Fifth Grade Writing

Yesterday afternoon Son2 came home from school and told me that his teacher had sent his book report home with him. She said some of his answers were too short, and he needed to expand his paragraphs. He said, "I answered the questions. I don't know what else to say."

First let me say that some of his answers were lacking. But others were simply short and to the point. Perhaps fifth grade is where people learn to blather on unnecessarily. Perhaps all fifth grade teachers out there believe they need to train the next generation of twenty-four hour cable newscasters. Keep talking, even if you have nothing to say.

I went to journalism school, and I confess to a certain obsession with the news. It's not a path I followed in my career, that whole thing about spending years writing obituaries kind of deterred me, but I feel a little crazy inside when I can't keep up with the news basics. I want the news when I want it, and the web is great for that. But cable news? Ugh.

CNN has introduced us to the horror of taking local news national. A five-car acccident is causing traffic on an LA freeway. A prisoner has escaped from a work detail in Texas. These are the headlines. I work at home and sometimes when my work is really dull or I'm just writing email I turn on the news to keep me company. Then I've been known to walk into my husband's office and announce the latest headlines with a voice of doom: "There is a fire at a nursing home in New Jersey! A fire! In a nursing home! In New Jersey! They'll keep us updated, but right now the fire appears to be under control."

This is what we're reduced to. Nothing about Africa, except perhaps that another celebrity has adopted a child from Ethiopia. Nothing about China, except those lead toys. No news about Europe unless it's about a princess who's been dead for ten years or her offspring or there's some unusually bad weather. But plenty of time to endlessly obsess about wildfires. California is burning! "I literally have soot on my clothes," announces the newscaster. "The sky is an eerie orange. I can smell the smoke." I guess those fifth grade writing teachers have really done their job.

When Books Become Movies

I pretty much hate it when books I've read become movies. The latest casualty is Bel Canto by Ann Patchett. I loved this book. I must read it again to remind myself why I love it so much. Anyway, the news that this book is soon to become a movie made me sad. Well, sad for the story, which in the book is just perfect. Happy for the author because she will hopefully get a big paycheck, which is something I can't begrudge almost any author. Notice I said, "almost any." A topic for another day.

I rarely enjoy movie versions of books, although I did love the Lord of the Rings movies, perhaps because it had been quite some time since I'd read them. I think there's almost no way for a movie to do justice to a story you love, one that you've pictured in your mind as you've read it, one that you've invested so much time in. I will have to ponder the best and worst examples of books made into movies and get back to you with my opinions, which surely you'll be breathlessly waiting for.

In the meantime, perhaps you can think of your own examples of dreadful and wonderful movie versions of books you've loved and let me know.

Little Hopeful Lies

I had no idea how much of motherhood would involve just totally making stuff up. This morning my youngest came downstairs still warm and fuzzy with sleep and said, "I have a pain in my temple." Hmmm. I leaned down and kissed his forehead to see if he had a fever. Nope. So I say, "Have some orange juice. You're probably just thirsty." What? If my husband said, "My temple hurts," I doubt I'd respond with a direction to drink some OJ.

I find I do this all the time. My response to nearly all pain complaints is: "You're fine." These are probably the words I've spoken more than any other (except, I hope, "I love you") since I became a mother. It works for everything.

Boy: "My leg hurts." Mom: "Put your leg up. You'll be fine."
Boy: "I cut my knee." Mom: "Don't drip blood on the couch. Go wash the cut. You're fine."
Boy:: "My throat hurts. " Mom: "Have a drink. You're fine."
"Boy: "I got a bug in my eye." Mom: "Close your eyes for a minute. It will come out. You'll be fine."
Boy: "I have a pain in my side." Mom: "Use the heating pad. You'll be fine."
Boy: "My stomach hurts." Mom: "You're just tired. Go back to bed. You're fine."

Sometimes I worry that I say it too much. I fear one of the boys will come to me with blood shooting out of his eye and I'll say, "Go lay down with your eyes closed. You're fine."

The flipside of this would be to take every complaint seriously, which sounds like a recipe for making some whiner babies to me. Seriously. Buck up little buddy, you'll be fine. Hopefully someday they won't each be sitting in therapy telling some stranger that I never took their pain seriously.

A Confession

I must admit that I love to overhear conversations. This really isn't a confession because I'm not eavesdropping. I just keep my ears open when I'm out walking around. You never know what you might hear. Recently in the grocery store I saw a guy run into an old friend. She inquired about his wife and he told her they'd gotten divorced. "I took care of everything for nine years," he said. "She didn't work and she didn't have to worry about any bills, and I just thought it wasn't too much to ask that the house not be a pigsty and she put some dinner on the table by nine o'clock." That even left me wondering what his wife did all day.

Two weeks ago our wonderful local bank was taken over by a much larger bank. I went into the bank on Friday afternoon before the switch and some guys from the new bank were behind the counter observing. My teller was frustrated because she felt like some of the other tellers were spending too much time chatting with the city folk. The great moment came when I heard one of the tellers ask the big bank guys, "Do you have any livestock?" Their reply? "We're from New Jersey. If there's room in the backyard, we put in a swingset." A wonderful rural moment.

Reading...

I'm approaching the end of A Thousand Splendid Suns. It is completely devastating. I don't love it for the writing. Definitely not. But as a window into a different culture, it is illuminating. I already knew that as a woman I was thankful to be born in 20th century America. This book confirms it. If you're a woman and you're feeling a bit depressed about your life, this novel just might provide a necessary dose of perspective.

I'm also reading the YA novel Sold about a young girl sold into the sex trade in India. I'm a fan of YA novels; well, some anyway. (More on that later.) It's what I want to write, so I guess it makes sense that it's what I want to read. They're always easily devoured. This one is written in an interesting style. No "chapter" is longer than two or three pages. Some are just a few lines. All are topical although they also propel the novel forward in time.

I'd say more, but I'd rather finish reading one of these books.