Our school doesn't have a journalism program, so I try to incorporate some journalistic aspects to the course, including the monthly Gobbler Gab newsletter. I'm always shocked and disheartened to find out how little most of the student body (and teachers for that matter!) know about what goes on outside of their day-to-day lives. With this in mind, I decided to push for a "spotlight issue" of the Gab, highlighting new teachers and courses, student athletes and musicians, and business leaders around town. This year, for our opening issue, I asked the students to select a person or topic worth reading about, conduct an interview to gather information, and turn that raw data into a compelling story -- not an easy task.
I've had to defend the Gab to some folks who question its validity in a course that is supposed to focus on creative writing. True, this is not a journalism course, but lessons learned from gathering information, questioning assumptions, and producing concise, accurate stories are invaluable and can be applied to any kind of writing. Mastering the 5 W's and H method of gathering information (Who, What, Where, When, Why & How) offers students an opportunity to play around with providing and withholding that information in their creative pieces for a specific effect. Discovering motive for real life people adds tools to the characterization toolboxes of young writers. If good fiction writing is a reflection of the world around us, both as we see it and how we wish it to be, then spending time writing nonfiction about that world can only deepen our reflections of it when it comes time to pen a story or poem. Previous issues of Gobbler Gab can be access through the "Student Activities" tab on the Broadway High School website. It's always peppered with a good amount of whimsy, but is definitely worth a read!
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In keeping with the course objective to show and not tell, each student chose a secret at random, which they then had to demonstrate through indirect characterization. It's easy to say that your character is in love with his best friend or harbors conspiracy theories about the government, but it is an entirely different affair to show who your character is, what she cares about, and what skeletons lurk in her closet.
Here's my character...can you guess his secret? Lifting the sheet so he could rotate underneath it without getting tangled up, Alan attempted to settle his bones into a comfortable position. He peeked through one slitted eyelid, as if trying to sneak up on the clock. 1:38 A sad sigh escaped his lips as he thought, of course. It wasn't only that he had to wake up in a few short hours to take an adequately long shower, humming so loudly his lips buzzed long after he was done so that he wouldn't think about the rotting polar bear carcasses that once roamed alone across a continent in search of a seal or two but just couldn't roam any longer. It wasn't only that the flecks of lint and fiber the blanket shed on the sheets formed a pattern remarkably like that of the line-of-best-fit scatter plot he still couldn't manage to grasp in Algebra. It certainly wasn't the ping from his sister's constant text-tweet-yik-snap-gram-book alerts still ringing and echoing in his ears, a residual taunt counting off how many more friends, better friends, cooler friends she had. It wasn't that. Those were things not worth worrying about. Not like the mold that had spread from a single dot in July to a full on toxic explosion in the shape of the The Philippines, albeit, if The Philippines were the size of a silver dollar. Not like the nearly imperceptible but so totally evident tightening around Ms. Walsh's mouth when she got to his name on the roster. Why did she even still take attendance anyway? It was November already. Did she really not know their names? Oh no, she must have a brain tumor growing in leaps and bounds, pressing in on her temporal lobe. Would his extra credit transfer over if Ms. Walsh dropped dead and the school hired a new teacher? Alan heaved a shuddering sign, squeezed his eyes in a silent prayer for a decrease in the swelling of Ms. Walsh's brain tumor, resigned himself to the chronic bronchial inflammation the black mold spores currently fostering, and braved another glance at the clock. 1:42 To start the year, our Creative Writing class created quick poems using a few words from a published poem as inspiration. A list of words from the poem were displayed, and students were encouraged to not try to make a poem with the same subject or theme as the original work. This is an exercise about getting inspired by the words themselves and the images they conjure in an individual's mind. Below is the work I created...certainly different in subject than the the original work, which was about howling wolves on a snowy night. Words harvested from the published poem are underlined.
Blinking sailors arise from below deck Tossed by Poseidon's rage, Their neckerchiefs hang loose and stretched To be righted with the torn top sail, Whose jagged holes yawn open, unimpressed Trembling greenhorns and grateful new fathers Cling alike to railings as if the ship could save them As if it were their buoy and not their coffin, But today they can hug each other with one arm crooked over shoulders shuddering in relief The salty dog, however The old deck hand turned lieutenant turned first mate Sets his mouth in a grim line Gazes steadily at the horizon If sea-fowl could make judgements, and who's to say they can't, They might squawk and titter in a nightly congress That the man looked a little disappointed. On the last day of class, we circled our desks and engaged in one of the most difficult acts known to humankind: reading our writing out loud to our peers. In an effort to model such bravery, I wrote and shared this piece about a moment early on in my relationship with my husband. Even after practicing, even after several re-reads and revisions, I still flushed and shook and hid behind my paper when it came time to share. Personal is difficult, but so much life is injected into a work when it is shared aloud. I'm proud of my students who read their work, and I can't wait to continue this practice next year.
Vicinity You plopped down next to me The curving slope of the aged futon captured our bodies Toppling our flanks together I felt the heat of you, sensed the makeup of your shoulder Wiry muscle corded over solid bone, just enough give A slight hollow above the collarbone peeking out from under your favorite ManMan t-shirt I didn’t know then it was your favorite The dusty yellow light straining through the gauzy film of the kitchen window Slid through the bristle of your beard, auburn burning against jet black coal, And I searched for something impossibly witty to say; I would have settled for cute Your hand, already calloused, scarred, worn, was pointedly not on my leg Decidedly not around my shoulders Rather, tapping out a private rhythm on your knee “Adopted track star loves his broccoli family” -- a squeaked out comment about the t-shirt A floundering, observational comment masquerading as whimsy But you laughed Not a shocked guffaw, not a relieved release of held breath, not a patronizing chuckle Just a laugh I didn’t know then it was your real laugh I risked eye contact Slate blue eyes ringed with faint freckles perched on cheekbones both soft and strong Like a stone coated in dewy moss Something to climb on, use as support, and then rest a weary head on after I didn’t know then what those eyes look like with tears Conversation flowed then, bodies angled in, floating a “Do Not Disturb” sign The party receded, friends became faceless And I started to memorize the map of your freckles, the topography of your face I didn’t know then it was the beginning I didn’t know then I would spend years striving to stay in your vicinity I didn’t know then you were working out schemes of your own I just knew then I liked you |
AuthorMs. Jopling teaches English at Broadway High School, eats an unseemly amount of cheese, and laughs as often as possible. Archives
November 2017
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