by putting pen to paper.

it’s a free form of meditation.

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I haven’t been able to sleep the past few nights. I’ve got a tangled mess of butterflies, nerves, and every other anxious creature living in my stomach. I feel as if the next part of my life will be a lie. I’m a fraud.

I’ve never taught a lesson. I know nothing about a child’s brain. I’m not an Education major. I’m an English major. I am not a teacher. I am a writer.

Yet I am a teacher, according to Harrison High School in Colorado Springs. I leave in three weeks to organize my classroom, attend professional development days, and write out nametags. My focus as a writer will be pushed under the rug. I will not have time to ponder the assignment I have yet to finish—I will be berating the students who have yet to do theirs. I will be grading instead of editing, holding parent teacher conferences instead of contacting publishers.

But the part of this gig that I can’t really wrap my head around is the fact that I will be teaching these kids how to write. I write, I don’t talk about it. I’m overwhelmed at the thought of tapping into a part of myself that has never been drawn out. I think of writing as a tangible thing the same way I think about biting my nails: I don’t think about it. I do it. It is more than a habit, it is me.

Not every person is a good writer. Not every person will be a good writer. I do not believe it is my job as a teacher to make good writers. A good writer, like a good singer, has grace. They were born that way. But every single student deserves the tools necessary to craft and strengthen her or his voice. I think that everyone has their own story and every person deserves to have a way to share it. This is what I want to teach in my classroom: the ability to share one’s thoughts, ideas, opinions, and emotions in a way that will be heard. Writing is meant to be read. Our voices are meant to be heard. As a teacher, I want to provide students with the space and tools necessary to craft their thoughts into words and have those words be significant.

Writing is the human voice etched on paper. I’m not a good speaker. I’ve been told I stop talking before a conversation is over. I get distracted by people’s hair or shape of their nose, and forget to make eye contact. I’ve been known to walk away from an argument because I just can’t quite say what I want to say. But on the page, I am in control. I can manipulate, persuade, and coax emotion from the reader like a Siren’s song. Every person should have the power to do the same. Writing is an outlet for anger and frustration. It is a vessel for questions, a vein that carries thoughts into the world and fuels us to want to know more. Writing grants a person the freedom to not only use her voice, but provides the opportunity to be listened to. When I think of it this way, when I think of cultivating a garden of growing voices, I am overwhelmed with excitement, fear, and those tangled knots of nerves.

I guess its not so bad…

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More than you might think.

A few weeks ago Snookie from the The Jersey Shore was paid more money to speak at Rutgers than Nobel Prize winner, Pulitzer Prize Winner Toni Morrison.

Well, I guess that makes sense, both are bestsetllingwriters…

I’m sure the recent novel Shore Thing and Beloved are…like… pretty much the same thing.

I must say, I cannot get over the recent rise in celebrity-turned-bestselling writer. Snookie joins the ranks of her Jersey peer, J-Woww, Bristol Palin, Miley Cyrus, George W. Bush, Shania Twain, and Sarah Palin on the New York Times Bestseller List.

Hm.

There seems to be a growing divide between good literature and a good marketing tool. More and more teenage memoirs (what could they possibly have to say?), beach-read-novellas, and personal narratives flooding the bookstores, all with photograph of the “writer” on the cover.

For an aspiring writer who doesn’t have a reality show, fluke-political campaign, or pop-star career, this can be a little disheartening. These writers are redefining a successful book to be based solely on money and fame. Which, any writer knows is NOT the reason to write.

I think next time I stop in the local Borders I’ll think twice about what’s on the posters and what’s on display… perhaps I’ll go down the road a little to the independent store and peruse the shelves, pick up a copy of Beloved and remind myself what true literary success is: a voice etched on the page, never losing its luster, no matter how many Snookies, Pookies, or Cookies come through.

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So, it’s my first day as a University of Connecticut alumni, and I don’t know what to feel. Happy? Sure. Sad? A tad. Nostalgic? You betcha. Excited? I guess.

I think the difficulty in pinpointing my emotions comes from the fact that, right now, I am in the beginning of summer vacation. Whether or not I graduated this year, summer vaction falls at the same point in time, and so it doesn’t feel all too real. It doesn’t feel over. I’ve had friends tell me that it really only hits you when the Fall rolls around and you don’t find yourself back in school, and that makes sense to me: I’ve been a student for the past sixteen years of my life. I don’t know what it will feel like to not be in school.

UConn has been a true home away from home for me, and I can’t tell what I will miss most about it. The amazing faculty and staff of the Creative Writing Program and the English Department are for sure up there on the list. But so are all of the friends that I may never see again. So are all of the classes I didn’t get to take, and so are all of the lines on my bucket list that I didn’t have a chance to scratch off. I’m going to miss finding friends in the library at one in the morning, gathering for impromtu lunches and dinners between classes. I’m going to miss the stress, the exams, the people, the familiarity.

I noted to myself just last week as I was walking back to my dorm after classes that I know the UConn Storrs campus like the back of my hand. I know the shortcuts, the scenic routes, the secrets. And now I come to the point in my career where I leave those things to the next generation. It will be hard, but I think I can cope with it. But I ask one thing from all of you newcomers.

Take care of the place.

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