blogging

Walking Out of Stride (a Hump Day Hmmph)


The first time it was brought to my attention that I am not “normed” properly was my second or third year of teaching. The middle school where I taught was on the far east side of Des Moines with all the problems that “east of Eden” implies. The principal, a stern old schooler who would eventually come to loathe me, had a small group of us meeting after school one day to discuss best practices. Best practices is the last new title given to the collection of common sense things that all good teachers do to engage, corral, coerce and lift up their kids. I don’t know what they term it now as I have been out of education for almost a year and the buzz words move at the speed of sound in my former field though the ideas never really change.

At some point in the conversation, I pointed out that much of what we were discussing were practical things that all teachers do. My principal turned to me, smiled, and said,

“No, they don’t.”

“But I do these things.”

“You are not like other teachers.”

At the time I didn’t feel complimented and perhaps I wasn’t being given one. I was puzzled. Teaching was something that just came to me like manna in the desert to the Hebrews minus the wandering aimlessly. It never occurred to me that I was different. I thought I had discovered a place to belong. Or I hoped I had.

Today I find myself in much the same place career wise. While most others see the blogosphere as inferior to writing for print, I see limitless possibilities and opportunities for writers. Self-publishing and writing for nothing but the chance to be read are not generally viewed as positives by “real writers”. I can see their point. The goal is to give up the day job at some point and one can’t do that unless one’s words are being purchased.

I would like to be purchased. Bought and taken home to be perused and thought about and discussed. It’s not that I don’t have that goal too, but the true aim of my writing is to find an impact point within the people who read my thoughts. Does this put me out of stride with other writers as my long ago self was out of stride with other teachers? For the most part, I guess it does though I have found many more like minds as a writer than I ever did as a teacher.

Being different bothered me when I was younger. Lately however I have come to celebrate my inner Pippi Longstocking. There is nothing wrong, in fact much right, about walking backward or on my hands, and though I am much more likely to walk backwards than with my legs akimbo in the air (due to the gravity thing and my lack of agility), I am happy to be happy with my stride these days.

Writing About Not Writing


Damyanti at a Daily (w)rite wrote a piece about what she is not writing as she is net-less due to service provider issues that sound strangely Canadian for such an exotic locale as Malaysia, and it reminded me of another spring cleaning task that I haven’t tackled yet. My writing. Read Full Article

Imaginary Friends


My daughter has a veritable menagerie of imaginary friends. Since she lives much of her life as though she were Julie Andrews on Broadway, I hear her warbling about their exploits from all over the house. She is quite frank about these friends however.

“They are just imaginary, Mom.”

How refreshing to be so realistic about the limitations of those you chose to call companions.

My husband is always reminding me not take the blogosphere so seriously. While we meet a lot of wonderful and interesting people, some of whom go on to become real friends, most people we meet are really just strangers.

In a way, cyber friends can be somewhat like the imaginary friends a person had when they were young. I had imaginary friends when I was young and even not so young. It is probably part of being a writer. I have a crowd of characters in my head all the time that can I move about, put words in their mouths and give purpose to. I tend to flesh out those I meet via blogs and message boards that way as well. Perhaps that is why I am a bit more invested in the people I meet who don’t seem real to the real people I know?

My family roll their eyes but don’t have much to say when I talk about my “imaginary friends” though they are a bit less condescending in light of the fact that one of these people actually materialized one day and I married him. But mostly they find it odd even if it is in keeping with my character.

When I was Katy’s age, I had to hide when I played. My parents found my habit of talking to the thin air too cute and entertaining not to point out to family and friends. I try not to comment on my own child’s imaginative play as a result. I don’t even let her see me watching if I can help it. I would prefer she develop free of self-consciousness as she is inhibited enough by nature. I don’t want her to be as introverted as I am when she is grown. Some of it is just who I am, but there is a part of my reticence that could only have come from being made the butt of adult amusement when I was small. The way to draw out a shy child is not by shining a spotlight on their inner world for the entertainment of your friends.

Some of my “imaginary” friends today have had a big enough impact on my life that I reference them with my live version of friends. In the beginning I would explain how I knew them, but now I do that only if asked, and it invokes the same feeling as when I was little and my parents would interrupt my play by pointing out its quirky nature. I know now that I wasn’t odd. Most kids have unseen playmates, but to my recollection I was the only kid I knew who engaged in this kind of play openly and even preferred it to real children. This probably marked the start of my cocooning myself because I found other people’s reactions to things I said or did in all innocence hard to predict or even understand. I don’t think I am retarded, but my settings are hardwired a bit differently. It is times like these that set me to wondering about the nurture/nature thing and how much of me is a result of the chaos of my upbringing and how much I simply brought to the table with me from my unknown birthparents.

My mother was very unpredictable moodwise when I was growing up. She still is but I guess I am just used to it now and living far away has helped by blunting much of the direct impact on me. As a result, I tend to shun highly emotional people or events. Imaginary friends were an intregal part of my buffering system long ago; today I find myself need a bit of shelter from the imaginations of some of the “imaginary” people I know online. It was that way during the last months I spent on the widow board and I am finding that a few of my continued ties are wearying and even grating. I think when a person reaches a point where words must be weighed and measured in simple conversation that friendships must be reevaluated. It’s sad to grow away or past someone, even imaginary someones, but it happens.