Ah, few but favoured readers and blog followers. I love each of you, in my own disaffected way. And because of that I need to tell you something: I'm leaving.
It's time for a change. Not a change of blogging - think I'll shut up that easily? No way. It's a change in blogging. New digs. A room with a view.
Blogger has been a good spot for OWS to get its blogging feet wet. But it's time to make a move, one that matches up nicely with the OWS website.
It's part of a transition to a new website, a new look and a new relationship with a web-type person who helps me negotiate the challenging waters of the internet. Big shout out to Dale at http://www.sketchtopixels.com/ for getting me set up all pretty and stuff - Dale, you rock my virtual world.
Farewell to Blogger; the blogs will stay here for a while, but nothing new will come through these e-doors.
I'd love for you to stop by my new digs and take a look around. So would Dale, I'm sure. It's all his hard work, after all. www.okanaganwriting.com/wordpress
Until next time,
Jeannette
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
this writing thing
The first time I ever read aloud to a large group - larger than my classroom - was in grade six. Maybe it was grade seven. I can't quite remember.
I know Mr. Luty (yeah, the kids called him loonie Luty - how original) was my grade six teacher, and I can't remember him fitting in with this memory. But Mr. Strongitharm (no one called him any nicknames - he was too cool) was my seventh grade teacher and I'm almost certain it wasn't in his class. Whatever. I was young.
My mom tells the story over and over, to anyone who will listen. I won an award for an essay I wrote on The Diary of Anne Frank, and part of the "reward" was to get up in front of the entire school and read part of the essay. Oh, goodie. It's just what a sixth grader wants to do when she's gangly, entering puberty (late) and taller than everyone in the school except a few teachers.
I've never fit in, and I'm okay with that now. I'm sure it makes for more interesting stories. In the sixth grade I wanted to have graceful movements like Theresa or be good at sports like Renée. But I didn't and I wasn't. Instead, I could write. It's too bad that I didn't get some sort of good eye/hand/foot coordination, because even a writer can use that. Especially a young writer about to climb up the echo-y wooden stairs onto a wide, empty stage in front of a gymnasium packed with kids.
I stubbed my toe, lost my balance and fell. In front of the entire school.
I don't remember much about that day except for that one moment of pure humiliation. I was wearing a brown skirt and white top, and I'm pretty sure my hair was doing its straight-as-a-board thing, except for the flippy ends that didn't flip in unison. Nothing I had or wore was in style, even for the un-stylish era that was known as the very early 80's.
What I like best about this memory is that it's all me - not some watered-down version of me. It's a memory of the gangly, uncoordinated girl that spent lunches in the library and recesses with her one or two friends in the back field picking wild strawberries, trying to avoid being kissed by a kid named Jason - not that I was special; Jason tried to kiss every girl on the playground.
I was me - unaltered and going ahead despite whatever obstacles were in my way, including the obstacles that were my own feet.
I find this writing thing to be a lot like that. Once I get out of the way of my own feet, I'm fine.
I'm going to channel a bit of my mom here and boast a little, like she still does about that essay. OWS has its first writing gig: paid and published. Okay, so it's paid in wine and so it's published online. I'm happy with it. And who wouldn't want to be paid in wine? I live in wine country - moving here wasn't a coincidence.
Maybe I still trip going up the stairs, and maybe I'm still not fashionable or good at sports. But I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm writing.
www.thewinefestivals.com/blog
~ Jeannette
I know Mr. Luty (yeah, the kids called him loonie Luty - how original) was my grade six teacher, and I can't remember him fitting in with this memory. But Mr. Strongitharm (no one called him any nicknames - he was too cool) was my seventh grade teacher and I'm almost certain it wasn't in his class. Whatever. I was young.
My mom tells the story over and over, to anyone who will listen. I won an award for an essay I wrote on The Diary of Anne Frank, and part of the "reward" was to get up in front of the entire school and read part of the essay. Oh, goodie. It's just what a sixth grader wants to do when she's gangly, entering puberty (late) and taller than everyone in the school except a few teachers.
I've never fit in, and I'm okay with that now. I'm sure it makes for more interesting stories. In the sixth grade I wanted to have graceful movements like Theresa or be good at sports like Renée. But I didn't and I wasn't. Instead, I could write. It's too bad that I didn't get some sort of good eye/hand/foot coordination, because even a writer can use that. Especially a young writer about to climb up the echo-y wooden stairs onto a wide, empty stage in front of a gymnasium packed with kids.
I stubbed my toe, lost my balance and fell. In front of the entire school.
I don't remember much about that day except for that one moment of pure humiliation. I was wearing a brown skirt and white top, and I'm pretty sure my hair was doing its straight-as-a-board thing, except for the flippy ends that didn't flip in unison. Nothing I had or wore was in style, even for the un-stylish era that was known as the very early 80's.
What I like best about this memory is that it's all me - not some watered-down version of me. It's a memory of the gangly, uncoordinated girl that spent lunches in the library and recesses with her one or two friends in the back field picking wild strawberries, trying to avoid being kissed by a kid named Jason - not that I was special; Jason tried to kiss every girl on the playground.
I was me - unaltered and going ahead despite whatever obstacles were in my way, including the obstacles that were my own feet.
I find this writing thing to be a lot like that. Once I get out of the way of my own feet, I'm fine.
I'm going to channel a bit of my mom here and boast a little, like she still does about that essay. OWS has its first writing gig: paid and published. Okay, so it's paid in wine and so it's published online. I'm happy with it. And who wouldn't want to be paid in wine? I live in wine country - moving here wasn't a coincidence.
Maybe I still trip going up the stairs, and maybe I'm still not fashionable or good at sports. But I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm writing.
www.thewinefestivals.com/blog
~ Jeannette
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
