Recently friends, I sent off for a brochure from an online writing school that specializes in children’s writing. Seeing as how I've never gone, I wondered of they could help me significantly improve my writing. They say they teach you how to write best sellers, they have a highly capable well trained staff of instructors with many years of experience in the industry, blah, blah, blah blah, blah. Not saying they don’t. This school shall remain nameless, but I'm not knocking it in any way, because I really would like to take some of these courses. I'm not so young and arrogant I wont take sound teaching. Nor am I too lazy to learn it on my own by reading. (I live in the library and if I'm not reading, I'm on my l-top). But alas, it's been my sad experience many times in life, some things just cost too much. And there was no mention anywhere on the brochure or the site about tuition cost, or if financial aid is available for such a program. Most times when there's no mentioned price, it’s a tad high. I truly wish I could get some writers grants but, its a little more difficult than it sounds. So I wanted to ask you guys if you really think I should look further into it. How's my writing honestly. On the pamphlet, you have to answer certain questions, but answer as though you were a kid, like "What kind of books do you like to read." You fill it out, send it back, and I guess they get back with you.
One question in particular asked, "If you could be any kind of animal, what would you be and why?" This is the answer I typed, but I have yet to send it off. It’s a bit longer than the brochure’s lines allowed by I felt so limited.
“If you could be any animal, what would you be and why?" My answer . . .
I think I would be a woodpecker. Yep that would suite me just nicely. Chomp Wiggins would never see it coming. Who’s Chomp Wiggins? Simply put, he’s the last thing you see just before the painful “Thwack" across your face, and the little colored spots begin to flicker in your sight when you won’t give him your lunch money. He’s the only thing you think about when you see the raw whip marks in the mirror that the wedgey left behind, after finally pulling your underwear out of your butt crack. Ugh, those brown stains never come out! Not even with ultra-awesome bleach. Mom always fusses at me on account of that smelly ogre saying, “You have more skid marks in your underwear than NASCAR". And it’s this horrible, evil eighth grader who’s mother calls him “Chauncey", that makes me want to be a wood pecker, and not the freedom of flight. I have always wanted to fly, but if I was a woodpecker, the first and probably only place I would fly to, would be right outside Chomps bedroom window and 4:00 A.M. every morning. I’d peck, and I’d peck, and peck so loud on the glass, he’ll be tossing around in his pee stained bed, covering his head with a pillow, and screaming for a BB gun or sleeping pills. (Of course if he actually has a BB gun already I might be in a little trouble.) Four o’clock is well beyond the time the buses come, so that way, he’ll be sure to come to school tired with his tongue hanging out, and tiny bags under his eyes. And then he won’t have the energy or enthusiasm to bully innocent sixth graders like me. Muuu haa haa haa! :evil: Then I would fly around and wait for him, and whenever he would come outside, I’d generously doody on his head and book bag. (If he carried one.) All down the back of his head the chalky poop would ooze- hopefully, I'd catch him yawning with his face to the sky. If I'm lucky that is. Ooooooh, and bet your grandpa's fallen out hairs I’d get him at recess too, you’d see! Yes you would [i]indeed [/i] see. There would be no escaping my flustered, frantic, flock of furious feces. (Try saying that wearing loose dentures!) And there’s no need to worry about me running out of ammo. Cause I’d fly through a school window, and get into his lunch unnoticed. That greasy brown bag of whatever he eats every day that made him grow to the size of a sasquatch. Nobody’s quite sure just what it is, but the road kill’s always gone within the hour of its morbid flattening from in front of his house, and the chainsaw gets a heaping howdy do of a fire up minutes later. Even if its nasty tasting like cod liver oil, and gross looking like the cafeteria ladies chin mole, (which by the way, I’d swear I saw talking to me one day when I was in line) I’d munch and wolf it down to keep Chomp’s stomach grumbling. I’d get a free meal, and make sure I had plenty of white pasty waste to go around. What a bargain! Depending on whether or not Principle Hanson has been dipping in his top desk drawer- the one he keeps his liquor in, I’d fly into his window, and tell him when Chomp was smoking in the bathroom. (But If Mr. Hanson ever tells someone “A little birdy told me so," they’ll swear he was drinking even if he was sober.) Then I’d perch outside the window with a big worm worthy smile across my birdy beak, as Mr. Hanson gives Chomp detention. And when Chomp finally looks up at the bird sitting on the tree branch outside, staring back at him boldly, I’d flutter away. Tomorrow’s a long day, and I’d have this routine to do all over again. Oh the simple joys in life. Day after day, this regimen would continue until Chomp finally graduates from high school some day. And we that have good sense in our skulls may as well say it will go on forever. After all, Chomp has failed the eighth grade five times.
|
