Taking the challenge…

I made a decision today to take the first steps toward strengthening my creative writing muscle. Not poetry, but prose. This is both exciting and nerve-racking to me, as I am my own biggest critic (who isn’t though, amiright?) Anyway, I stumbled upon a post that challenged me to write just a paragraph with the only stipulation being that it must end with, “He would give anything to turn the clock back five minutes.” So, challenge accepted! Is it great? probably not, but it is a start, and I am happy and proud of myself for actually writing something and not just talking about it for once! So without further ado, I introduce to you my paragraph:

In the grand scheme of things Aaron knew that Sera wasn’t asking for much. She didn’t need him to profess his undying love for her, she wasn’t waiting for a proposal of marriage, she wasn’t even looking for an invitation of cohabitation. What she needed was a simple proclamation of support so she knew that she would not have to bare the weight of this circumstance alone. But even with this heavy decision hanging in the balance, the only thing Aaron knew how to do was look only at how his life would be affected, what this meant for the future of his career and how this would alter the plan that he had constructed for himself. And without even considering Sera, he let the words escape from his mouth before realizing the gravity of each syllable he uttered, “If you decide to go through with this, I can’t guarantee that I will be there for you. “ As he sat in silence with full understanding of what he said falling on him like a ton of bricks, he realized that the damage he had done to Sera was irreparable and their relationship had no chance of survival. He would have given anything to turn back the clock five minutes.

Please feel free to comment, critique, or guffaw below. ツ


Writer’s Block

The blank page stares at me, mocking me as I attempt to formulate ideas. I take a sip of water and twirl my coils slowly between my fingers as I will and idea to spring forth from my mind and flow freely from the tip of my pencil. Yet and still, I sit here vexed with my mind hovering between this idea and that. Why are words escaping me, and more importantly, why can’t I settle on any solid ideas? I don’t understand. I’m no spring chicken, I have a myriad of experiences from which to pull but none of them seem quite right for the task at hand. So I will think, I will write, I will try–but if all else fails, I will go to bed and try again tomorrow.

Reflection of a Teacher

“True teachers are those who use themselves as bridges over which they invite their students to cross; then having facilitated their crossing, joyfully collapse, encouraging them to create their own.”-Niklos Kazantzakis

Oftentimes I find myself trying to encourage my students to trust me/the process enough to cross the bridge. A lot of students feel vulnerable or
exposed in Literacy because unlike other subject areas, there are often no definitive answers in writing or even reading analysis or comprehension. The exhaustion I experience comes from teaching them how to explore and trust their instincts as readers and writers.

my space


The first stroke is the best stroke
it always leaves her wanting more-
there are moments of pain, but pleasure at the core.

Waiting in anticipation for emotions that will be placed
ever so gingerly, but thoughtfully in her space.
One thousand journeys have been traveled
transcending both time and place.

Limitless pains and boundless joys-
here is where they will all unfold
A myriad of adventures, most of them untold.

How possible is it to share the depths of the human heart?
How possible is it to navigate waters – clearly uncharted territory–
weaving together broken strands that will tell the human story?

Only one place can be deemed as safe
in this pitiful notebook that leaves no judgment to be faced.


Deeply hidden in the back of my book

is where they’re all hidden where no one can look.


I haven’t a clue what to write-

fractured pieces of the thoughts lurk in my head every single night.

I am so afraid to pick up my pen-

or turn that crisp page,

because the moment I start I’ll be interminably engaged.

Once I begin, desperately I try to finish each piece,

vowing to somehow find my release.