Prompting Fictional Scenes in Response to a Novel by Jordan Sonnenblick

      Using NOTES FROM THE MIDNIGHT DRIVER, by Jordan Sonnenblick, for a writing lesson on how to convey a distinctive narrative voice, I challenged two middle school boys to write their own fictional scenes in response to the novel. We had read aloud and discussed the opening pages of Sonnenblick's novel, just past the point when the self-deprecating narrator, who is hospitalized after an embarrassing drunk-driving accident, discovers that he now bears a scar on his forehead as a reminder of his recklessness. I asked the students, Oliver and Ryan (8th and 7th graders, respectively), to write a future scene about the protagonist, Alex, having to explain his scar to someone he has a crush on, without revealing the mortifying truth about his uncharacteristically irrational behavior. The aim of the lesson was to maintain the humorous voice of the narrator while flexing their own creative muscles. Here are the outstanding results. I hope that Jordan Sonnenblick will read and enjoy these scenes! 

1) By Oliver T.: 

     I wipe my tears with my sleeve, realizing the severity of my scar. My finger rubs against the bumpy patchwork on my forehead. What will Alyssa think? I can’t get the thought out of my mind. I start thinking about cover-up stories: "My dad was driving when a drunk driver hit us head-on;” or “I was jogging and a car ran a red light and hit me." Probably not the last one, since I would likely be dead if that happened. I’m not sure what excuse to use; all I know is that I can’t tell her the truth. 
     Surprisingly, I kind of want to go back to the hospital. That way, no one will know what I did. Yet for some reason, one small part of me believes that the truth will reveal itself. 
I almost forget that Dad is driving me home. He is lecturing me about responsibility for the third time this week. I drowsily listen, trying not to fall asleep, or, at least make it look like I’m not asleep. 
    "You need to be more careful, always ask yourself before you do something if it is beneficial. Use that brain of yours. If you really are my child you should have at least some part of my intelligent brain," my dad lectures.
     He drops me off at Mom’s place, where my mother takes me up in a loving embrace. "I am so glad my boy is home," Mom says, squeezing me in a hug. "I hope you are alright."
     I know exactly what will happen next. Oh no, here it comes. I brace myself for my mother to change her tone and slap me on the cheek. She always does that when I mess up, but instead, Mother releases me from the hug and takes a good look at me. She looks at my tired, disappointed self and hugs me. "Go to sleep now. You still have school tomorrow," Mom says as she lets go of me.
     "Alright, Mom, Goodnight," I say, trying to have a cheery tone. I limp over to my room and collapse on my bed, exhausted from the hospital, but dreading tomorrow.
     In the morning, I walk to school, my head feeling much better than yesterday, and my confidence is better as well. After all, I spent the majority of yesterday thinking about what to say. Today, I finally decide to listen to the angel inside of me … sort of. Bending the truth ain’t so bad right? My plan is to tell Alyssa … 
     Thud! My shoulder rams straight into a pillar. I fall on my butt, wincing in pain.
     “You alright?” says a familiar voice. 
     I look up to see none other than Alyssa Stone. My palms start to sweat and my legs are trembling. I awkwardly get up and wipe my hands on my shirt.
    “Where’ve you been? You were missing for the past week.”
    “I was in the hospital,” I reply. “I was in an accident.”
    “What kind of accident?”
    “I was in a car crash,” I answer. Concern fills Alyssa’s expression. “But definitely not like too severe, but … well, like really bad but … I didn’t get injured too much cuz I was lucky but, like … Yeah.”
    I wince, cringing at my weirdness. My heart starts thumping.
    Alyssa raises her light eyebrows. “Uhh … well, alright, see you later. I gotta get to class.” Alyssa walks away, biting her lip.
    “Umm, see ya later … Alligator.”
    Oh my gosh, what am I doing? I quickly walk away and take a detour to my first-period class. That was really bad; I don’t know what happened. 
     A class period passes and the accident is still on my mind. I’m pretty sure Alyssa’s not looking for a guy that wrecks cars and murders garden gnomes. All I had to do was make a normal story and avoid the truth. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?
    Three periods pass, and before I know it, it is my lunch period. Time flies when you can’t get something out of your mind. I make my way through the lunch courtyards. My friends motion me to sit with them, but I ignore their invitation. I look through the crowded courtyard and meet eyes with Alyssa. I briskly walk through the sea of students toward her lunch line.
    “Hey,” I start, “sorry about earlier.”
    “Hello,” Alyssa replies, adding lettuce to her sandwich. “What happened when you ‘got injured really bad, but not too severe, but definitely not, yeah,’” Alyssa teases.
    I laugh nervously and start to blush. “It was a car accident.”
    “Oh my gosh, what did you do? Drive drunk or something?” Allysa jokes.
    “Yeah,” I respond.
    “What?!” Allysa jumps.
    “Only joking,” I quickly correct myself, with an awkward chuckle. “I was driving … erm, my dad was driving me home when a drunk driver ran a red light and went 50 miles per hour into our car.”
     “So that’s what happened to your forehead.” Alyssa points to my forehead. “It’s a miracle that you are alright. Is your dad alright?”  I quickly smooth my hair down.
     “Yeah, I just had a concussion and some alcohol pois—I mean food poisoning … and an upset stomach. My dad is fine.” 
     “What does food poisoning have to do with this?” Alyssa implores.
     “We were at a party, and … umm, their microwaved taquitos weren’t very good for my stomach.” I gulp.
     “So, you were coming home from a party and your dad was not drunk?” Alyssa replies with shock.
     “Umm, yeah, he doesn’t drink at all.”
     “Oh, sorry to assume. But I am just used to my old man getting really drunk at parties, and still wanting to drive home.” 
     I look to the side.  My mind is overflowing with questions and shock. That was pretty personal. She trusts me enough to say that? Does she like me, too? Should I say something personal back? What do I say back? If I just respectfully leave, it won’t be awkward anymore, right? I slowly back away.
     “Well, my friends are waiting for me right now. I’ll see you in English,” I awkwardly break the silence. 
     “Me, too,” Alyssa blushes. 


2) By Ryan H.

A Truth Too Hard To Reveal
I pick up some hot, crusty bread, placing it in a little bag that has the words ‘‘Bake ‘n’ Flake’’ across the center.  I smile at a customer as I quickly pull out the receipt, handing both items to him.
Pit-a-Pat, Pit-a-Pat, footsteps of employees and customers echo into the pleasant morning air as the aroma of sweet bread drifts under my nose.
Finger-combing the long strands of hair that cover my forehead, I glance around.  My eyes stop like an eagle spotting something interesting.  Amelia, I look at her, feeling a mixture of enthusiasm and eagerness as I steadily walk towards the table where she’s sitting at.
“Ahem, hi… Ummm... everything’s alright here?” I ask.
She always arrives in the campus bakery in the morning for coffee and mini-croissants, and I’m satisfied I have the morning shift.  I really can’t keep my eyes off her.
“Yeah, everything’s fine.”
I gesture towards her shirt that says “Class of “2020,” saying, “Hey, I think you’re in one of my classes.”
I stupidly grin and push my hair back.  Suddenly, her eyes change, they looked a little wide, maybe even concerned.  I swallow, pulling down a few strands of hair.
       “Where did you…” She paused.  “...get that huge scar over your forehead?”
       I gaze down, feeling her eyes dig into my forehead. “Ummmm… when I was young… I actually fell off a tree… and got a couple of scratches here and there.”
       “Oh, I’m sorry….my brother loved to climb trees as well.  He always fell off, too, but didn’t get too many gashes.”
       I quickly look away, realizing I have been staring at her light blue eyes so intently.     “Yeah, cool!” I blurt. “I mean...” Amelia looks at me, confused. “You know… I mean…uhhhh…It was nice talking to you, Amelia…”
       “You too—” she glances at my nametag—“Alex.” She quickly sits up and walks out as if in a hurry.
       Soon, my shift ends, and I see the bright yellow sun glistening in the warm afternoon through the windows of the bakery.  I scratch my head, as I head toward my sedan, looking back toward the table where Amelia had sat.  Where l had lied to her.  I rub my hand along the long, jagged, scar.  I let out a sigh as I step into my little car, taking my apron off and placing it on my bulging backpack.
       Screeeeeech!! I slam the brake as my car jolts to a sudden stop.  The student who was crossing the street backs away, shouting, “Man, are you drunk!? You could have killed me!”  He raises his hand, sticking up a nasty finger, baring his teeth, and cursing all the profanity I’ve ever heard in my life.
       I mumble under my breath, “No, I only kill garden gnomes.” I realize I’m not breathing.  I take a deep breath, feeling a throb on my forehead.
       The memory ripples over me like a vast wave, the time I had driven drunk and crashed, leaving behind a pile of crumbled gnomes and the zig-zag on my forehead.  I look down at  my white knuckles, as I grip onto the leather wheel.  How in the world would I have gotten a scar from falling off a tree?  And if I did, it wouldn’t be on my forehead, since that would mean I would fall on my head, and I’d probably be dead....

Poetry Prompting Poetry: Inspiring Introspection by Sharing Deep Thoughts

  Evoking introspection by sharing thought-provoking poems enables me to catalyze growth for young writers, in terms of both their writing skills and their self-understanding. Evidence of such growth often arrives in the form of poetic responses to my own poetry prompts, as illustrated below:

THE PROMPT: Write a similar poem about unfair assumptions you've made.
 
About Assumptions
by Susan L. Lipson 

I read your scowl as a snide comment
about me,
and prepared to throw the book at you,
but then you revealed the grief between your lines,
and I reread that scowl as a grimace of pain,
about you.
Guiltily, I snapped shut the book of judgment,
which wasn't mine to read.

THE RESPONSE:

Assumptions

by Caleb T., age 11

I’ve had some trouble putting it out of my mind.

Quiet, thin-eyed = older.

Loud, wide-eyed = younger.

In between = middle.

I hope that no one hears

And thinks that I judge too much

The perceptions of people’s ages.

Assumptions ≠ facts.

ANOTHER PROMPT: Use the bold-lettered words as a framework for 
your own poem on the same theme, or reverse the objects and subjects,  
changing "you" to "I/me" to show the opposite view.

Old Blanket
by Susan L. Lipson

To you, I was an old blanket,
Covered in teddy bears and hearts,
Warmth from younger days.
But now you see me as threadbare,
Unappealing, too babyish,
Something for the storage chest.
To me, you were my best childhood friend.
But now I know you as the one who
Discarded me for a new comforter.

THE RESPONSE (THE REVERSED OPTION):

Former Commander 

by Ethan C., age 10

To me, you were my commander,

Helping me with everything I do, 

Memories of the younger days.

But now I see you as a comrade,

Less cool, more average, 

Somebody just to be friends with. 

To you, I was like a soldier,

But now you know me as a fighter 

Who rose the ranks and went beyond you.

           
         Both of these student poets wrote their poems after a deep discussion of the various implied meanings of the prompt poem. Their sweet expressions of insightful nostalgia warmed my heart as they read me their final drafts with pride. Thanks for reading. Please leave encouraging comments for Caleb and Ethan below!

Still Life Pictures that Paint Moving Character Portraits

         To portray a person to readers, whether that person is a fictional character or an actual human, a narrator or a protagonist presented by an omniscient narrator, avoid telling readers about him/her/them in opinion-based adjectives and judgment-laden revelations. For example, readers won't enjoy fully engaging with a character described to them as an "untrustworthy gossip" as much as they will enjoy figuring out that character trait for themselves within an implied description, such as: "Under the table, out of Amy's view, Nancy typed on her phone: 'AMY GOT DUMPED BY JOHN LIKE WE ALL KNEW SHE WOULD!' Then she typed a string of crying-laughing face emojis." The latter description of Amy's phone screen will make readers see Nancy's betrayal and decide for themselves that she is an untrustworthy gossip. The emotional impact of an illustrated tangible object--the phone and text message--has far more power than a merely "telling" phrase. 

          Using tangible objects to imply characteristics about a person is a fine way to "show, not tell" in a poetic prose portrait. Try it yourself with the following writing prompt:

          Arrange a “still life” picture of a person’s private space that evokes a mental character sketch through the implications of the assembled objects. Describe in detail such possessions as clues to reveal details, subtly, about the collector/character/narrator. Here is a still life picture of a corner of my own private workspace. What can you infer about ME from this still life portrayal? 

I have shown you implications about myself as a poet with a new book, and as a visiting author who conducts poetry workshops. I have shown you that I seem to value plants and views of nature, that I might collect rocks, that I need an overhead fan in my office, and that I probably read and highlight memorable passages, given the number of highlighters in the mug. The mug also reveals that my highlighting might be for students' papers, since it says, "Teaching is a work of heart." So, you can infer that I am a teacher. Furthermore, you can infer from the placard on the windowsill, which says, "To the world, you may be one person, but to one person, you may be the world," that someone values my presence enough to give me that gift, and that I value that expression of appreciation enough to want to see it as a daily reminder. (You can also infer, from the fact that I added commas above to my transcription of plaque's message, that I am an editor!) Do you see how that list of items gives us the basic bullet points to build a more layered character?

          But now, look what can happen when I show a character interacting with this collection of objects, to suggest some more psychologically intriguing characteristics that readers can infer--characteristics that will engage the reader and advance the plot. Let's imagine that a different woman inhabits my office, and each day, before she sits down to work at her desk, she picks up the placard and runs her fingers over the words 'but to one person you may be the world,' as she sighs wistfully. Then she dusts off the placard, sets it down like a holy relic, inhales deeply, and settles down onto her chair to start her day. Spin a tale from that daily ritual!  What if I add other objects to the scene, like a pile of wadded-up tissues beside a torn-up, hand-lettered envelope showing the character's name, "Nancy," inside a shakily drawn, red heart? Plots can build upon such subtle details. Allow your readers to play investigators or psychologists as they explore the worlds you lay before them. 

          Try setting up your own still life pictures to evoke a character and a plot. Experiment with adding and removing carefully chosen objects to focus on providing images that deepen your characterization and propel your plot. As in poetry, details should have a purpose; this exercise will strengthen your focus on meaningful word choices and keep you from bloating your prose (or poems) with unnecessary details. Now go write!

What a Fourth Grader Learned About Superfluous Words

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     Today's featured student writing sample illustrates the benefit of teaching editorial skills simultaneously with writing skills: to enhance and encourage concise, vivid writing and a heightened awareness of word power. The writing sample also shows that students can learn even more from a writing or editing exercise when asked to recount it in a short essay, thus solidifying the understanding of what they have learned and why they needed to learn it. Such a self-directed, reflective component in a lesson enriches learning more than any teacher-led review.

     After teaching my fourth-grade student, Ethan, about the power of concise, vivid word choices, and about how to identify superfluous words to delete, I gave him some editing exercises. His eyes lit up when he realized how many unnecessary words he could scratch out of a bloated sentence without changing the meaning. Kids often love to cut out words, I've found, even more than they enjoy writing them; editing gives us power over words, even as it gives more power to the words themselves. Ethan's reflective essay paragraph (see the picture below), which he wrote after the editorial lesson, showed me that he truly understood the concept of "less is more" in writing. It also showed me that this young writer is rapidly learning to write memorable, moving words!

Student Response to "The Animal School," by George Reavis

     

"The Animal School," a fable by George Reavis is one of my favorite prompts for middle-school students (click on the story title to read the short text, which I first read in a Chicken Soup for the Soul book). The story teaches a lesson about teaching lessons--to animals. The animal students find themselves in a school that forces them to learn athletic skills that contradict their natural abilities--like the duck who is forced to keep practicing his running on the track, and discouraged from focusing on swimming, in which he excels. Torn webbed feet and low self-esteem certainly won't motivate such a student. This fable is about teaching to students' strengths, rather than highlighting their weaknesses and setting them up for failure; it's about designing lessons to suit individual learners' needs; and it's about self-directed learning and the importance of nonconformity to inspire students to reach their full potentials. 

After discussing the story, I assign two possible writing prompts: 1) students can write their own story about an animal NOT mentioned in "The Animal School" who rebels against a teacher who ignores abilities and needs in favor of a "one size fits all" approach to education; and 2) students can write a persuasive letter to the head of the Animal School to demand changes in unjust curriculum requirements. Oliver, a 12 year old, found a unique way to complete both prompts and link them together. I was so impressed by the voice, humor, and description in his story, and by the clever letter that he wrote from the principal to the complaining parents, that I asked him to send me his final draft for this blog. Below is Oliver's tale of a fish who attends the Animal School, and makes waves, so to speak, first by beating his swan teacher's record in swimming, and then by questioning an oblivious teacher who tries to force him into risking his life by running on land. I hope you enjoy and admire his work as much as I do. Please consider leaving a comment for Oliver, below this story.

As a fish, I love swimming; I mean, it’s one of the only things I can do. Then came September 2, which was the first day of Animal School. I was so excited to meet new friends and learn new things. When the day finally came, my Mom woke me up early in the morning and brought me outside. 

“Sorry, son,” Mom apologizes, “I can’t swim you to school today, so I signed you up to swim with the duck family.”

“That’s fine,” I respond. 

“Okay. Have fun at school.” Mom hugged me goodbye.

I swam up to the surface to meet the duck family. The little duck was Kevin, who was going to be my classmate. We spent the entire swim to school talking. It was nice to have someone to talk to other than my parents. There weren’t really any other fish or animals around where I live. When we arrived at the school we were greeted by the principal. An old bulldog with tiny spectacles, he had a large head with a soothing smile. 

“Good Morning everyone, I am Principal Hank,” the bulldog announced. “I just want to say that today everyone's first class will be Swimming with Mr. Swanson.”

Mr.Swanson wanted to start the year off by assessing us. I thought it would go fine. Except there was one problem: we were being graded. This made me nervous, I didn’t know how he was going to grade us without a standard. What made me more nervous was that I was first. What if I was a slow swimmer, compared to the other water animals? Well, at least I knew how to swim. Jones the squirrel was scared out of his mind. He paced back and forth and winced at the sight of water. For the assessment, we had to swim along the shore from point A to point B. Mr. Swanson demonstrated his swan dive and finished with a time of 24 seconds. What if that was the standard? Do we have to beat that impossible time to pass?

 I was at the starting line. The instant I heard the word “go”, I swam as fast as I could. There was still a chance of beating the record. I shattered Mr. Swanson’s time with 16 seconds! I could hear the entire class cheering; Kevin was screaming his head off. A wave of relief came over me. I knew that no matter what, I would get a good grade. Kevin was next, finishing with a time of 21 seconds. Mr. Swanson was so shocked at this that he came over and high-fived Kevin and patted me on the head.

“What a relief! I think it's guaranteed we get an A. We did beat the Instructor,” Kevin laughed.

Swimming makes one less thing to worry about--or so I thought. The rest of the class was made up of land animals, except for an eel. Jones the Squirrel sank like a rock. When Jones finished, it was Fluffy the Cat’s turn. Fluffy screeched after putting a toe in the water. All of us saw the disappointment in Swanson’s face. Mr. Swanson assumed everyone was a water and land creature like himself. When he saw that only 4 out of 32 could swim, he gave the rest of the class a 1/20 while giving us a 20/20. The water animals felt awful for our classmates, so we all agreed that tomorrow we wouldn’t try, so the animals could get a good grade. It was unfair to grade like that, but before we could talk with Mr. Swanson, the next class was announced: Running! My heart sank to the back of my chest. 

Everyone is nervous on the first day of school, but this feeling was different. This feeling was dread.

“You can just talk with the teacher and you’ll be fine,” Kevin comforted.

“Al--Alright,” I respond.

Kevin walked with me to the teacher, Coach Jack.

“Sir?” I asked nervously. “Do I--Do I sit out for running class?”

“Do you have a doctor’s note?” Coach replied. 

I started to tremor and swim back and forth. “Umm, Sir—Sir… ”

“But he’s a fish!” Kevin talked for me.

“That means he is a water animal. Are you discriminating against his kind? Just because some fish can’t walk doesn’t mean all fish can't walk,” Coach Jack said sternly. 

“Are you crazy! All fish can’t run!” Kevin yelled.

“See what I mean? That is stereotypical. And watch your tone there, young man!” Coach yelled.

“I can’t run knowing my friend is going to fail because of a clearly oblivious teacher!” Kevin exclaimed. Coach Jack was swelling up with anger.

Before Coach Jack could say anything, the eel from swimming class joined in: “I can't either.”

“This is outrageous!” Coach Jack stomped. “You three just earned yourself detention after school!”

Coach Jack was in the opposite of a fantastic mood, especially when I stayed in the water. He constantly tried to drag me on shore to run. When the other students saw this, they knew something was wrong.

“What are you doing?” Jones the Squirrel questioned.

“He won't--won’t participate in running,” Coach struggled, trying to catch me.

“Stop, I can’t—I can’t breathe on land,” I protested.

“Stop with the excuses! I’m not in a good mood, just cooperate,” Coach responded.

“But fish can’t swim. Stop it!” Jones exclaimed.

“What is wrong with you children!” Coach Jack gave up.

The rest of the students were crowding around Coach, trying to protect me. Tim the Turtle hid me under his shell, while George the Eaglet snuck behind Coach.

George was always a bit of a trouble maker, and now was no exception. This time he was doing it to help me. George picked up Coach Jack with his talons and dragged him away.

“How does it feel?” George taunted.

This unruly event became the start of many complaints and, some might even say, a rebellion. Weeks later, Coach Jack was fired and everyone tried to forget the events that happened. Complaints were still being sent and the school seemed as if it were about to come to an end, until Principal Hank sent out a letter.

* * * * *

Dear Parents, and Guardians of Animal School Students,

We have heard your complaints about our educational system. The system comes with many pros and cons, so try to see the situation from our perspective. We believe our children should be well-rounded, instead of being like a one-trick human. This opens a plethora of skills and opportunities for the kids (not just goats). The most important would be for safety. Who knows when the children might have to climb a tree to escape? Maybe they fell into a lake where they could drown, or even fish could wash ashore. The skills taught at Animal School would prepare them for those situations. Safety should be a priority for a parent, right before happiness. Our children need to discover what they love. 

When I was a young pup, my favorite activity was running. I would always race to the top of a hill with my friends or play games like Tag. One day my friends and I raced around a lake. I was so scared of falling in the lake that I didn’t pay attention to anything in front of me. Ironically, I tripped on a tree root and fell into the lake. I started to kick my legs frantically and swung my arms, and I found myself swimming. I loved it. Even today I swim every weekend at that same lake. This is the reason I created Animal School, to help children learn their true potential. Perhaps I shouldn't have to push the kids to do the impossible. Next school year, I will implement new classes personalized for the students. Fish no longer have to take running or climbing, but will learn jumping out of the water. Ducks will be able to take modified running, and no longer need climbing. I hope this satisfies your complaints, but just remember to encourage your children to learn new things. 

Sincerely, 

Principal Hank

Clearly, Oliver thoroughly understands the messages of the original story, and I applaud his sequel, which is more memorable even than the original story!

Essay Writing with "E IEI O" Structure!

          I have focused many of this summer's private lessons with middle-schoolers on strengthening their essay-writing skills. No amount of outlining or filling in graphic organizers has as much influence on my students as deconstructing sample body paragraphs based on my E-IEI-O mnemonic device for the five essential elements of every body paragraph:

          I provide examples of both weak and strong paragraphs, and read them aloud with my students. I then give them a checklist that calls their attention to each of the five structural elements above, to consider in terms of: vagueness versus specificity in word choices and examples; whether each sentence builds upon the preceding one; unnecessary repetition of words or ideas; clarity of assertions and examples; smoothness of transitions; inclusion of contextual set-up for quotations; and the overall power of the writer's insights. After this editorial exercise, which empowers them to fill the margins with notes guided by the checklist, I assign a single paragraph response to a short story or a poem. The students may write about the theme of the literary work, or focus on the style and power of the writing. Full of the desire to emulate the strong essay paragraphs that made them exclaim, "Ah, I didn't see that!," and the even greater desire to avoid emulating the weak essay paragraphs whose margins they filled with questions and critical words, they write. 

          Today I have created this example paragraph below, for students to emulate, based on a poem from my book, Writing Success Through Poetry, which you will find on page 52:"Thirsty Plant and Cloudy Sky." This would be helpful for a middle-school student to read and study, along with the poem (so get yourself a copy of my book with a quick click on the link embedded in the title above). 

*                     *                    *                    *                    *                      *                       *

“E-IEI-O” Example Essay Paragraph About the Theme of a Poem: “Thirsty Plant and Cloudy Sky,” by Susan L. Lipson

Structure of a theme-based paragraph about literature

E-Establish theme

I-Illustrate theme with quotations from text, set up in context

E-Explain what illustration/quotation shows the reader

I-Interpret implications of the quotation that expand on established theme

O-Overall “take-away” lesson for broader understanding of theme

“Thirsty Plant and Cloudy Sky,” a poem by Susan L. Lipson, presents a metaphorical conversation between two personified friends--Plant and Sky--in which Plant offers comfort to his “blue” friend, but not solely out of love for Sky. Plant initially exhibits compassion: “Now sob, my friend; release a thunderous yell! Shared tears help friendships grow….” But then Plant adds quietly, “And ME as well--truth to tell!” The murmured confession of the ulterior motive alerts the reader that Plant may be encouraging the Sky’s sobbing--that is, rain--to quench his own thirst and boost his growth. Although the reader may doubt the Plant’s love for his friend, viewing Plant as a user more than a giver, no harm has actually occurred, only a mutually beneficial rain. Thus, the poem teaches a lesson about the codependence between friends and the importance of looking at the outcome of our interactions as well as the intentions behind them. 

Notice especially that the essay paragraph provides enough information about the poem it discusses that you don't have to read the poem in order to understand the paragraph. Also note how the "Overall sentence" broadens the topic established in the first sentence, and how the "Interpret line" offers an opinion based on "reading between the lines" (not based on the text itself, but on an opinion of what seems to be implied).

Choosing Specific Words To Establish Tone and Set a Mood

     After my 10-year-old student Lisa learned about how she could affect a reader's experience by choosing words to connote a particular tone, she took it upon herself to send me these contrasting depictions of "The Waking World"--showing both a positive and a negative connotation. As you will see, Lisa clearly understands the power of words upon the mood of the reader, as well as the mood of the fictional characters. Lessons on "connotation" and "tone" are usually reserved for high school English classes, but I have seen, again and again, with students like Lisa, that avid readers of any age can comprehend word power in a metacognitive way. 

The Waking World (Negative)

Cold dawn light filtered through the gray, cloudy sky. People slumped their way into coffee shops. The gaunt peoples’ spirits were as transparent as a ghost. Rusty cars sat on the dark road, and their headlights, almost like eyes, looked menacingly at the passing pedestrians dragging their bodies across the sidewalk. Empty cans thunked against the ground and echoed the hollow feelings of the town. Children walked their bikes across the dead grass and didn’t stop to say a word to fellow classmates. Dogs barked at approaching cats as they hissed scornfully. Fungi grew on almost every tree and the trees seemed to say, “I am not a happy tree, I am an ugly, sad tree.” Flowers drooped and mosquitos bit into the unappetizing, but only food--the grumpy humans.

The Waking World (Positive)

Warm dawn light seeped into the air of the town. People emerged from their houses and breathed in the air as if God were standing right there and they were trying to breathe in the sweet scent. Coffee sellers came out to greet people with their coffee and maybe a pleasant “Hello!” Children skipped in the front yards, getting their bikes and pedaling off to school, and women pushed strollers across the streets, with babies echoing the cheers of laughter and happiness. The flowers stood proudly, fanning out their vivid colors and leaves. The trees stood tall as if they ruled the world. Cats purred and dogs wagged their tails. As the sun rose over the green mountain peaks, everyone set off happily to enjoy the rest of the day.

LEARNING TO WRITE FROM EMOTIONAL, EVEN IF NOT PERSONAL, EXPERIENCE

            Personal ads, written by lonely people seeking connections or reconnections with others, offer an emotional treasure chest of possible stories—both fictional and factual—to a creative, introspective mind. We need not have experienced the same kinds of losses, joys, fears, or regrets that the ad writers express to be able to awaken similar emotions and weave them into original fiction, memoirs, or poems. For example, a couple of wistful lines from the "Missed Connections" section of Craigslist prompted me to spin a story of romantic obsession between fictional characters who have nothing in common with me except these emotions: artistic passion, self-doubt, and a yearning for meaningful connections with colorful people. Emotional authenticity turns stick figure characters into fully fleshed out human beings. These are the lines that evoked my story:

                        “I shouldn’t remember you. Maybe you will fade now.”

            From those pained words, I wrote “Awaiting Fading,” a short story about a young artist who can’t erase the memory of a shopping experience at an art supply store, where she found herself enchanted by an employee with whom she shared glimpses of their respective artworks on Instagram before insecurity transformed admiration into intimidation, making the customer feel so unworthy of the new friend that she ran away from the store, as well as from her own feelings of inadequacy. The story begins with the lines from Craigslist, as the narrator stares wistfully at the now empty store, permanently closed, and realizes that she has no way to reconnect with the artist employee.

            I presented those same story-evoking lines to some of my teenage students. I assured them that by borrowing a pair of lines, and then taking off with it, like a torch passed from runner to runner in a cross-country marathon, they would not be plagiarizing, but rather, connecting and reconnecting with readers in the same way that the author of that borrowed line wishes to have connected with the one whose memory won’t fade. I gave them about 30 minutes to whip up a first draft of a short fiction worked based on emotional, but not actual reality. The teenagers were pleased and surprised by their own creations. 

          The on-demand short fictional works included: one story about a border security agent who can’t get a tiny Mexican boy out of his mind after the agent intentionally broke the law and allowed the boy and his family safe, but illegal passage into the US; another story about a person who once witnessed a woman jumping from a high-rise to her death, and now yearns for that death to stop haunting her; one poem about a witnessed act of charity in India, between a rich woman in a car and a child begging at her window; and another story about a soldier at war, forced to kill a fellow soldier who defied regulations. Each story's personal emotional reality gave texture to the purely imaginary characters and settings. 

(painting by my son, Ian Lipson, just because I find it inspiring...)

          Two sample short stories follow, one by Daniel and another by Liam, ages 15 and 16, respectively.

BITTERSWEET CANDY

By Daniel

            I don't know why I remember you. You, of all the people who passed through these gates. What made you so different from that mass of huddled souls?

            I can see you still. Your unbuttoned collar. Your untied shoes. Your toy bear, hugged tight against your chest.  I sometimes wonder what made you come here.  I remember stamping your passport for tourism. Your family said that you’d stay for just a few weeks. To see your relatives, then leave. I’ve gone and checked your records. You never did leave. 

            I sometimes wonder where you are now. I know that I should have reported you as soon as your visa was up, but I didn’t. I wonder why. What made you, of all people, so different from all the other I flagged and sent back?             

            Perhaps you’re not here anymore. Perhaps you were only passing through on your journey to who knows where fleeing from who knows what. You certainly don’t know, or didn’t at the time. Your father didn’t look at me. Your mother left so fast that she left a pair of pants behind. They’d fallen out of her luggage. I called her back, but only you turned to look at me.

              I still remember what was in those pants. They were blue jeans. Made in Malaysia. In the pockets were a crumpled up receipt and a candy wrapper. Caramelo agridulce. I asked my coworker what it meant. Why anyone would enjoy bittersweet candy is beyond me.

              Sometimes I think that I remember you for a reason. After all, God does not play dice. Why should your memory persist? I’ve seen countless deportations, telling myself that it was for the good of our community. I somehow always find myself looking out for your face. You must be grown up by now. It’s been ten years since you passed through our checkpoint. I wonder what your life is like. Do you go to school? Do manual labor like your father did? (The callouses never lie.) Perhaps I should have stopped you. Pulled you and your family over. I knew what was happening. I don’t know why I didn’t.

* * *

I Shouldn’t Remember You

by Liam

          I shouldn’t remember you. Maybe you will fade now…as so many of the others have done. 

           You never really did fit in with us, having nothing to boast, no stories to share, never understanding the jokes we told. I remember the nights you sat alone at the fires, staring off into the distance, as if grasping for a lost memory, while the rest of us huddled close in the winter nights, discussing battle plans and sharing tales of our women and children, thousands of miles across the Atlantic.

Every so often, one of us would call out to you, “Come join us, laddie, tell us of your deeds. We’ve got a lot more wine to spill.” Yet, you never did join us. Instead, your sole response would always be some clever excuse to get away from our reeking breaths.

“Damn rebs,” you would say, in your best impression of a grown man’s voice, “Someone had better keep watch.” And so the nights would go on.

We kept our steady march, until the day we finally reached Bunker Hill. Then came battle day, our valiant countrymen, charging up the slopes, straight into the Americans’ grapeshot and musket balls. Our comrades, who endured so much alongside us were ripped apart, blown to shreds by the merciless rebels above the hill. Then came our turn, our regiment’s attempt to secure the fort. As we charged out into the open field, only you stayed behind, clutching the seams of your bloodstained jacket, crying for mother, crying to be taken back home.

I had to do it. It was my job. One that I had done countless times before. Yet, when I called your name, and stated your crimes for cowardice, I could barely force myself to raise my gun. My hands trembled as I poised the barrel of my flintlock against your temple. “I had to do it,” is what I now tell myself. “It was necessary for the discipline of the men.” But every time I close my eyes, I think to myself, “I am the man who murdered a boy crying for his mother.”