just do it

i have a pile of books to filter through. lessons to lightly write. work to get done. yet. here i sit. unwilling to get on-task. me. a teacher. always reminding my students to stay on task. to concentrate. to get their work done. but, i am finding that the task, though necessary, has not quite found its way into my educator thoughts.

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in a while, i will sit in front of those school books. those teacher’s manuals. and i will review. yes i will. because, review i must. for my own sanity. and to ensure starting the year off right, properly educating students. who will be depending on me to fill their days with classroom ooo’s and aaah’s, and just as important, life lessons.

but first, i need to sit here and think.

“mom, can we talk?” brad asks.
“yeah, sure,” i say, with a smile.

i guess my teacher tasks will have to wait even longer to imprint my brain with information.

Reality Bites Another Day, S1 E2

Today’s post is the flip side of yesterday’s post Reality Bites.

remote control

Anne, once again, plopped herself down on the overstuffed couch, tossed off her shoes, and turned on the TV. Another afternoon of Reality Bites to fulfill her guilty pleasure. That is, watch the five clueless (about the fact their lives are being recorded second by second, day after day) young college students talk about private matters and, hopefully, do yet another jaw dropping activity. Another day for Anne to lose herself into their world, escaping from her own.

As Anne watched the TV screen, the character named Carrie sat in a quiet corner talking on the phone with her boyfriend. Telling him things Anne was pretty sure Carrie wouldn’t be saying if she knew the world was listening in. As she was talking to him, Carrie was also holding a framed photo of her boyfriend. Admiring his shirtless torso.

What Carrie didn’t know was that a teeny tiny camera had been installed into the frame so that the TV audience was seeing a close-up of her dreamy face as she spoke to her lover.

Suddenly, Carrie pulled the frame away, then brought it right back, close to her face, making her features look magnified. “Whoa. That’s strange,” she began, speaking to her beau, and anyone watching the show, “but I have a freaky feeling that I’m being watched.”

She felt shaken. Odd. Like something was a bit off. Yet, she had no explanation as to why.

“Well,” her boyfriend laughed, “I hope not. I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t want anyone hearing what you plan on doing to me. Not that I’d mind!” He laughed, loud.

Anne was starring into Carrie’s eyes. All she could do was push her body further back into the couch, tensing all her muscles. She let out a deep, unexpected gasp.

An Ode To Writers

The following conversation occurred several years ago. It still holds true today. Writing isn’t a quick job, or hobby, but rather it takes time to ‘Get to the Point’ as multiple thoughts are jotted down. Which are then arranged and rearranged appropriately, followed by tons of editing. And editing is what takes the most time before hitting the PUBLISH button. I applaud those who have written and published their work, garnering a reader’s want for more. Bravo.  

“Are you done yet, Mom? You said we would watch a movie together.”

My son was sitting, waiting patiently on the couch.

“One minute. I just need to edit this. Make sure it makes sense. Includes all the important details,” I respond, not looking his way.

“It really has surprised me how much time it takes to write one piece,” I add, to myself.

I finish. Half an hour later.

“Movie?” she questions.

“Yeah. But hold on. I am working on something.” His eyes are focused on the laptop’s screen.

“Okay. Let me know when you are ready.” I walk back to the desktop computer. Open my post. Re-read it for any errors. Make sure it’s coherent.

I find a flaw. Or two.
A misspelled word.
A sentence that needs a pronoun.

“Mom? I’m ready,” my son says.

“One minute. I just need to edit this.”

Writing.

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“Are you done yet, Mom? You said we will watch a movie together.”

Her son is sitting, waiting patiently.

Her face is aglow from the light of the computer.

“One minute. I just need to edit this. Make sure it makes sense. I’ve got to include all the important details,” she responds, not looking his way. “It really has surprised me how much time it takes to write one piece,” she adds, to herself.

But, then.

Finally.

She’s finished.

“Movie?” she questions.

“Yeah. But hold on. I am working on something,”  her son answers.

His eyes are focused on his laptop’s screen.

“Okay. Let me know when you are ready.”

She looks back at the desktop computer.

Opens her post.

Re-reads it for any errors.

Makes sure it’s coherent.

She finds a flaw.

Or two.

A misspelled word.

A sentence that needs a pronoun.

“Mom? I’m ready,” her son says.

“One minute. I just need to edit this,” she mumbles.