17 September 17

Dr. Hartman,

I dont mind writing. I always have loved the feel of words and their visual formation on the
page. I do not like the vulnerability of sharing writing--this dynamic of being able to write and
allow someone else to read it is like allowing someone to hold your newborn baby for the first
time. You assume they see the same beauty as you. With writing, you open yourself up to all
manner of criticism and cordial acknowledgment of a job well done never knowing if it is as
special to the reader as it was to you the writer.

I sometimes feel psychoanalyzed. I understand that a little analysis is necessary for our lives;
however, writing pushes that whether we are ready or not. I wrote this in my journal one day
from my morning Bible study, Transparency is not telling on yourself or how you are feeling. It
is being clear and understanding your own motivation--analyzing that by the truth of the Word,
being REAL with yourself and God. Then healing comes and you recognize grace. I am
hoping that if this truth was one God revealed to me long before this class began, then it was
revealed for such a time as this. Hopefully, I can apply that truth to my writing.

I have enjoyed learning that writing is messy for all of us. I read others work (mostly discussion
boards) and am intimidated by the discourse. I have to back up to one of the building blocks of
my calling: getting kids to understand (to make text accessible and comprehensible for all). I
have been so accustomed to doing this in my school and church life that finding adequate words
for critiquing and analyzing the type text we are reading is a definite challenge. My ESL
background tells me its just a matter of lexicon, so I am eager to keep experimenting with this in
form of composition for the two classes. I dont think Ill make my living at it though as I feel like
Ive been worked like a mine mule on goat pay.

I have been attempting lessons born from a few of the philosophies we have discussed. I truly
believe that the sparkle of writing is innate. I remember when my nephews played football years
ago and went on to the state championship. Christopher played intuitively, he just knew; it was
natural to him, in him, of him. Toby played by the book. His engineer brain learned the process
and he was a good player. He did not play with the same passion or depth, but he was able to
produce great plays with skill. I think writers are wired with the sparkle that comes to light at
different times, and others can be taught processes and skills that can help them become
successful communicators. I hope to research this through one of these classes to find whether
I am substantiated or not.

I have always thought I wrote with my kids but really I let them hear a perfect piece. Because
of this stretch, I have started letting them see the good, the bad, and the ugly. That led me to
drawing my writing process on the board one day and inviting them to do the same and then to
explain it. This one little thing opened up my reluctant writers. They actually wrote the next day
for a sustained period of time, especially after I reminded them of the messiness of writing. I
have been altered by that experience. I also let them move wherever they wanted in the room.
I always do this for silent reading. I never viewed writing that way until now. They were all over
the place. And they were writing. What an Aha moment for me. I am determined to keep that
up in spite of the expectations of the dreaded evaluation. My goal this year is to encourage
authentic writing in spite of the state writing test expectations. In that respect, having to write a
writers autobiography forced metacognition that I was not allowing because of other pressing
things. What could be more important for my students, though, than for their teacher to really
understand what she truly believes about writing, the teaching of writing, and how writing is their
life skill?

With that being said, my writing history can be traced to my early love of words.

My history as a writer began more so with being a listener, I loved the stories my pa would tell
us when we were children--made up stories about anything he saw. If a dog ran across the
road in front of him, the the next thing we would hear was a song about that dog. My brother got
that songwriting talent and still can spin a tale today while his nieces and nephews hang onto
his every word. The other piece of my past that I believe influenced me was the fact that I grew
up in the Deep South, with its melodic tilts and whirls, sounds floating through the air, and the
idioms and analogies I have yet to figure out. My mother and father were full of these and we
were left as children laughing at the choice of words and trying to visualize these comparisons
in our head. One I think of often when I ring the bell for the 6th grade to come in from break is
the simile faster than a bell clapper in a gooses a**. The geese on Disneys Aristocats brought
this visually home for me. These traditions helped establish a love of language and a fondness
for tales of all sorts. As a reader the beauty of the language has to speak to me, the flow and
rhythm of the words, the pictures they paint, the images they evoke. Sometimes I re-read
passages just thinking how beautifully that was written--what a gift to be able to paint something
with print that jumps off the page and into your mind, soul, and spirit.

My writing history is also rooted in reading. I grew up seeing my mom and dad both read.
Granted Daddys reading consisted of the newspaper and Hot Rod magazine, he read. Mother
never had enough books When one of us kids said something to her about the number of them
she would reply, Yes, and I want more. And you do have to have a certain amount of respect
for the woman who would use her Kindle as a bookmark in one of her beloved books. Looking
back I realized that not only were my parents readers, but the entire bunch of eight kids were
also. This coupled with the Deep Souths love of idioms gave me an early love of words and
language. Trying to actually get my own down on paper, however, has been quite a losing
battle. Just when I think I have a novel building up inside of me, I realize I fizzled with just the
production of a cool sentence or a half a paragraph. From here my writing pretty much has
been process writing as needed by an instructor, supervisor, or colleague to suit a particular
purpose. My mommas recent passing did pull out a few vignettes from me, the book is still
securely hidden away waiting on something I'm not sure of when or where will happen.
The Beloved Mrs. Hillman
Mrs. Hillman, my first grade teacher taught us to read the Spot books and she made sure each
letter we practiced was formed correctly. She not only taught us but she also called in the
parents and taught them how to help us at home. No one told her No. Phonics was the new
wave in the late sixties and she was determined both parents and students were prepared.
I practiced constantly, not because I could not get it right but because I loved the movement of
my hand against the page. I carried this over to write on everything I could and everywhere I
could; it did not have to be paper. I used to sneak my daddys welding chalk outside and write
on the back of his cinder block shop. There was just something about seeing words form before
me that was exciting. I even had definitive purposes for using pen or pencil. It did not matter to
me if the content lacked merit. I was happy enough writing all the words I could make that
ended with at or oy or other morphemes I had learned in school and teaching them to stuffed
animals or any real ones that would listen.

Middle school and Mrs. Collins.

Mrs. Collins let me write and dream. I wanted to reproduce stories and songs like I had heard
from my grandfather while growing up. I began to make up stupid stories not even
understanding how character, setting, and plot interacted. Looking back, they were probably
age appropriate at least for my little world. I remember writing science fiction stories that always
began with Far into the future, in year 2010. It tickles me to think that the year 2010 was so far
removed from my understanding. My stories were too. Im sure they made about as much
sense as a screen door on submarine.

A Little Growth in High School

I became a little more focused as a writer my junior and senior year, but it was partly because of
the grammar instruction I had as a freshman from the seasoned grammarian Mrs. Bowen. I
learned to love the structure, the diagramming, what places words could or could not hold. I
began to apply these structures to my writing. When we were challenged with higher
vocabulary as a sophomore, it simply gave me another piece of the puzzle. By the time I was a
junior, I was writing for the newspaper and relishing any creative writing assignment our teacher
threw at us. I was using what I had learned structure wise but still trying to force creativity. I
thought I had arrived. Little did I know I had barely left the parking lot.

Freshman English Loops

Freshman English threw me for a loop. I hated the writing by this time and wrote grudgingly in
101 and 102. It simply elongated the road to the literature I knew awaited me in the 200 and
above courses. Im not sure why. It could have been the research process and all the have
tos and Kate Turabian citations. (I burned that guidebook.) I moved to an Indian reservation
and taught my first two years in New Mexico after graduating USM. I did not write much of
anything except letters to my family.
Process Development:
My writing grew as my reading of more intense nonfiction text grew. I started writing grants and
speeches and became the unofficial official editor/reviser for whomever I worked under, from
principals to pastors. I also started attending every workshop I could gain admittance to
including the Stokely Writers Workshops at UT. I consider writing my weakness, so I do
everything I can to learn to do it better. I help a few college kids revise their papers for the basic
classes and that has made me dislike what our system has done with literature more so than
composition.

Writing for me:

My writing now is for me. My vignettes about my momma are mine. If I want to share, it is my
choice. My family have always written it out in painful times. I didnt realize the implications
of that until my sister was diagnosed with cancer. I traveled home to be with her for her first
chemo treatment and to deliver her a journal to get it all down. When one of us was going
through something difficult that was just something we did for each other. (I have always given
my troubled students journals with the thought of better out than in.) This past year for
Christmas I gave all my brothers and sisters journals to get it out and down as it was our first
one without Momma. Momma was always writing, until her hands would not allow it, whether it
was recipes or to do lists. We found one of her little books after her death full of writing.
Several pages had the birthdays and anniversaries written down over and over of every child,
grandchild, great-grandchild, and friend. Although her mind was sharp, I know she was worried
about forgetting. Then there was the page where she recorded the pain she was in and her
desire to be free. All of us shocked at what we read never realizing the intensity. My brothers
sparkle allows him to put these memories so beautifully into song. My desire is to produce the
memory with the same emotions I felt when they happened; those are still locked away
somewhere. But they are mine, regardless of when and where they come out. And like
Momma, I may write them out piece by piece, over and over, so I, too, never forget.

Denise Sawyer