"If you write one story, it may be bad; if you write a hundred, you have the odds in your favor." – Edgar Rice Burroughs
Week Ten.
Challenge Writing Tasks.
I.
In the tradition of Ten of Jimmy Fallon's Funniest 'Thank You Notes', my own thank you notes.
II.
A revision of some week eight writing in line with Gary Provost's piece on sentence variation (below).
Challenge Writing Tasks.
I.
In the tradition of Ten of Jimmy Fallon's Funniest 'Thank You Notes', my own thank you notes.
Thank you, "Let's get coffee," for being a polite way of never talking to someone again.
Thank you, UGA campus, for actually being uphill both ways.
Thank you, 100 Calorie Packs, for allowing me to pretend I'm being healthy.
Thank you, email notifications, for letting me feel popular, if only for a moment.
Thank you, fashion magazine, for helping me unintentionally match my grandmother.
Thank you, group project, for helping me to appreciate working alone.
Thank you, 20 page paper, for making five page papers seem okay.
Thank you, Bing, for taking me to Google.
Thank you, phone, for using the last of your battery to keep telling me your battery was low.
Thank you, smoke detector, for letting me know my breakfast is ready.
Thank you, car door lock, for making it so easy to lock my keys in the car.
Thank you, group project, for helping me to appreciate working alone.
Thank you, 20 page paper, for making five page papers seem okay.
Thank you, Bing, for taking me to Google.
Thank you, phone, for using the last of your battery to keep telling me your battery was low.
Thank you, smoke detector, for letting me know my breakfast is ready.
Thank you, car door lock, for making it so easy to lock my keys in the car.
II.
A revision of some week eight writing in line with Gary Provost's piece on sentence variation (below).
The (truncated) original:
The mostly bare walls, gently lit from the natural light outside and the artificial light in the hallway, surround desks clustered in sets of six. The kids sitting in these desks are all white, save one. Many of them stare at us intruding university students, encouraging a sense of unbelonging. I want to belong, to be invited into their writing and into their lives.
I intend to earn that invitation.
Noise in the classroom brings me from my reflection. The mentor teacher echoes my ideas when she asks the students if the classroom hasn’t always been a soft place to fall. The students agree that here is a soft place to fall.
Supportive and gentle, but unyielding in high expectations- me as a person, as a (future) teacher, and my mentor teacher standing here in front of me, capturing my heart as she encourages theirs.
The revision:
The bare walls are gently illuminated. Students sit at desks clustered in groups of six, all of them white, save one. They stare at us. We don't belong. A cold chill as I shiver; I want to belong, invite me into your writing and to you.
Please.
A noise disrupts my thinking. The mentor teacher echoes my ideas when she asks the students if the classroom hasn’t always been a soft place to fall. It has been.
She's supportive and gentle, but unyielding in her high expectations, just as I want to be. She captures my heart as she encourages there. It's a soft place to fall.
The mostly bare walls, gently lit from the natural light outside and the artificial light in the hallway, surround desks clustered in sets of six. The kids sitting in these desks are all white, save one. Many of them stare at us intruding university students, encouraging a sense of unbelonging. I want to belong, to be invited into their writing and into their lives.
I intend to earn that invitation.
Noise in the classroom brings me from my reflection. The mentor teacher echoes my ideas when she asks the students if the classroom hasn’t always been a soft place to fall. The students agree that here is a soft place to fall.
Supportive and gentle, but unyielding in high expectations- me as a person, as a (future) teacher, and my mentor teacher standing here in front of me, capturing my heart as she encourages theirs.
The bare walls are gently illuminated. Students sit at desks clustered in groups of six, all of them white, save one. They stare at us. We don't belong. A cold chill as I shiver; I want to belong, invite me into your writing and to you.
Please.
A noise disrupts my thinking. The mentor teacher echoes my ideas when she asks the students if the classroom hasn’t always been a soft place to fall. It has been.
She's supportive and gentle, but unyielding in her high expectations, just as I want to be. She captures my heart as she encourages there. It's a soft place to fall.



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