On Friday, sleep deprived and snuffling from a cold, I was listening to Iron and Wine’s “Resurrection Fern” and reading about Neil Gaiman’s dying cat and worrying about a family member who isn’t doing well, and thinking it must be almost February ’cause February always sucks. Yesterday was better; today, after 9 hours of sleep and a 1/2 hour nap, I’m feeling much more optimistic. Guess it’s still January.
The culminating activities are all done. Exams are over in China, and they’re starting this week in Canada. I am finished the Killer Season. Won’t have to do it again until June.
Don’t have much to report from the Season in Hell, other than that culminating activities are useless if the students don’t understand what they’ve been studying throughout the semester. Critical thinking must be preceded by basic thinking. So, don’t bother with MacBeth and Lear: North American 16-year-olds who live in the 21st century cannot think basically about kings from 500 years ago and, therefore, won’t be able to think critically, either. Stop giving them books which don’t interest them, please.
Am looking forward to having some more time to devote to writing. Got rather hooked on it last fall, and am finding I’d rather give up sleep than deprive myself of writing. A couple of people in my writing group were saying they have very clean houses because it’s their last-ditch attempt to procrastinate sitting down at the computer. My problem is just the opposite: life can fall down in rubble and I won’t notice because some characters are doing something interesting, or there’s a sentence that isn’t working properly.
On Thursday, someone reminded me that it’s not just my dream to make enough money writing that I can live in the middle of nowhere and only face reality when I feel like it; other writers feel like that, too. That’s alright. They can feel like that. But I dibs the far side of Signal Hill. I don’t want other writers messing with my personal fantasy space.