Friday, May 8, 2009
It's almost over. My first year as a professional teacher, and not a grad student. That took some getting used to. This semester, I taught five classes at two schools. It got a little crazy, but now it's over. I'm still breathing. I am finishing up comments on second stories of my intro to creative writing students, and reading some work by students I had last semester. Last semester, they were a mess. Great kids, but a mess. But now, five months later, they are up to stuff. Experimenting with form, non-linear narratives, a story in second person that is readable and interesting. My current students aren't a mess, entirely. They are trying stuff too. But mostly, they are learning what the stuff is. Next semester, I have an intermediate fiction workshop, and I get to see five of my intro students a year removed. I can't wait. To get ready for that (I'm planning five months ahead? Who is this person?), I'm looking at my fiction. Man, I love stories! How do I forget that? I love writing them, I love reading them. I love my NW lit students reading James Welch, the look in their eyes as the scope of the story expands and they realize where they live, and how deeply connected to it they are. I teach them little, what to call things. They learn how to read. They learn how to write. They learn though, and they love it. And I love them for it.