and asked why this series has been banned from some school districts.  I answered as best I could:  Because it addresses biblical topics—like the Book of Genesis, Creationism, and Original Sin, to name a few—that  some people find controversial.  The next day, a student proudly showed me his brand-new copy of the book.  “I couldn’t read this before,” he told me, “because it was banned at my old school!”  The student then shared that he’d previously attended a private Lutheran school.  Uh oh.

I’ve always quietly pushed the envelope when it comes to reading material with my students, but I also know my boundaries.  If I feel that a text is engaging without being salacious, I choose to share it with them in an open environment where I can help guide the discussion.  These books often introduce reluctant readers to reading that they wouldn’t otherwise find, and simultaneously stimulates the brains of voracious readers as well.  In other words, if I feel like I can stand by a book’s content, quality, and over-arching themes, I will stand by it even in the face of parental or administrative opposition.

That sounds all brave and bold, doesn’t it?

But the truth is that I’ve never had to defend my book selections.  Which tells me one of a few things:  Either I’ve made good choices over the years, or no student has ever mentioned a controversial topic at home, or I’ve always had like-minded parents and administrators.

Because when all is said and done, teaching inevitably censors a person.  We’re contractually forbidden from telling students our political views—even if they ask, say, who we voted for in the last presidential election.  I know that students troll Facebook looking for incriminating photos of their teachers—gasp!—drinking alcohol.  I swear like a sailor outside of school, but I can honestly say that I’ve never cursed in front of my classes, even by accident.  So, of course, I’m careful about what I write.  Even sub-consciously. 

For example, how do I handle sex in my novels?  I know that my students have questions about it, think about, are even having it.  But what’s my responsibility as their teacher?  Would writing about it compromise my job?  And then there’s drugs, politics, alcohol, religion, sexuality…the list goes on.  Bottom line:  When you’re a teacher, it’s hard to separate yourself from that identity, and the (however unfair) standards that we’re held to.   

On June 2nd I’ll say goodbye to teaching and begin writing full-time.  While I know that I’ll miss teaching, it will be such a relief to loudly push the envelope.  To let go of that protective teacher voice and write whatever I want.  Whatever it is I feel will speak to teens.  I’m not saying I expect my books to be banned, but would it be such a bad thing if any of them were?  And sure, if I’m lucky enough to have an agent, an editor, a publisher, I know that those parties will have a say in what goes into my final drafts.  But at least I’ll be writing with conceptual freedom to begin with.  How liberating it will be to approach my fiction with unadulterated fearlessness.

I noticed that my last few posts have been a bit on the intense side.  Of course, I’ve been feeling pretty intense lately. 

But this week I was working on yet another serious, pensive piece, and I just feel like I need to sit on it for a while.  Lighten things up. 

So…time for a gratitude journal!

I’m thankful that the sun came out at today’s hat tournament, and that UT Women’s Ultimate raised some money.  (I’m also thankful that I got in a great workout, made some new friends, and didn’t pull any muscles!)

I’m thankful for my friend Allison, who showed me a great time on Friday night.

I’m thankful for cold beer after a day of frisbee.

I’m thankful to be teaching a refreshing poetry unit this six weeks.  (I’m so tired of nonfiction…)

I’m thankful that I’m finally starting to feel healthy again after the winter holidays.

I was thankful for this morning’s coffee.  And I’ll be thankful for tomorrow’s, too.

I’m thankful for my puppy, even though she kept me up last night.

I’m thankful for the book on my nightstand—a gift from a friend—waiting to be read.

Last week I wrote about making a tremendous life change.  I knew that there would be emotional fallout, and I wasn’t wrong.  The decision to leave teaching and write full-time is alternately exciting, sad, liberating and terrifying.  Over the last week or so I’ve been plagued by a sense of longing.  I feel like I’ve been waiting for something, but I’m not entirely sure what that is.  Maybe it’s the fact that I still have four more months to teach before I can hit the ground running.  Maybe it’s the inevitable fear of failure or the financial instability.  But I’ve retreated into my own head, where no one else can go, and I’m sure that a few people have wondered about that distant look in my eyes when my mind has wandered away mid-conversation.

But today I’m wearing Ariana’s shirt, and I feel a little bit better.

How did I end up in my friend’s shirt, you might ask?  No, it wasn’t through a Black Swan-esque lesbian tryst (I wish), or a laundry snafu.  This weekend one of my best friends, Tara, made a return trip to Austin for a girls’ weekend.  Six of us stole away to a lake house about an hour outside of town.  We had grand plans of hitting up one of the local country bars, canoeing on the water, playing board games and watching chick flicks.  But when we arrived at around 4:00 in the afternoon, we looked around and realized that we didn’t need anything else but my signature beer dip, a few giant bottles of wine, and a lot of conversation.

Over the course of the night we traveled from the edge of the water, to one of the decks, to yet another porch by the fire pit.  We stuffed our faces at dinner, went through more alcohol than I care to remember, and discussed things I don’t want to forget.  We curled up together, wrapped in blankets, and finished the night upstairs slumber-party style.  I think I fell asleep around 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning, and yet we picked up right where we left off in the morning.  By mid-afternoon we’d already cracked open the remaining dip and cheeses, and we were yet again snuggled up, looking out over the water clutching big mugs of coffee.  And I’d poached Ariana’s shirt off the floor when I realized that I had forgotten a change of clothes. 

What is it about the company of girlfriends that calms a restless mind?    These girls were some of the first friends that I had in Austin, and in many ways they cured the homesickness that I felt through much of my first year here.  When I finished my Master’s degree I decided to stay in this city largely due to their presence.  We were all teammates at one point, and that connection has a natural way of forming bonds.  But I was so lucky in that I stepped on to a team filled with tremendously loyal women, and the friendships formed almost instantly.  These girls became my family away from home, and even though years have passed and relationships have changed, they remain touchstones for me.  I’ve shared ultra-personal information with them on long roadtrips and in late-night conversations.  This is a group of people who reserve judgment no matter what the confession.  I can say anything to them, and I know that I can trust them implicitly.  When we’re together, the world and all of its pressures fades away.  Being around them is like wearing Ariana’s shirt: Comfortable.  Easy.  Close to my heart.

I couldn’t ignore the gloom that washed over me when I dropped off Tara at the airport.  I was missing her—and my other friends—already.  I was sad to see the weekend end. 

But I’m still wearing Ariana’s shirt.

“A kiss can be a comma, a question mark, or an exclamation point.”

–Mistinguette

When I told the principal at my school on Wednesday that I’m resigning, she asked me, “Are you sure?”

And the answer was no. 

So I kinda shrugged and looked at her sheepishly, trying not to cry.

I guess she took that as an opportunity to ask again, “I mean, are you sure?”

In my head I was thinking, please stop asking me that, knowing that it would get harder and harder to say yes with any conviction.  I’ve been at my school for almost six years now; for the better part of my adult life.  Remarkably, I tend to do really well with change.  But I don’t like it, and this is a big one.  I honestly love the kids at my school, and I work with amazing, inspiring people.  They’re some of the best friends I’ve ever had.  Teaching is absolutely a part of my identity.

But there’s another part of my being that I’m not addressing nearly enough.

If you’d asked me what I wanted to be when I was in fifth grade, I would have told you:  A writer.  I was the kid who always had a journal filled with poems, song lyrics, stories, and story ideas.  (And yes, I still have those journals.  But no, I will not be showing them to anyone.)  I went to creative writing classes at the local library through my teen years, and took advantage of the frequent author visits in my little college town.  When I went to college I studied English Literature, but I also made sure to fill my course load with writing opportunities.  One time I waited outside the student center building for two hours, just to catch a professor on his way to his car.  We didn’t know each other before I accosted him (for lack of a better word), but by the time we finished talking he’d agreed to give me credit for an intensive semester-long, one-on-one poetry seminar.

Clearly I had dreams of writing.  But somewhere along the line, that goal got smaller and smaller, like the headlights of a car that you pass on the highway.  You know it’s still there, somewhere behind you on the open road, but you can’t really see it. The girl who tracked down professors to make them teach her to write—the person who chased after what she wanted, no matter how silly it seemed—got left behind after graduation.  I stopped calling myself a writer, and eventually stopped even thinking of myself that way.

There’s something terrifying about saying that you’re a writer.  If you never publish anything, are you still a writer?  How do you answer when people ask you what you’ve written?  I suppose that at some point, my fear got the better of me.  Or maybe I’m being too self-critical; maybe it was a need for stability, or a desire for routine, or sheer momentum that led me away from my fifth-grade dream and on to an arguably more stable career path. 

Then, in March of 2008, I found myself at a party in Manhattan, talking to a writer.  (I’ve mentioned this before, so if you’ve read it in an earlier post, please feel free to skip ahead!)  I was asking him about his current projects, his degree, his craft.  When he asked me what I did, I didn’t even hesitate.  “I’m a writer,” I said. 

I flushed immediately.  Had I been drinking too much?  Where had that come from? 

My oldest and dearest friend, Sarah (who brought me to the party), asked me later, “Don’t you think that means something?”

That night stayed with me, but it was still quite some time before I gathered the courage to make something happen.  Over the last eighteen months, I’ve tapped back into that part of me.  I’ve dusted off my journals and my quills.  On one fated Saturday morning, when I was feeling more than a little lost in the world, I picked up my pen and found myself again.  (Sorry, I’m keeping the specifics of that time to myself.)  And that was the day that I came out of the writing closet and started to call myself a writer again.  I returned to some older projects, and began a few new ones.  I hit it as hard as I could, while teaching at the same time.

Unfortunately, one of the things that (I think) makes me a good teacher is that I care so much.  To do it the way that I want to, teaching requires 110% of my time and energy.  I bring it home with me, literally and emotionally.  Just a few nights ago, a new friend pointed out that it’s hard to create under those circumstances.  And he’s right.  When I’m pushing the kids to create all day, I come home and my brain is mush. 

Granted, I have the weekends.  And I use that time as much as I can.  But I’ve determined that the weekends aren’t enough.  Especially since writing isn’t just about the creative process.  It isn’t only honing your craft.  It’s about networking, and self-promotion, and industry savvy.  None of which I can develop without sufficient time.  I know that there are people who do it, but I’ve realized that I’m not one of them.  And doing this half-assed isn’t working for me anymore.  If I’m going to be successful at this, I have to approach it like I did before, and like I do my teaching:  Full-throttle, 110%. 

This brings me back to telling my principal that I’m not coming back next year.  Having made the decision only hours before I spoke to her, I was still reeling with the weight of that choice.  For months I’d been agonizing over this decision, and I didn’t come to it lightly.  So no, I wasn’t sure.  I just knew that it’s time for me to take a flying leap and hope that I land on my feet.