First week. Done. And there were only four days of it.
My throat is killing me. I have bruises across my arms and thighs. I’m tired, though I slept for almost ten hours last night, and my neck is crying out for a good yoga stretch. What happened, you ask? Just the first week of school.
I had it easy, too. I didn’t have to wait for the construction crew to install my cabinetry before I trying to unpack and prepare and entire classroom in seventy two hours (for free, mind you, tax payers don’t have to pay for that kind of service). My room is so far away from the construction that we get to use port-a-potties rather than plumbing and it’s a half mile round trip to the photocopiers – excellent paper conservation device and weight loss plan.
In all of that, I have let the writing slide and I can feel it, like a terror. A sense that, even though I’ve been working eight to five with ten minutes snatched for lunch brilliantly teaching the next generation how to use a math book, I have done anything with my day, because I haven’t written anything. At least, not anything for me. Newsletters to parents don’t count.
I even had a series of convoluted dreams last night that involved trying, and failing, to find time to write. Of course, the dreams also involved shore crabs with eight eyes attacking each other, then turning into shrimp, so I guess there’s that to consider, too.
I did, however, plan ahead. In August I sent out enough submissions that some people were willing to pick up a few. So, while I’m recuperating from the force of the first week of school running me over, at least I can say I’ve done something for me.