A Day Off

Today I finished my first semester of teaching my first Women's Studies course at the university level. I taught my final class this morning and at the end of class was pleasantly surprised by one of my student's last Attendance Cards. I do not take attendance in my class. I do not even check to see when students arrive---twenty minutes early, five minutes late, the last ten minutes of class. Each student is an adult and is responsible for getting himself out of bed and to class on time if he wants to keep up. I don't have time to worry about that or keep track of them. I'm much more interested in what happens when we're all together in the classroom---that's where the good stuff transpires. So instead of attendance, I do Attendance Cards.

I ask that my students come to class with a 4x6 note card on which they are to write two questions about the reading assignment(s) from the night(s) before class. In class, I encourage them to ask their questions aloud, which leads to some really excellent conversations. Mostly the students ask great questions---which I encourage them to ask in class and which I try to let them know I appreciated after class in a quick email or IM. I find that first and second year college students are so thoroughly trained in the art of passive listening that they often fear the unknown territory of posing a question...aloud (gasp!)---and I'm thinking SPECIFICALLY about young women here, the entire POINT of this course.

Here are some facts from Columbia's Teaching Center about that mess:

Although women make up a substantial majority of undergraduates and now receive significantly more B.A.s than men, they have not achieved equality in the classroom.

A large body of research has shown that instructors:

• Call on male students more frequently than female students.
• Are more likely to remember male students names and to use their name when calling upon students and in attributing ideas advanced in discussion.
• Ask male students more abstract and tough questions and ask female students more factual questions. Are less likely to elaborate upon points made by female students.

This research has demonstrated that:

• Male students speak more frequently and longer in class discussions
• Male students are more likely to blurt out answers without raising their hands or being recognized by the instructor
• Female students are less likely to take part in class discussions. When they do, these students are more likely to
• Be interrupted before they complete their response (sometimes by other female students).
• Make their statements less loudly and at less length.
• Express their ideas in a more hesitant, tentative, indirect, less assertive, or more polite manner. Examples include phrasing a statement as a question or appending such phrases as "I guess" or "Don't you think" or "I may be wrong."
• Although women make up a substantial majority of undergraduates and now receive significantly more B.A.s than men, they have not achieved equality in the classroom
  

I am always am careful to end class on time (even if my students don't adhere to my class beginning and end times). I want them to know I respect their schedules. I noticed after a while that students stopped packing up early because they didn't have to remind me what time it was by doing so. Instead, they now know that I'll let them out as I had promised in the syllabus (10:45). And on some occasions, like today, this final class of the semester, we are all so involved in conversation that no one has stirred to leave. Instead, I look around and the other twenty pairs of eyes are on a student is in the middle of a sentence---no one is concerned with the seconds we've gone overtime.

Usually, with a few minutes left in class, I ask students to write a comment about the class on the back of their Attendance Cards, or a note to me, or a concern or criticism or whatever. I did not specify this year (I'm still learning) that these comments need only be positive or glowing. I am not looking to boost my ego, though some of them think that it is their responsibility to do so. Mostly, I am looking for students' interested and curious comments about class, about themselves, about life. I like to know what they're thinking about. Isn't that the point of college---to think aloud with other humans? Here are a random sampling of a few:

Wouldn't it be great if we started each day with two quick questions about life, love, or whatever on an Attendance Card (yes, we are---should be---daily attending to our lives). If we woke up to Monday rain and an empty coffee bean container--we could ask something like "Lord, why me?" If we woke up to a soft, warm ray of sunshine at the foot of our bed on a Saturday morning and a pot of coffee brewing because we actually remembered for the first time in months to set the timer on the automatic brew panel---and it was actually set accurately (for 7:30AM...not PM), we could write, "Lord, what other wonderful treats will you bring me today?" Or, the questions may be mundane, like "What socks should I wear?" or "What should I make for lunch?" They could be pensive, too, and real on days we wake up from a dream. Like, "Is today the day I will leave this relationship?" or "Can today please be one day when no one dies in the world by the hand of another person?"

Then, at the end of the day, we make a comment. Sometimes we could let others read it---those we love, those we ponder with, those who write questions with us on rainy Monday mornings. Sometimes, we'll keep comments to ourselves---our gratitudes, our forgivenesses, our successes. Sometimes, we'll call our best friends to share with--our suffering, our anger, our frustration. But every day, we have a place to wonder about and a place to confide in. And it couldn't be on an electronic device--it would have to be on a little piece of paper (recycled preferably). That way our queries and ponderings would not be erased, forgotten, deleted, sent off into cyberspace never to be heard from again. But our sorrows, joys, wonderings and insights would all be kept in one little drawer for later inspection. For a boost when we needed it---a reminder that there was a day not so long ago when you were on top of the world, and now you know that feeling can and will return, because it was there once, and so it can be there again. You can see this. Feel it. Touch it. It's real. Or, we may want to briefly return to our sufferings and sorrows---not to wallow in them or be suffocated by them---but simply to notice how far we've come since that moment and to know the power of loving and communicating intimately with ourselves and each other.

Old, White and Out Of My League

**ONE OF THE RARER MOMENTS OF TEACHING SUCCESS: TWO OF MY FAVE HOMIES READING LINES FROM SOPHOCLES' "ANTIGONE"**

I've been unemployed for just over six months - nine months if you count the three months of summer vacation I received as a public school teacher. And, by the way, whoever says teachers don't deserve their summers - are crazy! In fact, I think I deserve six months of unemployment AND a summer vacation. I must have worked at least 60 hour weeks, regularly. My teaching job was very, very difficult.

Perhaps this last time around felt more difficult than my first year because I had nothing to compare my first year of teaching to. I was just thrown into it...and survived. But teaching middle school for three years in the rural South turned out to be much easier than teaching public high school in a wealthy suburb of San Francisco. Whooda guessed? After working in NYC, I didn't think these kids could be THAT tough. But they were. Though the school was in an affluent neighborhood, MY students were from "EPA" - East Palo Alto (which was as "ghetto" as SF suburbs get). One afternoon I drove around their "hood" to check it out. It reminded me of scenes from "Boys in the Hood" - the irony of a beautiful, shining sun and graceful palm trees juxtaposed with dark, tinted car windows and unkempt, sad houses. Most of my students were AfAm, Pacific Islander, and Hispanic...and poor...like most of the students I came across in my career. But these small-town kids had big-city attitudes - and, surprisingly, their lives could be just as violent. I remember one day being fed up with their 'tudes and, before I knew them very well, said, "You think you're so tough? You wouldn't last ONE DAY in the Bronx!"

Yeah. That went over REALLY well.

Actually, they probably WOULD have been humbled by life in some of the tougher Bronx neighborhoods, but undermining their hardships didn't help my cause - which was trying to reach them. (I was learning, too.)

It was a tough career transition for me - moving from NYC to CA. Prior to CA, I spent 4.5 years working "professionally" in New York City. I had a corner office (which included a door I was free to close at any time for peace and quiet), frequent flier miles, a company AmEx, respectful and intellectual colleagues, and rental car gold service. Did I mention I could see the Empire State Building from my window? Then, I moved to California, wanting to get back on "the ground" - back in "the trenches" so to speak - and took a job teaching in a public high school. This was a MUCH different work atmosphere. The culture shock was palpable. When I closed my door, I didn't get peace and quiet. I could always hear the harsh, angry, sexist, racist, and just downright mean language that students used within and among their little cliques as they loitered outside my windows and doors in the beautiful California sun. Sometimes it got so bad, I politely asked them to move away from my windows so I could eat my lunch. Between the beautiful sun and their (at the risk of sounding like an old, conservative bag) dirty mouths, the contrast was stark and I didn't miss the irony of it. My job was filled with ironies like these (which, as an English teacher, I appreciated)...

I recall once having a young man, a student from my 9th grade "Below-Basic English Class" (this brilliant course label was the administration's doing - indicative of their creative classification system and keen ability for respectful anonymity and political correctness) enter my room during lunch one day in the usual fashion - no "hello", no "excuse me, Ms. Heaney", but the much more friendly burst-in-the-door-and-don't-make-eye-contact approach. I was used to it.

"Hi, Chip!" I ventured a connection with the student, whose brother had been shot and killed earlier that year in gang-related violence. "How's it going?" I asked, sounding whiter than ever.

"Humph." Chip rustled through his writing folder which sat in a neatly labeled file box on a shelf under the windows.

"You okay?" I could sense anger. Actually, with Chip, I always sensed anger. It was his modus operandi. I'd probably be pretty pissed off, too, if my brother died from gang violence and the only choice for me was to be in a gang. To be "forced" to ally with the same entity that got your brother killed? If you're a logical person, and Chip was (at times), I ask you...WHERE'S THE LOGIC IN THAT?

"'M getting suspended," he mumbled.

"Oh! Well, what happened?" I was always genuinely concerned, and tried not to sound nosey.

"They thought I did something I didn't. They kickin' me out." The student's rarely admitted fault, so it was so hard to know a lie from the truth. I didn't pry further. For all of his anger and issues, Chip was a smart kid...with REALLY good handwriting for that matter. This was like a huge bonus for me. I LOVED my good-handwriting students. They were a rarity. I thought of good handwriting as a sign of intelligence and patience (I guess you could read those last two statements and conclude that I thought most of my students were bereft of both...which isn't true. I am making a generalization with no scientific proof to back it up. It just works for this story right now. So, permit me to continue without your judgement. Thanks.). Anyway, Chip had both, even if he chose not to use them very often in school. He was very artistic, too. I wondered why he was in my room fishing through his writing folder.

"Do you need something?" I asked.

"Yeah, I want to make up work while I'm out."

"Hallelujah!" I thought. Breakthroughs in teaching usually happen completely without a teacher's planning (as often as we plan and plan and plan, it makes you wonder). Really, I think Chip feared the boredom that would hit him at home. This is probably what led his older brother to be killed. I think it's what leads so many of these bright minority kids to gangs and violence. Kids who have no resources, no tutors, no community outreach programs, but who do have creative ideas and street smarts must get terribly BORED in some of these neighborhoods! Sometimes I think our military would have much more success planning invasions of our worst neighborhoods, "shocking and awing" the gangs out of existence, and then letting the Peace Corps in to set up resources for our AMERICAN kids. We have so many issues here. Can we deal with those first, BEFORE we try changing the rest of the world? But I digress (as usual)...

I'm not blaming it on the community per se. I was there. I was trying to help and give these kids something to do that was interesting. But it's not my job to raise kids. I was there to TEACH them. When are administrators and the public going to starting letting teachers teach and start asking parents to parent? I'm sorry but, too often I hear this and that about raising the bar for teachers and expecting more from our teachers, etc, etc. I also heard the Superintendent say, "We do all we can to keep the best and the brightest teachers in our schools." Well, I was a good teacher. I got laid off. I held high standards and am highly educated. I worked my ass off. They didn't try to keep me on. And how much were the parents of my students working to help their kids? Open Houses for me were jokes! I would have like 5 parents come by. I mostly just sat, prepped and ready with worksheets and samples of student work, listening to crickets and watching it get darker and darker outside. WHERE WERE MY STUDENTS' PARENTS? It made me very angry (obviously). Anyway...back to Chip...

"Oh, well, here are a few things you can do while you're out." I handed him some assignments and a list of make-up work that he needed to...well, make up.

"A-ight," and with those word(s?), Chip turned and began to walk out the door.

"Hey, Chip, what's your shirt say?" I yelled out as he walked away.

He turned, emotionless, to show me. It read, "Young, Black and Gifted"

Oh, the irony.

It should have read: Young, Black, Gifted, and BORED! Challenge me, please! Don't stick me in classes labeled "Below Basic" and expect me to feel good about myself. And, please, MOM, DAD, come meet my teachers and make sure I do my homework. And don't let me join a gang and die like my brother! Take this "Chip" off my shoulder - and call me "ED"!

Chip's REAL name was Edward, but he insisted I called him "Chip" and would not answer to Ed or Edward. (Did you catch the irony there, too?)

"Got it. Well, see you later, Edw...I mean, Chip."

"A-ight."

Distractions and the iTunes Elves

It seems that whenever I turn my iTunes on “shuffle” and just let the music play, the right songs - with the right messages for that moment - come through. Cold Play, “A Message,” Eva Cassidy, “Songbird,” then “Thank U” by Alanis Morrissette, “Your Body is a Wonderland” by John Mayer, and finally “Feelin’ Groovy” by Simon & Garfunkel. I was needing a message - a song of hope - to remind myself that when I am feeling low, to be thankful anyway, and no less to remember that I am a wonderland and that makes me feel groovy. What’s up with the little elves in my computer that know just what to play for me, exactly at the right time and depending on my mood? I was needing inspiration, and I got it. Music heals, I tell you. Truly does.

I apologize to my ten subscribers (p.s. I love you!) that I haven’t written a blip in about three weeks. Like many other things in my life, I’m often gung-ho, uber-psyched for the first few rounds. It’s just the next thousand that I need help with. My friend, Christine, made a similar comment about exercise. The first week, we loose five pounds of water weight and feel amazing. The next week? We gain .5 and that second slice of chocolate cake looks way to good to be wasted. What is it that makes us – let’s call ourselves – artists (we all are in some way) loose our momentum? Distractions? Yes. The television. An amazing king-sized, super-soft bed and a God-given ability to hit the snooze button as many times as we darn well please. A phone call. Dinner. The opposite sex. Sex, for that matter. That incredibly interesting 7^th episode of Lost (season 1) that I just have to see because I can in an instant (…now that I got Netflix. I tried to avoid the whole scam that is television by conscientiously choosing not to have a television, but Netflix has me hooked. Do you know about this service, people? You should! --- just kidding. I’m the turtle in the tech race…but, remember who won the race, folks! That’s right! anyway…)

Speaking of…distractions, digressions…these things that keep me from writing. What is so darn compelling about them that they pull me away from what I love? I love writing. I really do. I get lost in it. Time rolls by. Suddenly it’s three hours later and I’m taking a breath. It is the “Rhythm of [my] Life” (Paula Cole song presently playing on my iTunes shuffle). I love writing, so why is it always the first thing to be sacrificed when the schedule gets full? Or better yet, why do I fill my schedule with everything but writing? Why do I not carve out time for the thing I love most? This blog is so fun! I don’t even care if people read it (though it is extremely gratifying to get a “comment’ in my inbox…so keep ‘em coming fellow artistas!)!

I just love to write stuff. Since I was little. When I was like seven or eight, I wrote this really funny 7-page story. (I remember being very proud of the number of pages – SEVEN!). It was very complex. I wrote about a cat that chased a mouse around the house and finally the mouse stopped running one day to ask the cat, “Why are you doing this?” The cat couldn’t come up with a good answer for the senseless roundabouts, so the two decided to become friends.

I wrote the story in big block letters in a little black journal. I think I even skipped lines – I was taking myself very seriously. The left margin, however, progressively crowded in towards the right margin, which made the text on each page shaped like an upside-down pyramid. I had a hard time with margins, I suppose…and coloring in the lines for that matter. In fact, my kindergarten teacher told my mother I would never be creative. Isn’t that funny? What is it with those kindergarten teachers? Well, I did turn out to be creative (So there, Mrs. Whateveryournamewasnotnicewoman!). I’m just right-brained (hence, the right-leaning margins). Anyway, the cat/mouse plot was my first creative story. It had an exposition (“once upon a time…”), some rising action (…”round and round they went every day…”), a climax (“…the mouse turns to the cat and says, “Why are you chasing me, anyway?”) and a resolution (“…and they lived happily ever after.”) Not totally original, but a story nonetheless. I was in 3^rd grade maybe? I have kept a journal ever since. I think I wrote a story for a contest in Owl Magazine, too. Didn’t win a Pulitzer for that one, but it’s all good (they probably just lost my entry). It’s not about the fame, anyway, but for solitary souls like us writers, seeing something you’ve written in print is quite gratifying. (Hence, the blog.)

Okay, back to my thoughts about distractions (speaking of) and iTunes songs. Since my recent layoff and the ending of an important relationship in my life, I decided to dive headlong into going back to graduate school to get my PhD. Well! If that’s not a reason to stop writing and get my ass in gear, I don’t know what is! Right? Right. No. Wait. Really? I’m not sure it is. I think I just wanted something to do (as if “doing writing” is not doing really anything). Studying for the GRE’s, however, (both the regular one and what they call the “English Literature Subject Area” GRE – a horrible, tortuous ETS joke), and researching schools, and emailing professors, and browsing through impossible-to-understand faculty “areas of research” and trying to figure out which one could be a mentor for me…whew! Now that’s DOING something! There’s so much to do, bygonnit! No time to write. What a silly pastime! A PhD…now that’s a worthy pursuit!

Well, that was three weeks ago and no blog since then. And guess what? I don’t like it. I feel overwhelmed and over my head. Tonight, after talking to my too-wise-for-his-age brother, I realized I’ve gotten into something that might be considered a distraction. I need to get back to balance. Writing heals me. It understands me. Even when I have nothing to offer it, somehow it still appreciates me and gives me an opportunity to grow.

The PhD? Well, the verdict is still out. I have been studying like a madwoman for the GRE’s (which are in November). I’m revisiting Chaucer (Old English, right?), Alexander Pope (Restoration period poet…got the flashcard), and Lord knows who else is on the list next (Norton Anthologies are my best friend these days). My mind is a-flutter. It’s nearly impossible to study ALL of English Literature, but somehow the ETS folks decided what constitutes the basics of what any undergraduate English major should know (and remember…ha! the cruelest joke of all!) and then puts it together in a test which is used as a determiner of your ability to be successful as a PhD student. Whatever! Being a PhD candidate, I’m finding out, is A LOT different than just extended MA or BA work (all the academics go, “DUH!”). You actually have to start researching and writing, like, cutting-edge rhetorical theories and literary philosophies and discover areas of literature that have not yet been discovered! But…no pressure. I just want to write a book or two and teach college, man. Why all that other stuff? Can’t I just get back to my simple cat and mouse story, a cup of coffee, and a syllabus that no student reads?

So here I am. At my desk. The mouse just stopped me and said, “Why are you doing this?” (this, being the PhD chase.) Cool it, man. Let’s be friends. Let’s write simply, which is my way through this. I am not sure which path to take. Or perhaps all the paths I see are good to take a few steps into, and one will prove the right way while the others fall away. Maybe I should put aside the distractions, stop trying to “play the perfect dream” to suit my mood, and just put my dreams on “shuffle” and let the little elves choose the right dream to play. Right? Shouldn’t it be that easy? I think so. Let go of the distractions and, maybe just listen, follow the insights, and grow.

My Own Confusion

Walking with my dog through downtown, I stopped into this kitschy but creative retail store on the main street where I’ve purchased some strange and goofy gifts from in the past (like magnets of cat butts and a book about horrendous baby names) for my good-humored sister and brother-in-law. There was a "Help Wanted" sign on the door and so I thought I'd fill out an application - a writer needs to supplement the income, right? And how glorious to work in a store that might actually make me laugh! It would be a welcomed change from a classroom of teenagers that usually made me cry (sometimes, yes, they did).

Anyway, I walked up to the counter and a young, stylish Indian girl was talking with an old, Asian female customer. The Asian woman was leaning over the counter and saying, "You need check your computer! That 27 dollars. That too much!" The Indian girl said impatiently, "No, it's 26 dollars." I got the feeling this wasn't the beginning of the conversation. I just stood patiently. The Asian woman spoke again, "Oh?" she said, and stared at the Indian girl, who just stared back, confused. Then the Asian customer repeated, "You check. 27 too much. Check computer." The Indian girl spoke with irritation, slowly, "Yeah. I checked. It's 26." The Asian woman threw up her hands with a “Humph!” and walked out of the store.

The Indian girl was clearly shaken by the confusing non-conversation. She turned and looked at me, but didn't say anything, her eyes wide. So I just waited for her to get her bearings. I smiled. She finally said, "Oh! Sorry. That was really weird. I think that woman was drunk!" We both laughed, and I asked for an application. She said they only accepted resumes and didn’t have applications to fill out. “Oh. Okay,” I said. “Maybe I’ll bring one by later,” and turned to leave.

Almost to the door, I stopped at the funny magnets section (I always do). There was one that had a photo of Obama that said, "The President of the United States: Now with 20% more funk!" I chuckled. Then I saw one with a photo of Jack Kerouac, whose writing I just got into after visiting the old Beatnik bookstore, City Lights, in San Francisco this summer. In fact, I’m almost finished with Caroline Cassidy's book, Off the Road. She was the wife of Neal Cassidy who was Kerouac's friend and the inspiration behind Kerouac's wild main character, Dean Moriarty, in On the Road. Caroline was probably in her 40's or 50's when she wrote her book, which is inspiring. And, hey, she's quite a good writer! Imagine the insecurities she had writing her book, being surrounded by such Beat greats as Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg! Jack was actually in love with her; they had an affair. Lord, talk about confusion! That poor woman had to endure some serious craziness being married to the infamous Neal Cassidy and being a lover to Jack Kerouac. Talk about ups and downs! It too much! But I won't spoil it for you, and...I digress.

So, ANYWYAY, it was cool that there was actually a Kerouac magnet at the store. How apropos, I thought, since I’ve been getting inspired by the Beatniks' wicked antics and strange quests for spiritual knowledge through their writing. The magnet said, " 'I have nothing to offer anyone except my own confusion.' - Jack Kerouac " Lovely! Confusion, indeed. Apparently, Kerouac was lambasted by most critics for On the Road when it was first published. Even Ginsberg, Jack's good friend said something about the stream-of-consciousness style being appropriate only for someone who thought like the author, which, I think, was insinuating that Jack’s style was a bit unliterary and boorish, and his writing unattainable for most readers. But, Jack kept writing anyway, though he was plagued with doubt and insecurity. (His alcoholism was likely a way to numb those thoughts, I'm sure. It's such a bummer about that!) But, anyway, I liked what Kerouac said about offering others our own confusion. Somehow, that was comforting to me. It was kind of like seeing the wide eyes of that Indian girl behind the counter who looked at me in utter confusion. That was all she had to offer me at that moment, and, hey, we both got a good laugh from it!

Too often we think we shouldn’t be confused. We should know the answers all the time and right away. We can’t just sit still in our confusion for a bit. We look to self-help books and priests and gurus to sort out our confusion and help us find the answers instead of trusting our own wisdom. We even look to books that are not self help, but that at least tell us a nice little story that has a message that we hear or a mystery that we can solve and has a last page we can finish and a cover we can shut and a shelf we can put it away on or, better yet, a friend we can pass it along to – a conclusion to the confusion. But I think confusion is part of the process, and it's part of the plot. It’s what most books are about - the long and arduous process of figuring it out. The exciting climax is the shortest part of the book! It’s the instantaneous tipping point that hopefully results in some resolution, some end to the confusion. And we sigh with relief! But maybe we don’t have to wait to the end to sigh with relief and we can actually laugh along the way. Like right now, I'm confused about how to be a writer, but I'm trusting the process and being okay with not knowing (most of the time). Right now, all I have to offer is just that – my confusion! At least I'm clear about it (ha!).

As for the little Asian lady...well, hopefully she had her resolution somewhere, later that day. I appreciated the girl at the counter being open with me about her confusion, and Kerouac, too…because, hey, we're all still learning, right? We’re all tangling and mangling around in the plot part of the book most of the time. But, then, our book comes to a climax and we’re okay. We have a resolution. We have a magnet. Hallelujah! So I guess when we are confused, we might as well just smile, sigh, get our bearings, keep reading, and know we’ll eventually be okay. And in the meantime, we can all have a good laugh about it - with 100% more funk!

Day 1 - Taking a Risk

So you wanna be a writer? What does it take? Well, I'm not sure. Wisdom and strength, I guess. I've tried to be a writer for several years now, and perhaps have had the wisdom, but not the strength; or had the strength, but not the wisdom. (I fear I cannot get both in the same moment.) I'm 37 and still haven't stepped out and actually done it. I recently saw the movie Julie & Julia and was inspired to start a blog. Not in the hopes of getting a book and movie contract (my story - at this point - is anything but compelling...it's not even written yet!), but simply because the movie drove home the fact that sometimes you just have to take a risk to do your art; whether it's writing, cooking, or making a movie, for that matter (congrats, Columbia Pictures).

I've read a lot about living an artistic life and tried to do it. About six years ago I did write and produce a music CD and even dared to step out for a national grass-roots tour with it. I am constantly irked by my guitar sitting idle in the corner of my apartment. Am I just too old? I love The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, and On Writing by Stephen King. These writers have all taken risks to create the art that compels them, drives them. (I wonder...at what point did Stephen or Anne reply to a stranger's inquiry regarding their occupation, "I'm a writer!"? Oh, to be able to answer so boldy! And then, at what point did their family members reply in kind when asked - "Gee, what's Anne up to these days?"...the true test.).

I am at my wit's end, as well, being that I was laid off from teaching (along with 6,999ish other California public school teachers) and have no job prospects to speak of. So, really, I've got nothing to lose. I'm wondering how I'm going to pay my rent, feed my dog, and actually start writing a book. I guess I'll have to take a risk. I even came up with plan that chaotically includes playing music, tutoring English, and part-timing at a restaurant and a retail shop in town. (Somehow, I will need to fit writing into the mix. Early mornings, here I come.) I don't know what I have to lose at this point, as I don't have much, but it feels like a big risk. I'm scared; but it also feels exciting. I guess I'm not sure which feeling I should pay attention to.