It Might Still Be a Little Tiger Beat-ish.

I am fascinated by human behavior. There's nothing I love to do more than just watch people and try to decide who they are by how they behave. And I'm not talking "hang out at an airport and make random stories about strangers" (although that's fun, too). I'm talking about whatever you do throughout the day, whatever you say, I'm storing it away in my brain in a little file marked, "YOU". Actually, my brain files are marked with your names, but the file folders are all bent and piled up randomly and the names on the tags have probably been marked through a couple of times because sometimes people don't get to stay in my brain, but I believe in recycling.

Yes, I am watching. Yes, I am judging and questioning and filing for future connections. I'm like the NSA but less secretive about it. Or more secretive. Or whatever. (Hi, NSA! *waves gratuitously*)

Anyway, I watch because you're fascinating.

So to choose just one person as the person I'm fascinated by is dang near impossible. There are many beautiful and kind people in my own everyday life I could write about (and probably already have on here). There are a few celebrities that I adore, but I don't really have any personal connection with them. And that feels just a little to Tiger Beat for my taste.

So maybe there's someone somewhere in the middle of those two extremes. Someone famous enough to give me a little thrill when she retweeted me on Twitter but still seems like someone who's not so uppity that we couldn't split a Reese's and hang out at an airport watching weirdos and making up stories.

I've been a fan of Jenny Lawson (The Bloggess) for a long, long time. I cannot remember where I first found her writing, but whomever it was that pointed me to her should probably get several dollars a month from me. A "Thank You for Being Awesome" fee, if you will.

There are several things about Jenny that I love, but the fact that she and I barely missed each other at a tiny little state school in Central Texas always makes me feel like we could've been actual, real-life friends. Granted, I would've had to have been brave enough to talk to strangers first, but maybe it could have happened. If we were in the right class or had I run over her foot with my car.

I love that she swears unapologetically because swear words and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups are my two most favorite vices. I love that she gives all of her animals, both real and taxidermied, clever and completely appropriate names. (I'm a big Hunter S. Thomcat fan.)

She's delightfully odd with a penchant for dead animals in costume. Even creepy-as-shit dead animals. I love that she hails from a delightfully odd family who adore her in all forms.

Jenny is kind and thoughtful, even when it's only by accident. And she spreads that kindness somehow with just a few words and the feeling that it's just the right thing to do because someone needs to do it.

She takes on challenges even when she's unsure. She finds a way even when she has to build it herself. Even when that challenge is just getting Wil Wheaton to send her a picture of himself collating paper.

And now they're FRIENDS, by God.

She fights back with 15 foot tall metal chickens. Who does that? Badasses. Badasses fight the good fight with chickens named Beyonce.

But more than anything, Jenny fights, period. She fights for the voiceless. She fights for those that cannot get out of bed. She fights for those who would rather hide under their desk than stand on stage. She fights for anyone who is coming apart at the seams. And then she rallies the troops to help sew them back together.

She fights for them because she is one of them. And she's not ashamed of it.

Because the most fascinating thing about Jenny Lawson is that she is just Jenny-fucking-Lawson. Warts and all. I consider myself to be honest, but, in truth, most of my life, I've been what I've now deemed, "Dinner Party Honest".  You know, just honest enough to be respected, but not so honest that people aren't "WTF?" when you sit next to them at a dinner party. I'm still not that honest, but I'm on the road.

I'm a people-pleaser at the deepest core of myself, and what pleases others most of all is for you to be happy -- to be good -- to be even-keeled. So, for most of my life, I tried to be happy and good and even-keeled, even when I felt like I was cartwheeling down the side of a mountain and then hauling myself back up by my fingernails.

Reading Jenny's work told me a couple of things: A) I wasn't alone and 2) There can be joy and laughter in even the most absurdly awful moments. And it's okay -- more than okay -- to grab that joy by the throat and squeeze the Hell out of it. Give it a Copernicus-level strangle.

But more than anything, it told me that being whole isn't about hiding your cracks from others; it's about letting them show and treasuring those who helped pick up the pieces. Because none of us pick those pieces by ourselves. None of us. Nor should we.

In the time that I've followed Jenny's blog, she's raised thousands of dollars, bought dozens of weird-ass but incredible dead animals, written two best sellers, and empowered hundreds of thousands of men and women around the world.

And she retweeted me once (which is really just like a modern-day grown-up version of taping a Tiger Beat photo to your wall, but I don't give one damn. Tiger Beat Twitter for everyone.)

And it made me furiously happy.


(I've linked all of these within the post above, but I know how lazy some of y'all are about clicking on the link. So I made it easy on you. Enjoy. And if you don't, you're moving to the bottom of my brain files. Maybe.)

http://thebloggess.com/2010/05/the-traveling-red-dress/

http://thebloggess.com/2012/01/the-traveling-red-dress-revisited/

http://thebloggess.com/2012/01/the-end-and-the-beginning/

http://thebloggess.com/2013/12/accidentally-doing-good-things/

http://thebloggess.com/2011/06/and-thats-why-you-should-learn-to-pick-your-battles/

http://thebloggess.com/2012/02/her-name-is-juanita-juanita-weasel-unless-you-can-think-of-something-better/

http://thebloggess.com/2011/07/would-you-like-to-buy-a-monkey/

Dreams Do Come True

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I had a dream of being a writer. I kept diaries and journals full of bad poetry. I relished essay tests. And my high school English teacher forced me into any journalism event she could, helping me, eventually, into the only state medal I'd ever receive.

I tried for a while, when I showed up at college. I hung around the newspaper kids. I submitted a couple of things to the English department's literary magazine. But what I quickly realized is that you need to be 1) thick-skinned 2) good at promoting yourself and 3) a risk-taker.

Anyone who knew me at 19 can verify that I was none of the above. Anyone who knows me now, twenty years later, can verify that I still struggle with all of the above.

My full-time job is as a teacher. For the majority of the last 15 years, I was exclusively a writing teacher and a coach. Although I have a great passion for working with kids, there were moments where I wondered if I was a walking, talking version of that saying, "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach."

I hate that saying.

I tell my students that a writer writes. No matter what, this is true. A writer simply cannot be contained. His words buck against closed lips; her fingers search for just the right pattern of sounds. I am no different. I write with my kids in class. I create stories while sitting in traffic. I compose some pretty killer birthday cards and haiku. I've been published before, but mostly I considered that luck. Nothing more. I blog. I update. I spill in 140 characters at a time on Twitter.

But last weekend, I had the chance to test drive my dream. And, in truth, I almost turned it down. (Refer back to reasons 1, 2, and 3 if you're new around here.)

One of those 140 character friends, Shawn Krest, is an actual, real-life, professional writer in North Carolina, and he was one of the first strangers to encourage my writing. While I treasure the praise and support of my friends, there always exists a small fear that they're just being nice. Strangers don't have to be nice.

When Shawn learned that the Duke Blue Devils basketball team would be headed to Houston for the Sweet Sixteen, he knew he needed someone to cover that part of the tournament. Houston is a long way from Raleigh, and, contrary to popular belief, not every news outlet has ESPN-like budgeting. Somehow, Shawn thought it would be a good idea to send me as his substitute for accsports.com. I could catch a cool game or two, keep his credential viable, and write a little "if I wanted to".

I think his logic was something like this: Wide-eyed Duke fan sees her favorite team in person for the first time ever + nationally televised event + need to maintain professionalism and restraint while in the BEST SEATS EVER on press row = either hilarity or a total meltdown (still hilarious).

My thinking was more like this: OMG + WTF x Where do I go?/ I'm not good enough = Shawn's going to get fired.

Somehow, though, he talked me into it. He was paid back with 987 questions/freaked out text messages. I was paid with a seat 20 feet from my idol and court side seats to a dream come true. I think I came out ahead.

It was a tremendous four days. I was able to stay with one of my grown-up camp kids and see Houston through her eyes.

The sign that Allison posted on her front door
 to alert me that I had found the right house.

When you spend a birthday with a Skrehart, it's chocolate cake for breakfast.

The Beer Can Museum. Sadly, it was only open on the weekends, but here's what we know: a dude covered his whole house in beer cans. It took him about 20 years. We calculated that if he was a six-pack per day kind of guy, there were roughly 43, 680 beers consumed. Although, if you are dedicated to beer enough to cover your whole house, you're probably more than a six-pack a day kind of dude. Texas, y'all.

 

It's basically a house-sized wind chime.

And the art car museum. Houston has an art car parade each year. These are a few of the winners. I don't "get" art always, but this little museum is worth the time. It's also free. Definitely going to hit up the whole parade next year.

The Art Car Museum

Phantoms

The curator was also the doppelganger of Pat Garner.

"Hungry"

"Splinter" -- A full-sized Honda covered in wood

And "Lil Splinter": the go-kart version (special appearance by Allison for scale)

 And we even took a detour to look at David Adicke's latest work which Allison found by chance one day. It's a 30-foot-tall version of the Beatles. Because why not? And then we went to "Good Dog" --  a gourmet hot dog joint for a late lunch. Because why not?

When Allison last saw Ringo, he was torso-less. We're hoping John gets his left arm soon.

This is "The Texican". Avocado, black beans, freshly pickled jalapenos and creme fraiche.
Homemade buns, homemade dogs, homemade everything. Just do it, Houston.

And then there was the real reason I was in Houston. You know... that dream thing. I went to the first of four press conferences where I sat, working up the courage to ask a non-shaky-voiced question. I went to a Duke practice. Bucket list: check. I scored my first interview. It was with a 5 year-old.

That's a hall-of-famer, y'all.

From my seat at open practice

The precious kids who sat behind me.

Duke guys signing autographs

The Duke Family from my story.

This is the street I took to the stadium each day.
Duke University is located in Durham, NC. #GoodOmen

 I went to work everyday at an NFL stadium as opposed to going to work everyday across the freeway from one. (I have to say, ours is nicer inside. Yours is nicer, and less bicycle helmetish, on the outside, Houston.)

NRG Stadium

My seat for the Sweet Sixteen. Nothin' special.

The starting five.

I had the thrill of seeing a hall-of-fame coach getting his 12th trip to the Final Four, probably 2 (possibly 3) first-round NBA picks, and my favorite current player earn his way to a banner. Quinn Cook, who took me and every Blue Devil fan on a roller coaster ride for three years. Quinn Cook, who has emerged as a leader in every single, steady way this year. I love that kid. He is why teachers teach and coaches coach -- to see a boy become a man.

The post-game handshake with Utah before the actual end of the game.

Hometown Hero, Justise Winslow

I love you, Quinn Cook.

Coach K, finishing the job.

 I had to watch the dreams end for some kids, and I got to watch the dream continue for others. I watched as the media (including me) ignored Matt Jones in the press conference on Saturday. And then I watched him hide a smile on Sunday night as a reporter asked him how it felt to be the "Three Point Assassin". I saw these kids flip from playful to poised in an instant. I saw a coach defend his team with kindness and admiration and love.

Matt Jones, Quinn Cook, Coach Krzyzewski, and Tyus Jones

And I got to be a writer -- a "real" writer -- with all of the lavish accommodations you could dream of. Like the women's restroom for the female journalists. It was outside. As in, outside the stadium. As in, "go outside alone so someone can kill you and hide you in the Astrodome next door" kind of lavish.

For real.

The creeptastic Astrodome

But truly, I was in awe of the reporters surrounding me. They were in constant movement: keeping stats, tweeting, writing game stories, and lining up interviews -- all while the game was going on. The most I could manage was not yell at Jahlil Okafor to block out or stare, open-mouthed, at Grant Hill the entire time.

Then today, I came home to my very own name, spelled correctly and everything, in a newspaper. In print. That I can send home to my mom so she can read it to my dad.

Like I said, a dream come true.

Dreams don't happen just because they're dreamed though. They're usually the result of one person with a crazy idea (Shawn) and a hundred people somehow agreeing with that lunacy. I said while I was on my trip that if you ever want to measure how loved you are, announce that you're going to attempt a lifelong goal that could end in total ruined failure. People come out of the woodwork for that kind of stuff, man.

Here are my woodwork people. The list is long, but I don't have time for individual thank-you cards. I am seriously so very blessed. And I mean that in the most non-sarcastic way imaginable.

Shawn Krest -- Proof that not everyone you meet on the internet is an axe-wielding lunatic. Or at least not yet. I hope you're enjoying your first Final Four, buddy.
ACC Sports Journal -- Thank you for this opportunity. And thanks for not thinking Shawn had lost his mind.
Duke University and Mike Krzyzewski -- Thank you for finding one another and then for finding that 10-year-old kid one CBS Saturday afternoon.
The 2014-2015 Blue Devils -- You've made this season one of the best and most entertaining in a long, long time. You are a band of brothers.
Allison Skrehart -- Thanks for being such a great kid/adult and for letting me invade your home for 4 days. I am so grateful for your friendship. And for that cake.
Roommate Kelly -- You're the coolest. Give Hazel and Zelda a massive hug for me.
For my 140 character friends -- Twitter is allegedly full of racists and trolls and dumbasses. I wouldn't know that for sure because I hit the Twitter jackpot -- talented, funny, and kind. #ACCTwitter is truly, truly the best.
My school friends -- You told me things would be fine while I was gone, and you made them fine. Not just last weekend but for so many times this year. It's always a great day to be alive and a Mustang.
My camp friends -- There is no greater support network. Camp is the only place I knew I could fail and be just as loved as if I had piloted a spaceship to the moon and back. You are my touchstone.
JD and Tammy and Hunter -- You have always let me be who I was meant to be and loved me as intensely as I'd let you whether I saw you yesterday or last year.
Becky, Isaiah, and Jaxson -- Thank you for bringing such joy and kindness into my life. You amaze me.
Jim -- You've put up with my Duke passion for the longest, always having to share the VCR as it taped endless games or listen to me shout at my television as if they could hear me. You were the first person to recommend my writing to anyone else, telling Mrs. Hayes, "If you think I'm good, wait until you see what my sister can do." No compliment has ever been more treasured.
Mrs. Estlack and Mrs. Hayes, my junior high and high school English teachers -- You were my first guides in what to say and how to say it. You cracked open my skull and heart and out came my soul. Thank you for helping me scoop all those words into neat little piles. And these are just two of my dozens of life-changing teachers. I hope I make you all proud.
My parents, Dean and Wanda -- Daddy, you taught me how to tell a good story, but I'll never be as good at it as you. I miss them more than anything. Every story I tell now, I tell for you. Mom, you gave me power and strength to put on a brave face even when I'm terrified. Thanks for teaching me all about sports and not ever letting them be "just for the boys". I love you both.
And to my tribe, LJ, Courtney, and Heather -- There are not enough words in the world to ever tell you what you mean to me. You are the stars in my sky, the sun on my face, the prayer on my lips, and the solid ground under my feet. You are what every friend should be and what every person should be lucky enough to have.

300

Sometimes writing is a celebration. The writer chooses a subject and holds it up to the light to inspect its beauty and paint it so with his words.

Sometimes writing is a mutilation. The writer chooses a subject and rips it apart to investigate its innards, its weak spots. He cracks its bones and shreds its skin.

Sometimes writing is a salve. It soothes troubled spirits and minds. It may not heal, but it provides relief and respite.

Sometimes writing is a blood-letting. It trickles, and it gushes. It provides a relief and respite that is totally different -- painful and unnerving but weirdly soothing.

Writing is different things for different people at different times. Sometimes it's all four. Sometimes it's none.

But it's never easy. Not if it's meaningful. Not if it's true. At least not for me. Words may fill the page or the screen, and they may flow quickly, but they hardly ever flow easily.

This is my 300th post. I started writing here in May of 2010. Looking back on those first couple of posts, I don't recognize myself. They feel fake and peppy. They feel like something I thought someone would want to hear, not something I would want to say. Only 4 people read that first post, and I'm glad. I can most likely guess who those four people were, and they knew that wasn't really me either. 

It was a starting point, though, and I don't think it took too long to find myself.

I value privacy. I am, by my very nature, a secret-keeper, and I am good -- with my own and with others'. I worship, shy and squirming, at the temple of modesty, and my nose tends to stay in my own business. So to put mine out there, in a public forum no less, has been a constant battle. To reveal my shortcomings, my embarrassments, my failings has been painful albeit helpful. 

There have been times that I stood naked in my weakness, and there have been times I have tempered my words because it felt too much, too raw. I don't reread those posts often; some wounds just shouldn't be picked at.

But there have been times that someone found comfort in my discomfort, and that's not a bad thing. It's a human thing. None of us wants to be alone, and, as cliche as it sounds, if even one word made someone else feel less lousy, then it was the right word.

And there have been times when I was able to tell someone all the things I never had the chance to tell them, all the things I never took the time to tell them, all the things they should be celebrated for, all the beauty they held within the light. I revisit those posts often. 

In those 299 posts, I've ranted and raged, cried and crumbled, sulked and snarked. I have also smiled and laughed and triumphed. I've uncovered the awkward and revealed the absurd. I've said hello to a few, and I've said goodbye to too many. I've written about my students and about my co-workers. I've written about the meaningless and the meaningful.  I've written for my family. I've written for my friends. 

More than anything, though, I've written for myself.

I've gone to the well 108 times in the last 4 months. A third of my posts in such a short time, and I wonder when it will be that I run out of words. I worry about that often, but I only know that it will not be today. My original goal was to write more, and in the past three and a half years, I've written more than I could have ever imagined, even with long stretches of silence where I could not bear to open my heart. 

A few of you have been there since the beginning, when I was too scared to do more than just let my writing sit, waiting in the corner at the school dance.

A few more of you have joined along the way. Some I know well; some I barely know at all.  In the time I've written, my site has had 27, 894 page views. Some blogs do that count in a month or a week or even sometimes a day. But I am not them, and they are not me. 

It seems, to me, like a whole heck of a lot of love and attention for my little wallflower blog. 

Thanks for asking me to dance every once in a while.

On Writing

I've always written.  When I was in the sixth grade, my English teacher, Mrs. Estlack, told me that I was a good writer.  I didn't believe her, but I thought it was nice of her to say.  But she didn't stop saying it.  She was my English teacher for 7th and 8th grade too (hooray for small town schools), and eventually I thought she might know a thing or two.  So I kept after it.  In the meantime, I had a junior high reading teacher, Mrs. Adams, who fed me books as if she were keeping me alive.  And she was.

By the time I hit high school, my brother had already prepped my junior and senior English teacher, Mrs. Hayes, for my gift.  He had been in news writing events for her.  He's a "facts only" kind of guy, but he told her that when I got to high school, she should recruit me for every writing event BUT news writing.  My love for telling the story of others, my adoration of meandering sentences, my gift for embellishment, and my uncontrollable need to express my opinion would never be able to be constrained in the tight quarters of a news piece.

And he was right.  News writing was my least favorite event.

Mrs. Hayes told me that story as we sat in the LBJ library in Austin only moments after I had won a silver medal in the state editorial contest.  That story meant far more than any medal, and I love the Hell out of that medal.

For me, writing has always been about two things -- the writer and the reader.  I kept a journal for years, all the way through college and my first year of teaching.  But it was sporadic and tiresome because I kept my words and my world under lock and key.  I loved writing letters and cards.  I moonlighted writing essays for others in college.  I searched for the perfect words as if they were the Holy Grail because they were.  I loved those things because they had an audience.

Writers write because there is a need to spill themselves onto a page.  Readers read because they have a need to soak up knowledge and beauty and connection.  A writer can exist without a reader, but it's just a blood-letting, and that can only go on for so long.

When I began this blog, I began it with fear.  A fear that I sounded stupid.  Or whiny.  Or self-important.  Or worse -- hollow. I feared so much that I didn't even share my posts with anyone other than my closest friends.  I feared that I would write and no one would read, and all my deepest insecurities would become true.

But they didn't.  There were only a few of you at first, but you were there.  I felt you.

When things began to get really difficult in my life and within my family, I feared all over again.  I feared that people would judge us.  Or that they would pity us.  Or that they wouldn't care.  I feared that my sadness or my anger would drive others away.  I feared that I would only have sadness and anger to share ever.

But I didn't.  Writing took the anger and sadness out of me and allowed humor and beauty back in.

When I stopped writing, I feared that I would never start again.  Actually, that's not true.  I didn't feel fear because I didn't feel anything at that time.  I went months without posting or even opening up my page.  I kept following others though and their courage to tell their own stories helped bring me back to telling mine.  It takes a whole different kind of bravery to put your words to page sometimes.

But here I am.  It's 65 days later, and I have worked hard to share each day.  Like with anything else in life, some days have been easier than others, but they haven't been impossible.  For that, I am thankful.

Thank you for hanging around, friends.

The Death of a Teacher; The Life of a Lesson

Yesterday wasn't such a great day in my classroom.  I've been teaching for a long time now, so I know some days will always be better than others; some lessons will fall by the wayside and others will be carried with students and teacher forever.

But the first meltdown always stings and brings questions about whether I've made the right choice.  Especially this year, more than ever, I find myself looking for signs that I'm where I should be.

So today, I sat in a tremendously long line at Chik Fil-A, praying for a better day or for a better outlook.  I checked my Twitter timeline and found this series of tweets about the death of Seamus Heaney.  The tweets are from one of my favorite Grantland writers, Brian Phillips, who was also a student of Heaney's.

(For you non-Twitter people, start from the bottom and read upward.  I could probably arrange it better, but I'm too tired to mess with it.  You'll adjust.)

I cannot admit to knowing a great deal about Heaney's work other than to know that he was very, very skilled at a medium (poetry) at which I am dreadful and that he was beloved and celebrated for that skill.

But what struck me in that exasperatingly slow line this morning was that Seamus Heaney was just as beloved for his time as a teacher.  It's a cool story, undoubtedly -- one that I would tell in bars and bookstores as many times as I possibly could -- but there is a reverence in these small 140 character spaces that cannot be denied.  I won't imagine that it was Heaney's fame that so impressed Brian Phillips but rather the singling out, the personal connection, the acknowledgment, that mattered most.  Did Heaney's fame intensify those things and make them more special?  Maybe. Maybe not.

My prayer is that it didn't -- that Phillips would be as devastated whether his teacher was a Nobel prize winner or not because, Nobel prize or not, Seamus Heaney did something to inspire a young man at a time when he seemed most lost.  He took the moment to hold his student to a standard, to put him in his place, to give encouragement, to provide acknowledgment, and then to bolster worth; he didn't have to, but he did it anyway.

That's what a great teacher does. He loves you and works with you both when you are wonderful and when you are dreadful.  He molds you through bad decisions or inflated ego or nervous hesitation.  He teaches the lesson in such a way that his words and actions will live on even when he cannot.  This, I believe, is the dream of all teachers, and it is the sting when the lesson falls upon deaf, or ungrateful, ears.

I have a student whose anger and defiance have derailed me every single day this week.  It has derailed us both, in truth, but he gave up his dream of staying on track long ago.  He is 13, and this devastates me.  But today, I thought of Brian's story about this man who didn't let him get away, and it changed my morning.  Consequently, it changed the interactions between this young man and me.  We may be back on track for only a short while, but at least there were no head-on collisions this morning.  Small progress is still progress.

So, Brian... when you say "it's not like I think what I do is all that important", I'd have to respectfully disagree with you today.  It was a pretty damn important story to share this morning because some lessons deserve to live on.

Thanks for honoring your teacher and for inspiring another one while sitting in an exceedingly (but timely) chicken biscuit line.  Neither you nor Seamus would've suspected as much, I'm sure.  I hope you'll have a pint for him tonight; every great teacher deserves one, especially on a Friday.

Be sure to follow Brian Phillips on Twitter at @runofplay or find his work on www.grantland.com. You won't regret it.

Why Zombies Will Never Make Me a Millionaire.

Last night, I dreamed about zombies. It was especially vivid because zombies (and zombie movies) give me the heebs. I also fully dislike "apocalypse" movies -- mainly because they usually involve zombies -- or, at the very least, cannibalism. Blech. Yet, in the past week, I've watched all six episodes of "The Walking Dead" (which are actually very well-done) and yesterday, I watched "The Road" (which, of course, was a much better book so I'd avoided the movie for over a year). So, truthfully, it does not surprise me one bit that undead brain-chompers shuffled through my dreams.

It's been reported that Stephanie Meyer, the author of the Twilight series, came up with her idea for the books after she awoke from a dream. She is a multi-millionaire because she. woke. up.

Needless to say, I've been keeping a notebook and pen next to the bed.

Think what you will about the actual writing in the books, but ol' Steph really cornered the market on the teenage mutant romance genre. The whole draw is that Little Miss Plain Jane becomes the number 1 desire of the dreamiest boy at school. Her very life force, her essence, is irresistible to him. Name one girl in the world who has not had this very same fantasy. Literally, I want to check out Stephanie Meyer's junior high yearbooks and find the basis for Edward because, let me tell you, homegirl had a thang for that character.

Of course, it just so happens that the dreamiest boy in school likes to drink blood. And this is the brilliance of Meyer's plan. Vampires are sexy. Always have been. They are mysterious and usually well-dressed. They are always quite wealthy and cultured. Their seductive nature lures you in and hypnotizes you into thinking, "Man, I bet I'm gonna wake up with one awesome hickey!" Although we all know what he's after. Not your jugs. Just your jugular.

No other monsters are ever as attractive as vampires. Meyer tried, with the inclusion of the wolfpack in her books. It was quite clever that, as a result of increased body temps and the need to "wolf out" at any given moment, they walk around practically naked the whole time. But no other werewolf movies have pulled off the heartthrobby wolfman. Mostly they just look in need of a flea-dip and a trip to the groomer.

Mummies are no good either. Sometimes the mummy-killer is smokin' hot, but mummies seem more like a minor role kind of friend. You know, like Ducky in "Pretty in Pink". Adorable in the "aw-shucks" kind of way, but pretty harmless. The Creature from the Black Lagoon, Godzilla, chupacabras... none of them are what I'd call "romantic lead material".

So, that leaves me a narrow window to my fame and fortune. No zombies, however, managed to fall in love in my dreams. Frankly, none of them were even attractive. Mouth-breathers with poor posture and a penchant for gnawing on your femur bone. I don't know how to work with that kind of material.

It looks as though I'll have to earn my millions the old fashioned way. Lottery tickets.

New Year's Resolutions -- Only 9 Days Late.

I love the written word. I collect words and phrases like some people collect coins - saving them, re-visiting them often, polishing them to a brilliant shine. Only unlike a rare coin, their value does not intensify by keeping them locked away; their true worth is only measured once spent.

At no point in my life do I remember being unable to read, and my appetite for books has never ceased. In as much as I enjoy the plot or the characters as I read, I am also studying and judging the construction. The beauty of the precise word. The power of a single image. There are lines, even mere words, in literature which rob me of my breath and leave me numb. Rolling around in my head for days, I study them from different angles, searching for the author's true intent. I did not understand, however, that this was abnormal. I simply assumed everyone read books this same way.

Writing is a passion for me. It provides a mixture of challenge and frustration like no other portion of my life, but in truth, it has never frightened me. If anything, it calms my nerves. Slows my thoughts. Clarifies the world spinning past. Writing is my therapy. It is my way out of the darkness or confusion. It lets me find the words that I am unable to speak aloud. It marks moments, both joyous and despairing, I never want to forget. When confronted with that blank page or screen, never in my life has it gone unfilled. I may not adore what it says. I will most likely search for improvements until it is ripped from my hands. But somehow, the words flow forth, and before I realized what's occurred, they've arranged themselves into an order and rhythm like a flashmob in the street - startling and strangely beautiful in their sudden appearance. And everywhere there are opportunities to create -- a birthday card, an email, a facebook status. A chance to bring a smile, a laugh, a tear, a connection. This is why I write, not to make money but rather to feel alive and connected to the world around me.

Stephen King holds the belief, like many others, that writers - true writers - are born and not created. It always seemed so pompous when I read that line, but as I've begun to scrutinize the actual art of writing, to break it down and study its parts, I find myself agreeing with him. They all speak of their writing, from the earliest memory, as an ever-present need to fill the page, scavenge the perfect word, or create an indelible image.

So the thought of trying to teach someone how to write overwhelms me. It always has, and the frustration of seeing my students ignore, even detest, something I love so immensely, devastates me. I feel the same way every time a student claims to hate reading. Yet, in all my eleven years of teaching, I never realized that no one ever taught me how to teach someone else to write. Truthfully, even as an education major, I only took one class which was supposed to teach me how to teach someone else to improve their reading skills. It is no wonder that I feel as though I've floundered about with a thousand different teenagers who could care less about comma placement, metaphors, or mood. In that thousand, there are still only a handful who I sincerely felt enjoyed themselves when they wrote. Only a few who considered themselves to be writers. And even those I'm not sure I ever pushed far enough.

In December, I went to an incredible training for teaching writers. Even now, I get a little fluttery thinking of how much easier I am hoping this will make things. So, here's my New Year's Resolution. (I know, I know... it's January 10th, but in my world, that's actually right on schedule.) I am going to have a better attitude about my struggling readers and writers. I am going to put effort into adapting what has worked before with what I believe will work now. Today, 3 different kids asked when we'd start back up with our Writers' Notebooks. All 3 expressed a real excitement to put pen to paper, and that's 3 more than I've heard in a long, long time.

Stephen King, watch your back. We're gonna put your theories to the test.