I rarely get excited by celebrity. Oh, sure I often tell folks how ,I saw Elvis Stojko on the streets of Vancouver and said, “Hey Elvis,” he in turn said, “Hey!”

It was cool. But, for the most part, the few times I’ve met the famous, I don’t stumble or goo-gah.

Stefan Sagmeister, was someone I was star struck by. I think he was just so darn handsome that it threw me. I mumbled something clever when I met him, like… “heh, I’m a big fan.” Honestly, other than listening to his TED talks, I know nothing of his work. Still, I was struck.

Now, last night we saw Ron James. I’m a fan, I really like him, but I was not star struck in the least. What I was, was totally convinced, that if given half the chance, he and I would be terrific friends. I just know it.

Of course we didn’t meet. I was one person in a house full of people he made laugh. I did not go back stage. I did not shake his hand, invite him for tea, or grab a photo with him. He came on stage, did his thing really well. We laughed and applauded, then came home.

It was a super fun time, but I feel it was also, a missed opportunity.

He’s on to his next gig in Mapleridge tonight, then Prince George. I’m left with memories of a great show, and the certain knowledge that Ron James and I should be friends. I know he and Ken would get on like a house of fire as well.

Knowing famous people is not my goal; choosing fun people to be friends with is.

Marian Bantjes is probably the most famous person I know today. I like her for a plethora of reasons, her fame is only a bonus for me though. Now, I’d really like Marian to marry Colin Firth. Again, not because he is famous, but because he is someone I’d like to be friends with, and I thought it would be nice if they could come for over dinner. She tells me he is already married…. Whatever.

All this mindless rambling, to say, we had loads of fun at the Ron James show last night. We laughed and laughed, and I am not giving up on making him my friend. I really hope he will one day come to my birthday party, or sit on the deck with me and we could swap stories. I just feel that, if we would take the time, we’d make good friends. I just know it.

Oh, here’s an idea — maybe Marian could marry Ron James! Yeah!

P.S. Did I quit the writing class too soon? 🙂

If you read this bloggy thing on a regular basis, on January 3rd I said I wanted the Canadian comic, Ron James come to my birthday party. On January 4th, I said I would use all the points, I collect to get him here.

If you haven’t Googled Ron James yet, please do so. Find some clips on You tube, sit back and enjoy a show. To me the guy is one of the best word smiths around AND he is hilarious.

Now, If wishes were horses, we’re riding tonight!

My birthday has passed, but Ron James is in Sechelt!
We have tickets to his show tonight, and I’m pretty darn excited about it!

Oh and… it looks like my brother Art sold the house in Dodge. Crazy times of change ahead.

After much hubbub, hand wringing, and advice from a really smart friend, I decided to quit the on-line writing class.

It was not the class for me. I struggled and struggled just to understand most of the assignments. Not much made sense to me. The class was for screen writers and it wasn’t really a class. It was on-line lectures and a web site to post stuff. But rarely was a comment or critique made. I could go on with reasons and excuses, but the truth of the matter is — the class wasn’t for me. I appreciate my friend Marian, and her voice of reason. She encouraged me to quit and I was grateful.

The class did excite me in some ways. Maybe this fall I will find a creative writing class at the college. Then again — perhaps, I’ll sit on the deck and read.

I admit it is hard for me to quit. I don’t like being a drop out. I know I have a hard time sticking to things. I like to go where my nose takes me. My attention span is short and when things get hard, I look around for easier.

Then again, I have stayed happily married since 1983, and sober for 33 years. 1984 was same year I started playing tai chi and quilting. I’ve been spinning since my leg wreck more than 25 years ago. Sandie and I have been best friends for 40 years! And while I’m not participating in PAWMA, NWMAF of Tai Chi seminars, I’m in close touch with many friends I’ve met through the arts. I imagine I will grow old with them as well.

Chungliang Al Huang encouraged me back in 1989, to try something new every decade. He suggested I give it 10 years. His theory was that practicing anything for 10 years would make you pretty proficient at it and in 80 years, you would have eight skills you were pretty good at.

Even though I’ve quit more things than I’ve started – I have stuck to a few. This bloggy thing for example has been going on since 2008!

So, I’m a quitter who persists!

The dog ate my homework.

That’s my story – I’m sticking to it.

This master writing class with David Mamet is hard. I’m in way over my head, and while I’m grateful for the challenge, it’s obvious, that I should take a grade 12 creative writing class instead. (Not that that would be any easier!)

When I’m not an instant success at something, my inclination is to quit. But, my closet is full with the unicycle, water colours, and rope twirling kit. Those are only a few of the skills I gave up learning. When learning is hard, I stall and go watch TV.

The problem is I can’t think of thing I’ve learned that came easy. I’m not a natural at anything. Every skill has taken perseverance and practice. For example, my learning to cook is why we had to unplug the smoke detectors in the house and why my pot holders have burn marks on them.

I like learning; I’m a curious person — and why I became a teacher. We all know being a beginner is hard. I prefer being told how easy I make something look or how skilled I am, much more than hearing, “this needs work” and “try again.”

Right now I’m in that that horrid place where my writing is not coming together. I know I should not be posting it in public.

The next two assignments in this class don’t make any sense to me. I need to spend time with the notes, workbook and probably listen to the lecture again.

Today my goal is to “just do it.” I know from experience that if I stall much longer, I will have a hard time getting back to it. Then my habits will kick in and my learning will stop.

Plus… I don’t want to leave my so called “children’s story” up as the post to read if you are coming to this bloggy thing for the first time.

The good news is the weather here on the coast today is rainy, windy and all around crappy, so today is the perfect day is be inside, go to class, and throw words at the paper.

Then again — maybe I’ll find a “Say Yes, to the Dress” marathon on TLC!

Assignment #3: Tell a weird story to a child. Suspend your own rationality and start making up a story out of thin air.

A child’s story
Once upon a time in a very small town, an old woman signed up for a dramatic writing class. She had no idea of the challenges she would face.

The first two assignments went fairly well. Nothing to comment on, but the third assignment really stumped her. Her instructor told her — just for fun, make up a story and tell it to a child.

The old woman knew this instruction would be her downfall. The town people knew it too. Everyone knew she would never be able to be close enough, long enough, to tell any child, any where, any story. Children didn’t sit well with the old woman. She was not one to control her urges.

For four days the woman walked and thought. She looked out windows and kept thinking. Every time a story idea came to her, she’d get an uneasy feeling in her gut.

Being from a small town, people knew when the lady got around children, a low growling sound would emerge from her. Some thought she was growling at the little ones because she was mean. A few people knew the truth. The old woman was not growling at children. She was not a mean or hateful woman. In fact she love children; her tummy would rumbled when she got close to children because she craved babies.

Of course eating children is a problem for some, vegetarians mostly. Not everyone thinks it’s a good idea, but then, she thought, they’ve never tasted one.

It was easier to have your choice of babies in a big city, but small towns were different. The old woman found she had to sneak, and could only grab a bite when no one was watching. She still remembers that time at the park with the fat one. Still, most of the mothers keep a good watch out, and don’t provide opportunity for more than a good chomp, sometimes two.

There have been times when the old woman was scolded for chewing on a baby. Once a policeman wag his finger at her when she was caught with baby drippings on her dress, and had forgotten to wipe her mouth.

Most children knew to stay away from her, especially when they heard the growling sound.

The editor of the weekly paper knew the old woman was a good writer. He wanted her to pass the course, and thought if she did, she might one day write stories for the town. He was also, well aware of the old woman’s dilemma, and her struggle to complete her assignment. He thought he could help, so he used his resources and concocted a plan.

The entire town showed up for a special town hall meeting. The Mayor laid out the challenge and in true community fashion, asked the town to help one of their own.

After much back and forth, and some heated debate, a solution was found. Not everybody was happy, but it was agreed, a sacrifice would be made.

The old woman was told to go ahead and write her children’s story. The town would support her. She was to not panic, her cravings would not be a problem.

The woman worked day and night on her assignment, writing and rewriting. Finally she had a story she could tell the children. Truthfully, she was more excited about the moment before she told the story, than for the completion of her assignment.

The morning her assignment was due, she walked proudly around the town, thanking everyone for making it all possible, especially Mrs. Skinner who made the biggest sacrifice of all. Then the children gathered in a circle, and she began,

“Once upon a time, in a small coastal town, an old woman celebrated her birthday. And first thing in morning, before anyone else was awake, before anyone else got in her way, she got to eat a baby…”

My assignment: The Heroes Journey.
Write a story about a political leader that answers these questions.
• Why does he or she have to win?
• What will happen if this leader fails?
• How does he or she attempt to solve it?
• What happens that actually makes the problem worse?
• What does the tragic hero do at the end of this story?
• Does the hero end up succeeding or succumb to an enormous downfall?
• What does the hero realize about himself or herself at the end of this quest?

The Heroes Journey
By Janparker

Pussy hat in hand, I left the house before anyone was up. I was meeting other women from the neighbourhood. We would march in support of the women who are screwed in the states. After that asshat got in office, we knew pretty much everyone was screwed.

I walk that fine line between being informed and being comfortable. I want an easy life, and am grateful I live in a country that, while not perfect, at least we pretend to care. I’ll march today and worry about my future tomorrow.

I need a job. Preferably a job with benefits. One that pays a decent salary, and offers a pension. Someone suggested I get on with the railroad or the post office, or the local muni. The perfect job would be with the government. Once you’re in there, you’re set for life.

My father is giving me one year to get it together. If I can’t in that time frame, he says he will intervened and I will have to marry a man of his choosing. If this happens I will lose not only my identity and independence, I fear I could lose my life. I must have my own money, my own say in what I do.

I’m surprised by the turn out at the this women’s march. Hundreds of women have joined the march this day. I knew I wasn’t the only one outraged at the turn of events, but this is inspiring.

I walked slowly and found myself alone — not in the middle of the crowd. A thought came to me. I was already volunteering on the campaign trail. Why not run for office myself?

Of course my father would shit, but he couldn’t say anything if I won, even less if I served at least 6 years. I knew people came out of politics richer than they went in. If I played the game well enough and long enough… I’d have money for life!

I know going into politics for the money is not something you broadcast from the bleachers. But my options were running out, and not many other jobs have such a fine benefit package. Thanks to the ruling BC Liberals, in 2007, they now have a pension plan where for every $1 an MLA contributes, taxpayers contribute $4. I just need to hang in for 6 years. Longer if I want more. That fucker Campbell gets $98,000 a year in pension. Granted he was Premiere, but even former cabinet minister Black, who quit after just six years will collect about $30,000 a year for life.

The very next day, I fill out a nominations package. They checked for skeletons in the closet & did a police check. This was easier than I thought it would be. The constituency office was a well oiled machine, they held an all-members meeting, no one else stood, and I was acclaimed.

The campaign was fast paced and I enjoyed every minute. I’m a born politician. Plus, my good fortune is  every one hated my opponent, so I was a shoo-in. It was strange to realize, peoples motives didn’t matter; what mattered was I wasn’t him. For the most part people want more, better and very different from what they have; or at least they think they do.

I moved up the ranks in the party and soon became a MP. I split my time between working in Parliament and working in the constituency. In Parliament, I stood for the interests of my constituents. In the constituency, I found myself smoothing the edges and explaining how things were done in Ottawa. I admit I was lazy, but I had personality, charm and charisma – I could pull the right words out of my ass no matter who I happened to be speaking with. My bank account was full and I liked it, but my financial future was still at risk, I needed at least two more years as a back bencher — more would even be better.

I had been in office four years when Sarah Jane walked into my office. She was expressing interest in the safe injection program. I felt immediately smitten. Did I just say smitten? Really?

This woman was asking for help with a cause you could see she cared deeply about, and she was counting on me to care too. But, if I got sucked in, my days of being a harmless, do nothing MP, would come to an end. If she got what she wanted; what she thought she needed, I would be a target in the next election and may lose my seat. I never gave much thought to the druggies or homeless before, I voted the party line. I kept my head low and kept my job.

As Sarah Jane spoke, I didn’t hear a word she said. I did at times notice that my head nodded up and down as if I was agreeing with her or was I agreeing with something. Fuck! Two more years I kept thinking. I needed to keep my head down for two more years!

Don’t judge me, not everyone who holds a job is good at it, and politicians are the worse. We say we care. Ha! Still, there was something about this woman I could not ignore. I knew she was passionate about her cause and it was refreshing. I also knew she would walk out of my office if I let her know how I really felt, and that was the last thing I wanted. There was something about her. I sat spellbound and encouraged her to tell her story. Fuck!

The last thing I remember before the bomb went off was how my dad was going to shit again, when I told him I had fallen in love with a woman.

My life plan for independence took a side ways turn that day. I never saw Sarah Jane again. I was told she was killed in the explosion. They tell me that I was lucky. Fourteen people were killed that day, four members of parliament, two staff and eight members of public die. A man with a personal grudge, tossed a bomb past security and blew the place up. Thirty seven others were affected, with wounds ranging from needing a bandaid and polysporin, to the extreme of needing to spend the remainder of their life in a wheel chair.

Yeah, I’m in the chair. I admit to having a few mental scars as well. Getting blown up does a number on you.

Today the average monthly CPP disability benefit is $933.82. I of course received the maximum because I am as they say, “above average,” every month $1,290.81 is automatically deposited in my account. It is steady income, that’s for sure — a pension if you will. Of course it doesn’t begin to cover my needs. I’m as far away from being independent as a person can be today. Still people continue to tell me how lucky I am; especially my father.

Dad is my primary caregiver and provider. At first it was hard and embarrassing for both of us, when he had to do all the bath and bowel chores. We got over that. The harder part, has been the fall out of a head injury. No one knows how I will act from moment to moment. I can be sweet as pie or turn into a raving lunatic at the drop of a hat. I’ve said things no one should say to anyone. I never knew I could be so hurtful and cruel. I get away with it, because… well, I get away with it.

It’s been 7 years since the explosion now, and finally, I care deeply about something very important to me. I don’t want more or better, what I want is different. Different from what I have, so I am returning to Parliament for a meeting with my MP.

He’s been in office six years now. I truly hope his motives for public service are more noble than mine ever were. My hope for independence is in this man’s hands. I am totally dependent on his support. I need his help. The irony is not lost on me.

I want the right to die. It is my last chance for independence. I can only hope my MP will care.

There still has been no feedback on my homework with the Masterclass.

It doesn’t matter really, but I’m curious. I’m not sure how on-line classes work. Maybe all things are not as instant and the inter-web would have us believe.

So, I’m going to post my first assignment here. Why not?

Our homework was to write a Myth. A myth is a story that may be true, but probably is not. what makes it a myth is that no one can really say it didn’t happen.

So, I present …

The Luncheon
by Janparker

My mother had big breasts. None of the women in our family were very tall, all of us had small feet, small hands, but only mom had large breasts. On many occasions I would hear mom telling others, that being big breasted was not her fault. At times I would ask her why she would say such a thing, but I never got the story.

At different times in my life I was both relived and disappointed that my breast were never as large as my moms. Anytime the topic was mentioned mom was adamant, “These are not my fault.”

Mom was the girls junior high P.E teacher. I remember being horrified when she’d instruct the girls in class to “stand straight and get your knockers up ladies!” For the most part, mom was fun. She told a good story, had a lot of friends, but she could also be very strict, very scary and so very proper. I never knew when she was kidding or serious. I was on guard with her, most of the time. Mom was not generous with her time, or personal history, so I was delighted when she asked if I wanted to join her for lunch in Santa Fe one Saturday. She had something to tell me she said.

Santa Fe was the big city for us. Only 35 miles away, it was the town we went for school clothes, shoes, and big grocery hauls. We would zip down the hill, go to the JC Penny’s, have lunch either at Firs Cafeteria or the Lotta Burger, then we’d be home before anyone knew we had gone. There was never any sight seeing, or wandering through galleries. Trips to Santa Fe were all business for our family.

This trip was to be special and I was told to wear something nice, because we were going  somewhere nice. My something nice was the fake leather mini skirt, I wore with a light blue blouse. I got this outfit in New York City, last winter when my Grandmother died. We all went out for the funeral. It was on that same trip, my cousin gave me a white pair of Beatle boots she had outgrown. My outfit was complete and I loved how I looked.

Mom drove the two of us to Santa Fe in the Chevy Bel-air, I was surprised when she parked in the pay parking lot, something I had never seen her do before. We usually parked several blocks away from the plaza and walked to the stores. It was a hot day and mom didn’t want to roll up the windows of the car. She did lock the car though, saying, “At least a robber will see we thought about security, and maybe he’ll rob someone else.”

The big surprise was when we walked into the Plaza Hotel and mom told the hostess — “Two for lunch please.” Lunch at the Plaza Hotel right downtown on the Santa Fe Plaza! This was only something the rich tourist did.

When we were seated at our table, one right in the centre of the restaurant, Mom told me that this was the exact same table she and her mother had sat at, years ago. She told me that time though, the Plaza was very busy and the lady seating them, told them there would be a 30 minute wait. Would they like to wait in the bar?

I was glad we got a table right away, since I wasn’t old enough to be in the bar, plus I thought if we had to wait, mom would change her mind at any delay — she wasn’t one to loiter. I was sure she would have told the lady to forget it, and we’d end up at Lotta Burger after all.

The Plaza is a very fancy hotel and its restaurant is fancy. I was so glad I was wearing my leather skirt and cool white Beatle boots. The waiters wore white shirts and mariachi pants or skirts, and the women tied their hair back with red ribbons. Everyone was so polite with “Yes, ma’am” and “Right away sir .” They held my chair out for me when I sat down and put my napkin in my lap for me. When we were asked if we wanted something to drink, I said in a clear voice, “Shirley Temple, please.”

For our lunch, mom ordered the blue corn enchilada plate, I had two chicken tacos. We ordered extra guacamole and ate it with fresh tortilla chips. I saved the umbrella that came with my Shirley Temple. This was a big deal day. The food was good, but yo could have served me burnt toast and rhubarb jam, and I’d be just as happy. I was spending the day and lunching with my mom.

All of a sudden, mom got a far away look on her face, and told me again how lucky we were to get a table today. Then slowly and almost in a whisper, she started to tell me about the lunch she shared with her mother at the Plaza Hotel so many years ago.

Mom said she was just 18 years old, only a few years older than I was that day. She said she wore her something nice that day too. Her something nice was a blue pencil skirt and a flowered blouse. She said she wore white gloves. Her purse matched her shoes. She had just cut off her long braids and was feeling very sophisticated.

Her mother was very sophisticated and came from high society in New York City. It was odd to have her visit in New Mexico. She was a real fish out of water there, but like me, my mother was just glad to be sharing a day with her mother.

At times mom got wistful as she remembered this lunch so long ago. Several times I had to pull her back into the story with, “Then what happened?”

She told me that as they were making their way to the bar to wait for a table, an older man, who was sitting by himself, offered to share his table with them. He said he was just finishing up and there was plenty of room.

Mom said, that was nice of him and they took seats across from him. She said they did not talk to the man, they only shared some pleasantries. She remembered his name was Michael. She described him as a stout man, with horned rim glasses. He had an ivory tipped cane that hung over the only empty chair at the table. She said he reminded her of Uncle Arthur.

She said Michael finished his coffee, and went to pay his bill, and just before he left the cashier, and restaurant, he waved goodbye, and raised the tip of his cane to his forehead in a salute.
Mom said, she remembered he also winked at her, then he left and mom and her mom continued on with their lunch.

When they finished their meal and when they went to pay the bill, that’s when, mom said, “The shit hit fan!”  Hearing my mom say shit in public shocked me. It was so out of character for her. Only one other time had I heard her say shit. It had been last summer at the pool. I overheard her telling her friend Sarah, “That girl wouldn’t say shit, if she had a mouthful of it!” For me this was shocking yet oh, so very delicious.

The reason the shit hit the fan was because when Grandmother went to pay the bill it was much more than they expected. An entire other appetizer, lunch, desert and two drinks had been added to their check!

Apparently the man who was so generous in offering to share his table had told the cashier that his friends would be paying for his meal and he had pointed to mom and her mother!

Mom recalled the tip of his cane and this Michaels wink. She told me she was livid.

I’ve seen her angry before. My mother could really make a scene and often it was embarrassing when she did. At times I thought she was very inappropriate. But this mans hutzpah was over the top and I was angry with her as she told me.

“How dare he!” I said under my breath.

Mom said she tried to explain to the cashier how this mix up had happened and how the man was taking advantage of the situation. That they didn’t know him from Adam, and they could not afford the extra cost of the bill, when out the front window, mom said she saw this Michael stroll across the plaza heading towards the JC Penny store.

Without a word or hesitation, mom left the cashier and ran outside to confront Michael.

Her mother watched in horror as she went up to him. Mom said, she started to yell at the man for being dishonest. Then before she could tell Michael how rotten his actions were, she said, “All of a sudden this man Michael raise his cane and hit me!”

What? He hit you!

“Yes,” she said, “he hit me hard with his cane, right across my chest!” “Everyone saw it.” Mom told me she stumbled back, tripped and fell, and then this Michael disappeared in all the commotion.

She went on, she told me several strangers came to her aid and as she struggled to get up, shocked at the events, she felt very strange and noticed her chest really hurt and it started to swell.

In no time at all, exactly where the man had struck her with his cane, moms chest hurt more and more and the swelling continued.

I sat with my mouth open. I could not believe my mothers story.

“It was 3 years later,” she continued, “and believe it or not, I saw this Michael again. I saw him getting into the passengers seat of a large green car near the TG&Y up in Los Alamos.”

“What did you do?” I asked. “Well, when I saw him, I thought, it’s all his fault!”

Watching my mom, I could see the anger and resentment she held come rushing back. “You know after he hit struck me, with that cane, the pain and bruises healed, but the swelling never went down. I’ve had to deal with these two big breast ever since that fateful day.”

Before I could challenge what she just said, she continued.

“I charged him, and I caught him before he could closed the door of the car.”

She said she called on all the strength she could muster, and she grabbed him! She pushed him, but to no avail. Mom told me he wouldn’t budge, until she finally pulled his leg.

Mom turned to me and said, “That’s right, I pulled his leg; the exact same way I’m pulling your leg right now!”

My mother then winked at me, smiled and asked, if I wanted to share a slice of peach pie after our lunch.

I spent most of the last two days writing my assignment for the on-line writing class Sandie gifted me. I’m wiped out!

The Masterclass web site is hard to learn. Maybe a real computer geek could wiz through it, but for me, figuring out how, when, and where to post our assignments and questions is frustrating.

Just when I thought I did it and could walked away, I realized I posted my homework in the wrong place and now I can’t figure out how to delete it. I feel foolish – I’m convinced EVERYBODY else knows — they’ve always known, and now I’m convinced that everybody is pointing and laughing at this new kid in class.

Then I realized four people have already read my story! ACK!

No one has offered feedback yet, and I have no idea if the famous instructor, David Mamat, will ever read it. Maybe the TA, Brad will. Honestly – I don’t know what to expect yet. It’s driving me crazy!

Learning new things is hard!

When I had to introduce myself to the class, I wrote that I was pretty sure I was in way over my head. I told them I was a retired martial arts instructor who likes to quilt and hike. That I live on the Sunshine Coast in beautiful British Columbia, and that my friend gifted me this class, as she seems to think I have a story or two to tell. I added that I’d never taken a writing class before and learned to read as an adult. I confessed that I tend to be a bit of a lurker, but I would do my best to participate, complete the assignments and welcome feedback.

It’s been several hours since I posted my introduction, and no one has yet to say hello. (I’m sure its because they are still laughing.) Of course, I haven’t said howdy to anyone else either, but I’m the newbie here. Right?

Now, instead of spending time constantly refreshing the class web page, and feeding my fear of what is sure to be rejection, I happily came back to this good ole JJJ Bloggy thing!

Ahhhhh…. much better.

Apparently, this is my “safe place” to ramble on and on. Not many people know of this bloggy thing, and more importantly, I know where the delete button is if mean people find it.

I wrote that I was too shy to post my assignments here — but the truth is the opposite. I’m shy to post on the class room site.

Still, I’m wearing my big girl panties now, and write, listen, learn and I will accept and give feedback as best I can.

I also know that when I feel goofy – I’ll post on this wonderful bloggy thing, where I know I am loved.

I spent most of today writing.

Sandie gifted me an on-line Master class in dramatic writing.

I’ve had a few private lessons in writing, but while I’ve always wanted to, I’ve never taken a class in writing. I’m pretty excited and nervous about this.

I started listening to the lectures last night; today I started writing my first assignment.

I’m not even close to finish and have 3500 words so far. I’m making the mistake of editing while I write.

This class is going to be harder than I think. Still I’m excited to give it a go, even though I doubt I will be able to keep up with the suggested six week schedule.

Writing is hard and summer is on us.

To help, I’m taking the self imposed pressure, of posting on this bloggy thing off myself for now.

That doesn’t mean I won’t post here, but my writing is going to be on class assignments for a while, and if the first assignment is any indicator, I’m going to be way too shy to post my class work here.

I know some of you will keep checking this page; I appreciate that a lot. I still check Jim’s bloggy page every day and he hasn’t updated since January 20, but I continue to look with high hopes each day.

I’m hoping this class will help me become a better writer. Perhaps the postings on this bloggy thing will be much more interesting when and if I “graduate” from the course.

Wish me luck and please continue to check in – I may surprise myself and post more, not less.