So a book, eh?

I said I would talk about writing a book, and so I will.

I don't remember learning to read or write.  It seems I always could.  At four and five, I loved to write "reports" about trips we took.  Not a few sentences, but pages and pages of wide ruled notebook paper.  I also liked doing math problems for fun.  I played gin, and poker and Tripoly.  I was the only child at that point.  I guess it never occurred to anyone that this wasn't "normal."

Needless to say, they did not have a clue what to do with me when I arrived in kindergarten.  I was the only one in my class who could read, let alone write, or do addition and subtraction.  They set me up with the first grade reading book and some head phones.  In the early 70's, kindergarten was more about playing and socialization and I had been to pre-school for years (my mom worked graveyard), so I knew how school worked.

When I went to first grade I had already read the first grade primer in kindergarten.  Not knowing what else to do, the teacher put me and the only other 'reader' in an empty classroom with the second grade reading book during reading time.  I can't even imagine what would happen if a teacher did that now.  I continued my love of writing reports.  Another favorite past-time was smuggling a dictionary outside and looking up words related to a topic (horses, or dinosaurs, or insects) and copying out the definitions to make my own mini-dictionary.  Lest you be too amazed with me, that same first grade teacher had to work diligently to teach me to tie my shoes as I was the only first grader who could not. You can't blame Velcro, either.

Again in second grade I had already read the reading book, but my teacher was more creative.  She gave me time to write.  I composed a completely horrible three act play called Nadia Lay.  Why yes it was the mid-70's, why do you ask...  We were supposed to put on the play, but getting my actors to rehearse voluntarily at recess was a bit beyond my capabilities.

My third grade teacher was the first teacher I ever remember reading a chapter book to the class.  How to Eat Fried Worms.  She also was very into ecology and she is the one you have to thank or blame for my tree-hugger ways to this day.

My fourth grade teacher wore PANT SUITS!  And had long hair and used the overhead projector and believed in putting students in groups.  Boy, that was a mistake.  I never shut up.  I also never did my homework.  I figured I understood grammar perfectly well, why should I do pages of language arts homework to prove it.  She was not amused.

I won't continue year by year, but I will say that my desire to write never left me.  I dreamed up books I would write, such as a biography of the truly fascinating woman who babysat me for years.  She was a personal friend of Eddie Arcaro.  Google who he was if that means nothing to you.  A creative writing assignment was one of the few things I would get started on right away, at least mentally.  I even had an opportunity in jr high to work with a professional author.  Unfortunately repeated bouts of tonsillitis and my own procrastination meant that Prince of the Wild Horses never really went anywhere.

I was the student who started my research papers the day they were due.  I read all the background material and let it roll around in my head.  Then I would type the paper, usually finishing in the wee hours of the morning.  If I had time I would go back and fabricate a rough draft, note cards, outline, etc.  Often I didn't have time, so I got a lot of notes from teachers, "This would be an A paper if you had all the components." If you ever typed a paper with footnotes on a manual typewriter, you know why I didn't have time.

Despite having some amazing English teachers who gave me a lot of encouragement, I got waylaid on my career path along the way.  I had a good band director in middle school and the first year of high school. Then we got a nightmare who ran the program into the ground.  I decided I was going to be the best high school band director ever and come back and rebuild the program at my high school.

Through college I continued to write papers on my way to class-- a quick stop off in the typing lab.  Even in graduate school, only by then it was computers.  I felt bad after our graduate exam when another woman asked me, "How many pages did you write?  More than seven?"  I didn't have the heart to tell her seventeen, just for the first question.

Again, lest you be too impressed, I failed my pre-recital audition, didn't take my piano proficiency, dropped out of student teaching because of said failures, changed my major and picked up an English minor.  Six years to get a Bachelor of Arts in Music degree.  If you laminate it, it makes a nice place-mat (credit for that quote belongs to Ted Porray.)

But teaching was a true passion and I loved it once I got there.  The very first time I substituted, I knew the classroom was where I belonged.  There was no doubt.  One problem though-- they say you will teach reading and writing drawing on your own experience of learning to read and write.  But I don't remember ever learning.

Reading students' writing was sometimes painful for me.  How can you just change verb tenses randomly? How can you just stop with no conclusion? My own daughter was the queen of "and they all died" to wind up any story she felt had gone on too long.  I finally understood what my teachers were talking about when they'd harp on people about editing.  It wasn't that I didn't edit, it is just that I had done all the revisions in my head before it ever got put to paper.  Doesn't everyone?

Apparently not.

So now cancer has compromised my speaking voice making teaching improbable.  I can no longer play clarinet or sing, so music is more out of my reach than ever (I was never really good at the whole practicing thing, in case you didn't notice).  This brings me back to writing.  I enjoy it.  It is fun.  I am at least marginally good at it.  And I get to tell jokes.  Whoo- hoo!

Do I write only about cancer?  Do I write about all my health drama?  Do I touch on all the insanity at various points in my life?  Many have asked me, "Don't you know anyone who went somewhere, did something, and went home?"  Well, no I don't.  Should I write about them?  Or go back to that amazing babysitter who made me a horse lover and a racing fan, with whom I watched the Kentucky Derby and the Miss America Pageant every year until I was almost 18?

Writing this blog was a way to vent my frustrations and complaints during recovery without inflicting it on anyone.  They could read it, or not, if they wanted information.  Because this time around there has been such a profound change to what my life looks like, it has also become a processing plant for my thoughts and ideas that are now difficult for me to express verbally.  It is my coping mechanism.

So, what do you think, dear friends?

PS-- I have a follow-up at OHSU tomorrow.  We'll see what they think about the persistent swelling in my neck and the swallowing challenges.