The Secret Life of Blogs

August 22, 2019 Third week in a row that I’m here at my Shut Up & Write! Group.  I like it so much that I even threw in an extra Saturday last week to finish the “Fuck you I Need a Hug” short story about my student. Now though, back to my dad.  I’ve decided to write about my dad in terms of other people who knew him so as to get a broader, more objective view of him. I’m going to email my cousins and hopefully get on the phone with them (both a bit older than me) and also with my mom to get a more historical account.  I don’t know much about my dad’s parents.  I never met his mother, unless it was as a baby, and his dad, who I did know a bit, died when I was in 3rd or 4th grade.  Still, saying something about them will give more of a complete picture of who he was and how he was raised.  The grandmother I never knew was named Adelle.  I have inherited photos of her, but not many.   They are black and white snapshots of her, ...

Damien entered my classroom  loud -- with a foul mouth and an empty backpack. He came in with a combat-ready face, shoulders thrown back and phone in hand. 'Hi Damien, welcome," I said. "I ain't talkin'," his dark, angry eyes shot back. My small, cozy 9th grade class sat petrified, stunned. "Please put away your phone," I said, aiming to fold him into the activity. "Fuck you." He retaliated, lashing me with a curse. The class and I quietly, imperceptibly nodded our heads.   So that's how it's going to  be,  we thought. The kid who compels a double standard,-- absolving himself from the rules that others must follow. "I can't tell you why he's in foster care," his counselor told me. "When kids do adult things like that...." She shook her head, her wide eyes frightening mine.   "He wants to be with his mom, but she lost custody of him.  Good luck," she added. "If you need he...

Today is Day One. Day one of “Shut Up and Write!”  a group I found on the MeetUp app for people  who want a little group accountability to get them to put fingers to keys and produce something.   A friend of mine who has written quite a bit, self-published a bit, pressures me periodically by emailing me links to “Get published online!”  I tell him I haven’t even written anything yet. So, here I sit. At a table with a guy named Paul who is writing science fiction for adults this time-- he usually writes for t eens.  What will I write about, you ask? My dad. (Quick glance up to the ceiling as my eyes well up and my throat closes in on the lemonade I’m trying, with difficulty, to swallow.) My sons want to know about the grandpa they never met.   I can sympathize. It’s a strange generational coincidence that my boys’ mother’s dad died when she was in her 20’s, and that her own mother’s dad died when she was a wispy 10-year old-- a ...