“I’m so Tweeting this.”
That was Andrew, one of my wonderful 11/12 students during a CW reading. I’d just freaked them out. We were writing farcical essays. Monday, instead of actually working during my prep, I played. My kind of play. I sang, I drank coffee and then, with a wallop of delusional fur ball mouthing, I wrote. It was the best prep ever.
So with some rather ridiculous criteria in front of me and about a month of driving back and forth and horizon line provoking memory, I knew my topic. The issue at hand became more than need of an exemplar, it became… Oh please. I’m never going to prep when I can write!
One of my home-room kids, a grade ten, came in during the fur ball mouthing to search for glue, “Side drawer.” I might have given him my car keys, school keys, home keys, daughter too so delightfully delusional I became with my piece. I love writing.
My hard 20 minutes of Monday’s pm prep work:
I believe the fountain pen is the most important tool a person can possess. I mean think about it, I can accomplish anything with my fountain pen. I mean, really. It’s terribly handy.
Like writing, there’s all these new digital devises, but really, if Janie Austen could fondle the fountain, swirling and crafting it with all her feministic idealistic clutches, isn’t that best for me too? I mean, really. Those blisters are my blisters too. And we all know Noble prizes for literature always go to individuals who use fountain pens, and I mean the real fountain pens, the ones with the feathers and deep dark ink and that sort of stuff. That’s God’s honest truth, I know. My dad told me and he knows everything, and too, some dude name Siddhartha told him.
So there’s that. And too, when I graduated grade twelve my goal was to win the Noble prize for literature, and shucks, if the fountain pen is the path, then baby, the world can keep technology and its online networking ‘cause these ink blotches are for me. Cause I’m wicked good at this writing stuff.
Oh yah, and fountain ink. It’s incredibly handy when the RCMP pull me over on that long stretch heading south down highway 15 to Keneston and I’ve already got my own ink. Ya. Handy. I mean, I don’t even need to uncork a bottle, my thumb’s already stained. It’s so convenient. I just hold up these brilliant digits of mine, counting them one, two… Ya they never let me get past two…..
Anyway. My fountain pen is so amazing. Makes my writing historic I tell you, epic. Nothing beats the lines that flow from my fountain and the world will know it as soon I press send.