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Book Review-On Writing

If you’re a Stephen King fan, like me, or not, you will enjoy his book On Writing. This best-selling author leads the reader on the pathway of learning to write well. Mr. King simply and succinctly describes all he knows about writing; from first drafts, character traits, theme, getting rid of adverbs, to how to find an agent and publisher.
One idea the author emphasizes is write your first draft with the door shut. Later share your work with the door open. This makes sense to me. He states that getting your ideas down on paper should be done privately and quickly. When finished, put down your baby (your first draft), come back later and read it, revising and editing your mistakes (there will be many). Once you’ve done these first steps, then make your writing public. Let your spouse, soul mate, or close friend become your “Ideal Reader.” Let your “IR” make corrections and suggestions. Listen to their ideas.
Another point of emphasis from King is competent writers must be readers too. He reads 70 books a year. He gets ideas from these books, and studies the styles of different authors. He gives a suggested book list at the end of the book.
While I learned a tremendous amount from this book, my favorite part was King’s memoirs. He tells of his childhood, his first published stories, his struggles with alcohol and cocaine, and finally the accident that almost killed him. It’s an intriguing story.
I highly recommend this book, and stay away from those adverbs!

Late Write with Mark DeBow

Late Write with Mark DeBow

 

“We will be right back after a few short messages from our sponsor, The Oregon Writing Project, with tonight’s top ten…” (Music fades in, then out)

 

“I hold in my hand the top ten reasons teachers should participate in the OWP!”

 

Number 10- You get to Paint

Where else is someone going to show me how to pre-moisten the watercolor paper, or not to leave the paintbrush, brush side down, in the rinse water to prevent “bed head”. Not only did my painting skills improve (my painting hangs on the refrigerator door), but I had the opportunity to write a “Super Sentence.” Thanks, Derek.

 

Number 9- It’s Cerebral

My wife says my intelligence, recall, and comprehension have improved 100% since joining the Oregon Writing Project. This class has stretched my potential as a teacher and especially as a writer. Sharing your essays makes you vulnerable in a positive way. You need to take risks, and that doesn’t happen in the backyard hot tub, unless you’re naked.

 

Number 8- Blog Technology

Lately, I just tell my friends, “Check out my Blog.” Not only was I challenged as a writer and teacher, I also put my essays and reviews on the WWW for all to see. After writing a personal narrative about an incident with a friend at age 14, I e-mailed my old friend and attached the story. He electronically responded to me from Tokyo.

 

Number 7- Overcoming Peer Fear

Whoa! Here’s a huge personal growth story. Before the class, I was whining about losing weeks of vacation, and worse than that, I had to “share” my writing! I was so nervous that I shook, perspired, and my voice cracked when I first read aloud my writing, but with a supportive response/editing group, I overcame my anxieties.

 

Number 6- Groovy Guest Speakers

Tom Layton was magnificent, and showed me all about web logs, video phone calls, and the power of the Internet. Bill Strong gave a terrific presentation about sentence combining. His ideas will fit well into my writing curriculum. Ingrid Wendt made me look through a poet’s eyes. I actually felt as if I were able to produce real poetry. I’m sure my students will benefit.

Also, Karen Antikajian’s practical classroom ideas, and Nat Teich’s incredible insight will be forever valuable to me.

 

Number 5- Great Gadgets and Gimmicks

Where else could one learn about and experience: the PVC editing phone, thumb drives, and clown clothing for revising?

 

 

Number 4- Practice What You Teach

Here’s another story of growth for me. How many times have I told students that you must brainstorm, write a first draft, revise and edit, and produce a final copy? Well, I followed this model in my own writing assignments for this course, and I was able to produce, what I consider, some quality essays.

 

Number 3- FREE STUFF!

Thumb drives, PVC editing phones, refrigerator magnets, quick-flip writing trait references, the National Writing Project’s 30 Ideas for Teaching Writing, composition books, presentations, and much more, ALL FOR FREE!

 

Number 2- Colleague Camaraderie

The OWP is a place to share and grow with people who are interested and committed to one common ideal- the excellent education of children. A mountain can be moved by people banded together with a vision of commitment to kids.

 

“Drum roll please!”

 

And the number one reason to participate in the Oregon Writing Project- THE FOOD! Need I say more? Thanks OWP!

 

 

 

 

The Seven Chairs

Mark DeBow

Assignment 3

 

 

The Seven Chairs

By Harris Burdick

The legend states there are seven chairs that affect us eternally. Consequences for our choices. Is it coincidence that there are seven deadly sins? You be the judge.

 

I’d heard tales of the first four chairs, but the sketchy details were shrouded in secrecy. The fifth one ended up in France one warm July evening in 1967. I was young a monk in a countryside monastery, St. Martin’s, just north of Marseille near the Mediterranean coast. That evening at sunset, a woman appeared inside our monastery dressed in a nun’s habit suspended overhead. She sat in a heavy wooden chair sadly repeating, “Seated, sealed in my eternal fate...”

 

My friend, Jean-Paul, and I were shocked with disbelief after that first encounter, but after daily appearances at dusk, we grew accustomed to her presence, and yet we remained extremely curious. We would question her, “Who are you? What’s the meaning of the chair? Why do you float above the Holy Water?” She never responded to our queries, nor did she even seem to notice us. With a sadness deeply embedded in face, she quietly repeated, “Seated, sealed in my eternal fate…”

 

After many years, my fellow monks and I began to pay little attention to the hovering holy woman. She became an apparition, an illusion, a spirit. She became a family secret locked in the attics of our minds. She seemed doomed to float in our Abbey Church forever.

 

Then came a day I will never forget. July 7, 1977 was like any other monotonous day in the monastery. As usual, all the young men and I had awoken early and completed our daily chores, devotions, and prayers. With the exception of dark, cloudy, and ominous skies (unusual for July in southern France), our day was typical until she appeared. There was a crack of thunder and a scent of brimstone in the air as the nun in the chair become visible to Jean-Paul and me. A raven was perched on her shoulder and a misty aura surrounded the mystical pair. The black bird with glassy, ebony eyes stared knowingly into my soul. The raven, dark as a moonless night, turned to the woman and seemed to softly whisper in her ear. She appeared surprised and turned to the bird. Her lips moved, but we could hear no words. Hanging above our heads she slowly focused her attention toward us, two startled, unbelieving monks, and simply stated, “My name is Sister Theresa.”

 

Questions from Jean-Paul and me immediately blasted her like bullets from a machine gun: “Why do you speak to us today?”; “Why is there a raven on your shoulder”; “Why do you dwell in our monastery?”

 

With a look of relief on her face, she quietly confessed to us, “I gave my soul for this chair.” She paused before continuing, “You see, there are seven chairs, sins really. Power is what I bartered for, and I ended eternally sentenced to this chair. I had always coveted Mother Superior’s position of power, and on a July morning in 1957 a strange little man approached me near the church plaza. He was odd looking with beady dark eyes like a crow; he knew more than he should about me, including my deepest thoughts. He bargained with me. I could sit at the altar in Mother Superior’s chair in return for a bit of gratitude. I asked what he meant by gratitude, and he replied that I only had to agree to remain in that chair of power. I eagerly agreed.” She inhaled deeply then finished, “Today, I forever wish I had never coveted power or met that peculiar and evil man.”

 

“But, why are you here at St Martin’s?” I questioned.

 

“This is my interminable place of doom; a sentence for my covetous crime,” she sadly stated as her eyes welled, and a single tear rolled down her left cheek.

 

Jean-Paul solicited, “If you are seated in the fifth chair, where are the remaining chairs?”

 

“If pride, envy, greed, or an abundance of human desires are deeply embedded in your heart, be aware of where you sit!” she warned us as the raven squawked.

 

With that warning she was gone. She still appears at twilight every evening high in the monastery rafters, but she is an aura-- a translucent figure condemned to that seat. I will always have the memory of Sister Theresa in my heart. Hopefully it will leave little room for desirous thoughts, and I will be forever cautious of where I rest my weary bones.

Miracle

Mark DeBow

Assignment 2

 

I believe in miracles. My eighteen year old daughter, McKenzie, is living proof. You see, she was born with a rare genetic skin disorder called Epidermolysis Bullosa. EB causes her skin, with repeated friction, to blister and peel. Her epidermis (outer skin) doesn’t adhere well to her dermis. Despite being born with the doctor’s fingerprints on her tiny head, and feet so abraded by blisters that they resembled raw meat, she’s a thriving, successful, and intelligent young woman. Mostly she’s a strong and spirited survivor.

As soon as McKenzie was born, the hospital personnel whisked her away to the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). Alarmingly, the delivery doc wasn’t able to tell us what was wrong with our newborn child, and she was worried about infection and the unknown. Our family pediatrician, Dr. Fickenscher, was the first to give us a diagnosis. He recalled a child born with similar symptoms when he was a young intern in the service.

After a biopsy and a week in the NICU, my wife Karlyn and I carried our baby home on a sheepskin blanket. We carried her everywhere on that blanket.  As instructed, we painfully popped blisters with a sterile needle, carefully bandaged her, and bathed her with loving attention. It broke our hearts to see these bandages caused even more blisters. We couldn’t dress her in all the adorable outfits from relatives and baby showers. We used Muppet Baby gloves to protect her from rubbing her eyes and causing more trauma. Karlyn had a difficult time getting McKenzie to nurse. She wasn’t gaining weight which worried her dietitian mother and me. It seemed like everything we did was hopeless.

When she was five weeks old and hovering around her birth weight, we visited one of only four EB clinics in the nation- the University of Washington Children’s Hospital. The dermatologist was Dr. Virginia Sybert. I will never forget Dr. Sybert because she was the first person to give us hope. She was our angel cloaked in a white lab coat. She believed that McKenzie’s form of EB was a simplex variety called Dowling Meara. The odds of this genetic mutation were one in a million, just like my daughter. Unlike dystrophic EB, Dowling Meara sufferers get better, especially after the first year, and have minimal scarring. We were given an enormous amount of information, but two things the specialist told us I’ll never forget: She was in contact with twenty year old boy, who had EB Dowling Meara, and she described him as a “stud” whose only difficulty was blistering caused by his ski boots. Secondly, she assured us that McKenzie would walk to kindergarten. The biopsy completed earlier confirmed Dr. Sybert’s diagnosis. We were ecstatic!

As parents of a special child, we endured impolite questions and stares. Small children with beautiful skin would innocently inquire about McKenzie’s condition. Once an especially rude woman at Safeway asked about our child. I briefly explained EB to her, and she blurted without thinking, “Oh, thank goodness, I thought she’d been attacked by dogs.” We didn’t know if we should laugh or cry. Gallows humor was prescribed by our friends, Mike and Connie, themselves parents of a special child. They told us to keep a list of all the insensitive remarks we heard. They also related that we’d just unwittingly joined the club nobody wants to be in- the Random Genetic Mutation Club.

Things did get better though. We were put in touch with a support organization. (DebRA) With the help of others, we learned how to treat this awful disorder. We ordered expensive first aid wrap made especially for burn victims, fed her high calorie formula, and dressed her in designer cotton clothing with no elastic. McKenzie’s three year old brother, Matthew, was so kind and gentle. He invented the “Gently Hug” and tagged her with the nickname “Blister Sister”. We developed a regimen of care, bandaging and bathing twice a day. The first year was terribly difficult with blisters, eating issues (though she loved soft and gooey Cinnabons), and constant concern about infection. She never really crawled, because we were always afraid of what the friction of movement would cause. At fifteen months McKenzie took her first steps, but she didn’t just walk, she ran, and she’s never stopped running.

  To my astonishment, McKenzie was soon playing soccer, basketball, and t-ball. She didn’t blister easily anymore. When her neighbor friend, Patrick, learned to ride a bike at age four, five year old McKenzie was ticked! She taught herself to ride the very next day. We could always see a strong spirit of competition in everything she attempted. She could also be very bossy. While playing a basketball game, she yelled at her friend and teammate, “Lacey, you’ve scored enough. Now pass me the ball!” Whether it’s Scrabble or soccer, she HATES to lose!

She was a real grouch if her team lost, and after a rare fourth grade basketball defeat, her attitude was especially sour. Her head hung down and tears welled in her eyes as she slowly shuffled out of the gym. My wife was exasperated with her attitude and snapped, “Well, maybe you’re just too competitive and shouldn’t play sports anymore.”

“Then what should I do?” a teary-eyed nine year old sobbed.

 

“How about art? You’re good at art!” replied her mother.

 

“What about art CONTESTS?!” asserted my strong-willed daughter.

 

She attacks life as a tiger attacks its prey. She’s determined, dedicated, and driven. She jumps on largest horse on the carrousel of life, and then reaches out and grabs the dangling ring of success boldly and bravely.

 

This gung-ho attitude has been duplicated in the classroom. She’s had straight A’s throughout middle school and high school with the exception of one B in Mr. Keenan’s pre-calculus class. Even though the grade was below her standard, she maintained a mature attitude, but she’s still a bit peeved that the 89.9 percent wasn’t good enough for an A- or at least a B+. Now she’s graduated from high school with honors and accolades; Spanish Immersion Student of the year, Community Service Student of the Year, diplomas from Sheldon High and the International High School, three college scholarships including the prestigious Presidential Scholarship to Seattle Pacific University, and I could continue to brag, but I won’t.

 

Therefore, McKenzie, this is my tribute to you. My hats off in awe-inspiring admiration of you! I’m sure you’ll continue to persevere and succeed. The lessons learned are numerous. I’ve gained awareness of what it takes to be a survivor and how to fight back when the odds are stacked against you. You’ve taught me to always do my best, keep an eye on the ball, and your life will be a home run! Congratulations, Miraculous McKenzie!

 

Click below for more information on EB.

(DebRA- Dystrophic Epidermolysis Bullosa Research Association)

Busted!

                                                 Busted!

    “Who taught you to drive, Dad?” my fifteen year old daughter inquired. I was nervously seated in the passenger seat of the family SUV. My mind flashed back to the spring vacation of 1970 in Salem, Oregon.
     My best friend and neighbor, Mike Fagen, and I had decided to put up a basketball hoop. We had already assembled the pole, basket, and backboard. With youthful energy, we’d dug a four foot deep hole. All we lacked was cement. No problem. We’ll just wait for Mike’s older brother Cal to drive us to the lumberyard. Fourteen year old boys don’t have a lot of patience, and after ten long minutes, we developed “Plan B”. This involved walking two miles to Keith Brown Lumber to buy a bag of Ready-Mix Concrete and carry it home.
     The cashier laughed and shook his head as we told him our plan to carry the eighty pound sack home. We lugged it thirty grueling steps across Portland Road to the Chevron station before we realized “Plan B” was a bust. The gas station attendant wasn’t exactly thrilled that we were leaving a large obstruction in front of his station while we traipsed back hoping Cal was home. He wasn’t. “What are we gonna do now, Einstein?” Mike quipped.
     My father was attending a seminar in Chicago that week. His 1963 Cutlass convertible was parked in the garage, my mom was at work, and the keys were dangling temptingly in the laundry room. Hmm… So, in my best imitation of a seasoned driver, I haltingly backed the Olds out of the garage and down the driveway. With Mike proudly in the passenger seat, we carefully drove to the gas station, tossed the hefty load in the trunk, and I drove home like a pro.
     “Man, that was great!” I announced with bravado. In fact, we enjoyed the newfound freedom of driving so much, that we decided that we were WAY too cool to be stuck in my driveway shooting hoops. It made much more sense to abandon our project and drive to Kennedy Elementary to practice our jump shots. And, that’s exactly what we did. Mario Andretti would have been proud of my deft driving ability. Upon return, we were feeling very independent and mature.
     The next day after my mom left for work, Mike and I ran a variety of errands (driving, of course), returned for tuna fish sandwiches, and then leisurely drove to the grade school playground.
     Our latest road trip was going smoothly until we saw a Salem Police cruiser coming toward us on the four lane corridor. CRAP!!! He undoubtedly noticed that the top of my head was level with the steering wheel. Our eyes locked, and we both knew I was busted! I panicked! I jerked the convertible from the left lane into the right lane, cutting off and nearly hitting a sedan driven by an old lady. Due to my erratic driving, predictably the policeman made an abrupt U-turn. Resigned to my fate, I turned right and pulled over onto the gravel shoulder. The officer pulled in behind us his red and blue lights flashing. He asked for my license, and I told him I didn’t have one... yet. He inquired of my age and I stuttered, “F,f,fourteen, sir.” I was cited for reckless lane change and driving without a license. Mike and I were sent walking home with our tails between our legs. The car was stranded on the side of the road, a symbol of our stupidity.
     It was bad enough that I had to confess my illegal driving to my mother that evening, but calling my father halfway across the country was torturous. He just happened to be the Director of Driver Improvement for DMV. I explained the situation to my dad. He was obviously disappointed. He calmly told me, “We’ll discuss this when I get home.” and hung up. The three day wait for his return was more painful than any prison sentence imaginable.
     When my father finally returned, he sat me down, looked me in the eye, and firmly stated, “I’m sure you’ll never make a mistake like this again.” Then we discussed the issue of trust and I went to bed. Thankfully, it was the first decent night’s sleep I’d had in seventy two nerve wrenching hours. I slept like a log.
     The saga of my underage driving was not over though. I was scheduled to appear at Marion County Juvenile Court presided by Judge Albin Norblad, otherwise known as the “Hanging Judge”. That was the day I first experienced perspiration. I was so anxious as my father and I sat waiting in the deep red leather chairs of Judge Norblad’s office that sweat began to bead under my arms and trickle down my sides. The “Hanging Judge” suspended my Driver’s Permit for thirty days after my fifteenth birthday. Luckily, I was in no hurry to drive for long while!
     So I’m not sure who taught me how to drive. Self taught, maybe? Mike Fagen, doubtful. My dad, probably. Just like I’m trying skittishly to teach my own daughter to drive. Hopefully, she won’t make the same mistakes as her old man!

Mark DeBow