It’s Graduation Season:
I see my former students
and colleagues
as I make the rounds 
to a few select open houses- 
of those daring,
outstanding students
who braved sending an
invitation when they
know it’s not my thing.

“Are you glad you’re 
not teaching anymore?”

“Oh, yeah. Things are so 
different. Even in just 
a couple of years. 
And I’m busy,  
so busy!”

Heads nod. 
Faces frown.

But here I am
in front of my computer, taking 
a break from weeding my garden
and revising my novel
to find myself
in the past and
in the present, working
on the future.

I feel the familiar
Intoxicating rush 
of blood to my brain 
as my fingers scratch 
new ideas and 
recycled plans in purple 
ink on a tiny 
yellow pad.

Only a few minutes in,
and I’m lost–
in the Zone:
Making a supply list 
with purchase links;
Creating groups
from the list of 32:
Sorting names by 
self-provided 
demographics-grade, gender,
interest in writing; 
Referring to standards 
and goals;
Scaffolding activities to 
build knowledge and 
our new community
of learners.
Layers!

Four hours have passed?

I need to find books
that grab incoming
fifth and sixth
graders! I thumb 
through my shelves, 
ask former
colleagues for help, 
skim across spines
at thrift stores,
searching for titles 
boxed up 
and 
given away just a 
couple of years ago.

Will one of the books I find
have my teacher name 
stamped inside?

I’m seeking
classics 
of young 
adolescent fiction- stories
most kids will know 
to save time, and 
a balance for boys 
and girls- because 
that does matter, even
though we’d like to 
think it doesn’t.

I find several!

And a few contemporary
works: a graphic novel, 
a nod to Star Wars, a
perfect picture book or two
to quickly make an
explicit point and also 
give the young 
writers 
more time to hone 
their craft.

Home again, I shift 
downstairs
into the dining room
to spread out books on 
the long cherry table
and begin scouring 
texts for mentor 
passages: effective hooks, 
realistic dialogue,
internal conflict, all revealing 
unique and 
memorable characters, people
kids can relate to. Learn from.
I stack, sort, restack. 

Which books
will be our models,
and which only 
resources? 
I add titles and 
page numbers
to my second and third 
spreadsheet
of plans.

More layers!

We need a cheat 
sheet 
for the 
assistants!
Novices, they will need 
coaching
about how to talk 
to young writers
about their works. I must
dig out 
my laminator!

And a tab 
for each kid! 
I add to the spreadsheet for
after-conference 
notes. 

Then there must be 
signage and layers of
activities 
that keep us all 
moving, thinking, 
learning.

My brain shoots out 
its plasmic idea-rays 
in all directions. I
scramble to capture
them in words
somewhere.

One hour of
planning per day 
of camp, 
the contract read. 

I smirk. 

Was it ever so simple,
this teaching gig?

No matter.

I smile. 
My heart is 
a balloon, 
filled with the 
helium of
satisfied memories
and former, eager 
students, 
with its string 
now waiting 
to be 
passed into the 
outstretched hands of 
new, eager writers.

I pick up a book
and my sticky notes. 
Outside, 
the light 
fades, the television 
is turned off. Are those 
footsteps I hear 
on the staircase?

Simple or not, 
it was- no, it is- 
so glorious!

I’m teaching again, 
starting on Monday!