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On "Playing"

 I'm self-conscious about playing for two reasons: (1) a friend once told me that my "doodles" were bland and predictable. (2) a student once complained that I wasn't adequately "fun."


Knives to the heart! Words I'll never forget.

I listen to my spouse with Josh; they read a Richard Scarry book together, and the adult casts aside the printed words to invent a bizarre "song-story," and the child squeals with delight. By contrast, I'm annoyed whenever I don't have words on the page. I think of a Katherine Heiny tale, where the mom rolls her eyes as she works through a wordless Jerry Pinkney book. "I don't have enough fucking shit on my plate? I need to write the fucking moral, because Jerry Fucking Pinkney couldn't give a fuck?"

I am trying. I know that "play" is the means by which a kid masters language, it's so important, yadda yadda. I feed the various plastic animals, and I make them chat with one another.

But my heart belongs to Beezus Quimby, who struggles to score above a C in creative writing. ("How do I 'improve' my creativity? If there is a way, the teacher doesn't seem to have words for describing the steps....")

I love Beezus, always, and I carry her in my soul.
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