Me, squinting and looking sheepish.

I did not write much in 2011.

That realization sort of stuns me. I didn’t recognize it until the year began to dwindle and I glanced back. I spent a lot of time last year working behind the scenes of my writing, without actually writing. I futzed under the hood, you could say, without actually driving the car.

And how, you might ask, did I do that for a year?

I spent the first three or four months of the year researching why writing matters. This was, ostensibly, a means of starting a book chapter called (what else) “Why Writing Matters.” I can’t, I figure, expect parents to read a book about helping their kids with writing unless they’re convinced that the endeavor will be worth their while. So I simply set out to do a little research, and found myself falling into a rabbit hole of studies, reports, articles and books on how writing is becoming more important than ever in the modern world. And concurrently found other studies, reports, articles and books bemoaning the fact that writing is being more neglected than ever in most classrooms. It’s a fascinating, horrifying story, and I couldn’t move on from it; I just kept reading, gathering notes and pulling out my hair. I managed to collect it all into an article query, and wrote an introduction to the article, but haven’t yet had a magazine take me up on writing the actual piece. It’s an important story, and one I’d still like to tell.

I spent another few months preparing workshops which I presented at a homeschool conference and elsewhere. I’ve given workshops before, but these were two completely new ones, and it surprised me how much time they took to put together. Good news: those months of research wriggled their way into both workshops. Suddenly I had more evidence, more grit for parents, to work them up about writing. Giving the workshops was exciting–there’s nothing like sharing ideas with others and getting immediate, tangible responses. (And hugs, even.) The give-and-take with participants gave me all the more insight about kids, parents and writing for my book project.

Still, it wasn’t writing.

I spent another two months redesigning my blog. This was perhaps the most frivolous, not-related-to-writing distraction of all. I just wanted my blog to look more like the vision I had in my mind; I had no idea how much I had to learn about code and such to make that happen. It was a fulfilling little dalliance, though, and it had to be good for the synapses in my forty-six-year-old brain. Now I’m redesigning my homeschool support group’s website, so the experience wasn’t all shallow self-indulgence.

Looking back on how I spent 2o11, and how much I wrote, I realize that I worked on just three projects: that article query, my e-book for parents on facilitating writer’s workshops (still unfinished) and this blog. That’s it.

Sigh.

I also realized something else. There are two things getting in the way of my writing.

1. my book project
2. this blog

I know, I know! How can writing a book get in the way of writing? But a book project is nothing if not big. I knew that writing a book would take years. It’s been almost three years since I got the original audacious idea of writing it. In that time I’ve done a lot of thinking, outlining and note-taking. I’ve even done a lot of writing. But I can see now that I am years and years away from anything resembling a completed book. I just don’t have the time to make it happen faster. I’m still a homeschooling parent, which implies a certain level of busy.

I’m also a monogamous-project person. Ask any of the moms in my homeschooling group, who see me knitting at the park week after week. I work dutifully at one project and finish it before I even swatch for another one. It’s a little ridiculous. I knitted a single sweater coat for nine months until the thing reached my ankles. I’m not sure what this tendency says about me. That I value finished projects over process? That I can’t multi-task? That I’m tunnel-visioned? True. True. True. But it’s also true that if I want something I will work for it. Stubbornly. Single-mindedly. Mulishly.

I thought I wanted to write a book. I do want to write a book. But what I realize, now, is that I want even more to help other parents with their kids’ writing. And if I put all my time into writing a book that won’t make it into another parent’s hands for years and years, then I’m not going to be helping anyone for a mighty long time.

Then there’s the fact that my project single-mindedness hasn’t allowed me any other writing for almost three years. So many times an essay idea has whispered in my ear, and I’ve ignored it, knowing that I’d never get a book finished if I got sidetracked with other whims. But, oh, how I’ve missed writing essays and articles! I’ve missed breathing on them and shining them up until I could see my reflection in them. I’ve missed sharing them with my writer friends, and re-writing them, and re-writing them again, and finding potential markets for them, and sending them off, with held breath and crossed fingers. I’ve missed that enchanted period before the rejection arrives, when the unlikely is possible.

I haven’t written a new essay in almost three years. I stopped writing essays just about the time I started getting them published.

Suddenly I’m feeling a little sad about that.

I’m not giving up on my book project. I’ve just decided to let it become the afghan that I knit at on the side, for years, without worrying about when it will get finished.

In the meanwhile, I’m allowing myself to dally. I’ll keep working at my e-book on facilitating workshops. I’m excited about the e-book model: the shorter format, the self-publishing angle. I’ll try out this first idea, and if it goes well, I very well may release other portions of the book in my brain as e-books. I love the idea of potentially helping other parents sooner, rather than later.

And I’m going to get back to writing essays and articles. I’ve pulled a few simmering-too-long ideas right up to the front burners. Feels good.

But back to that other writing obstacle: this blog.

I’ve kept up this blog as doggedly as everything else I do. A post a week, most weeks. For a long time I kicked myself for not writing more. I was convinced that I needed to post more often to build up my audience. And how I wanted to build my audience! I kept waiting for the month that my blog would take off, and attract masses. But, no. There have been no take-offs or other statistical pyrotechnics. My blog audience has grown slowly and steadily over the months and years. What else did plodding, deliberate me expect? I have a relatively small yet loyal readership. Every month there are a few more of you. I am finally beginning to take satisfaction in the fineness of that gift.

But a post a week here has been too much for me. As this current post is making all too evident, I don’t write short. Wish I could, but I can’t. So even posting every eight to ten days meant that blogging took up a good chunk of my writing time.

No, I’m not giving up the farm. I’m just putting my eggs in the basket that says that most of my readers will keep showing up, even if I only post every two weeks or so. That’s what feed readers and email subscriptions are for, after all.

I’m also hoping to focus my posts here on writing with kids, and passion-driven learning because those are the topics that matter most to me. I’ve finally figured out that I’m not Soule Mama, you know? I may drop in some atwitter posts now and again–heavy on photos, light on text–because I don’t want to things to get too impersonal. But I have a better sense of what my mission is, and what I want to share here.

So. All of this has been a bloated, navel-gazing introduction to my new year’s resolution: In 2012 I will write.

Wish me luck.

This year Mr. T and I are delving into California history. With a few other families, we’re visiting a different historical site each month. We’ve already had a few wonderful experiences, which I’ve neglected to share here.  One of these days I’ll catch up.

Meanwhile, this week we went on an overnight living history trip to Fort Ross, on the California coast.

It was an amazing adventure.

Fort Ross was established by Russia during the early 19^th century, as a site for growing food for Russian outposts in Alaska, and a place for hunting otter for the fur trade. The Russian-American Company that developed at Fort Ross was an interesting mix of Russians, native Alaskans and natives from California’s Kashaya Pomo and Coast Miwok tribes.

For the trip, each of us took on the persona of an actual person who once lived at Fort Ross.

Mr. T became Kirill Timofeevich Khlebnikov, an accountant for the Fort Ross Company who kept records of everything from how much employees were being paid to how often the cannons were unlawfully fired. T was part of the militia group on our trip, which meant he got to learn about weapons and help shoot a cannon. He’d be happy to tell you what an 1812 Charleville smoothbore flintlock muzzle-loading musket is. He learned how to follow Russian military commands, how to make rope and how to keep a fire going. He also washed a lot of dishes, something he never seems able to do at home.

I was Paraskov’ia Kulika, a half-native, half-Russian (or Creole) woman who married a Russian. After her husband died, Paraskov’ia worked off his debts by serving as a cowherd for the company. During the trip I served as a cook, which was a whole lot of work involving a whole lot of beets.  (Borscht, anyone?)

The coastal site was stunning. The quality of light–an otherworldly mix of sun and fog—made the whole experience seem a little magical, as if we really had stepped into an earlier world.

Portraying real people, and visiting their cemetery especially, connected us to the people who once lived there in a way that we surely wouldn’t have felt by simply visiting as tourists. The whole experience was powerful.

When I talk to H and Lulu about their childhoods as homeschoolers, it seems like our living history experiences are some of their favorite memories. There’s something about leaving behind real life for a day or two, and living as someone else, that transports and transforms you.

It’s an unforgettable experience.

I’ve been a little distracted lately.

By Mexican palms and Mayan ruins.

By coconuts.

And cenotes.

The slightly loco part of all of this is that we flew to Mexico the same day that I gave my second homeschooling conference workshop. Which meant that the week before was a mash-up of preparing PowerPoint slides and buying sunscreen and Pepto Bismol.

I’d barely finished shutting down the projector after that workshop, when I found myself racing home to pack a bigger suitcase.

Which was exciting, but a little sad too. I’d put so much time into planning those workshops; it seemed a shame not to stop and ponder how they went.

So I’m pondering now. Basking actually. It’s such a buzz to be able to share ideas that I’ve been percolating and poking at for months with real people. (People who are stuck in a room with me for an hour and fifteen minutes and who can’t leave without looking rude, I should mention.) It’s a thrill to get people worked up about writing and their kids and their kids’ quirky interests.

I love it when a workshop participant nods along to something I’ve said. When another approaches me after a workshop to share her own family’s writing story. When a whole group moans and marvels after doing this exercise to see what it’s like to be a beginning writer.

(If any of you workshop attendees have stopped by, I hope you’ll leave a comment and say hello!)

So in the post-vacation glow (read: ocean of emails that demand my response), I’m thinking about how to keep a little of that workshop excitement going. Happily, I’ll be offering the workshops to some other homeschooling groups in the next few months. But I’m also trying to figure out how to share more of what I’m working on here, so I don’t feel stuck alone in my brain quite so often.

Today I’m going to make myself a pitcher of agua de jamaica, and think about some changes I’d like to make on this blog. (Inspired in part by a long conversation with my dear friend Emily, who designs websites for writers.)

I’m also going to finish unpacking my suitcase, winnow down my Mexico photos, and try to get the ants out of my beehive.

I’ll try not to get too distracted.

A local teenage friend from a neighboring homeschooling group had a wonderful story on NPR the other day, about his life as an unschooler.

Mr. T, Chris and I listened together. Before the story was even finished, T wondered aloud, “Am I an unschooler?”

“Well, not exactly,” I told him, when the story ended. I explained that with unschooling, kids decide what they want to do, and how they spend their days. I pointed out how he and I work together for part of the day, most days, which is a little different than how it is for most unschoolers. “And I help you decide what you’re going to learn about. So I’ll remind you that once in a while we should probably do something with math, and I’ll offer lots of ideas, but you decide what kind of math looks most interesting. Right?”

“Yeah,” he said, thinking. “So what we do is kind of like unschooling with…structure.”

How did he come up with that word? He pretty much echoed my own explanation of how we homeschool.

And then he moved on to talking about Magic cards. And let those unschooling thoughts simmer.

The next night as he jumped around on his bed, in jammie pants and shirtless, procrastinating tooth-brushing, he said, “I’m thinking about what I want to learn about.”

The conversation was back on, apparently.

“I can decide that, right?”

Of course he can decide that. Maybe he’d forgotten how all the mornings I ask what he wants to learn about, and what he wants to do.

“Because I’m thinking about what I want to learn about. And I’m thinking that I want to have days when I do projects. I don’t like doing projects in little bits every day. It just gets boring. I want to have a whole day when I just do a project.”

More bed jumping.

“And I want to have research days. When I plan the projects.”

What kind of projects?

“Well, I’ve made too many books lately. I liked when I made that colonial house.” He went to pull his cardboard house off the shelf. And the door fell off.

More three-dimesional stuff, maybe?

“Yeah. And maybe a project day every week. And I want to make a list of what I want to learn about.”

Maybe a project journal? Where you plan what you want to do?

“That’s a great idea! A homeschooling journal! I can write down what I’m doing and what I want to do.” And with that, he ran downstairs.

Why do all the greatest insights happen at bedtime?

I caught up with him at the kitchen table where he’d already started this list.

What he wants to learn about. The little arrow glyphs indicate topics he wants to learn about later. Maybe today I’ll mention some of the other things he’s interested in, like learning to design video games, that didn’t make it on to his list.

“It’s funny,” he said. “The kids in my tennis class kept saying how they can’t wait for summer. But I don’t feel that way. Sometimes summer gets boring.”

Truth is, our morning time of working together often falls by the wayside in the summer. We become more like, well, unschoolers.

“You want to make sure we keep working together over the summer?” I asked.

“Yes!”

No problem, buddy.

The entire conversation fascinated me. Here’s a kid who’s asked day in and out, what do you want to do? What do you want to learn about? But I think he’s taken those questions for granted. The NPR story, I imagine, gave him a little perspective. He’s beginning to realize that he has choices that most kids don’t have–and he wants to grab those choices like candy from a busted piñata and run with them.

First plan for this morning: a trip to the library. To find books about some of those items on his list.

Something tells me this will be a fun summer. (Now how are we going to learn Greek?)

“Jeff’s friend and colleague Linda Fisher likes to joke that we spend the first few years of a child’s life teaching him how to walk and talk, and the rest of his life telling him to shut up and sit down. This strikes us as the way schools also work. We spend tremendous energy helping kids learn how to read and write, then the rest of their school years constraining how they do so.”

–Jeffrey Wilhelm and Michael W. Smith, Going With the Flow: How to Engage Boys (and Girls) In Their Literacy Learning

How can we support our kids without constraining them? How do we help them stand up and say what they want to say?

One of the best parts of blogging is, of course, the comments one receives. On days that I don’t receive comments, I have to satisfy myself with reading my blog stats. On WordPress, there’s a very handy, easy-to-read, single-page stat report. And one section of that report lists “search engine terms”–the phrases that people type into a search engine which lead them to my blog.

This is a highly entertaining list, I tell you. Fine recreation for comment-less days. I squirrel away the best phrases to share with you, dear readers, until I find myself with a nice collection–and nothing better to post here. Longtime readers may remember the original search engine post of over a year ago. Reading your comments to that post had me belly-laughing for days.

So without further ado, I present you with the most intriguing search engine terms that have led folks to the wonderfarm in the last year:

boy cleaning up art supplies. Oh dear. I have no idea how this led you to my blog. I do have a boy here, and there are cupboard-loads of art supplies. But I have never seen a boy cleaning up those art supplies. Not the resident boy, anyway. If you saw my kitchen table, you would believe me.

pictures of black haired 11 year olds. This seems a tad specific, don’t you think? Around here we don’t happen to have black-haired eleven-year-olds any more than we have boys cleaning up art supplies. Sorry to disappoint.

pokemon that looks like patricia. Really? There is one? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or disturbed.

stomach flu patricia throw up. Is this a command? Or some sort of hex? I have to say, I’m a bit offended. (And not feeling queasy at all, so there!)

bad homeschooling examples. And this led you to my blog? Gee, thanks. Hope you got the inspiration you were looking for.

homeschooling analogies negative. Okay, I’m starting to take this a wee bit personally…

spoiled little mama green chinese diaper. I really loved the randomness of this one. Until my curiosity got the best of me and I googled the phrase myself and found an actual product. What a letdown.

Backswimmers bite in Spain. What a useful bit of information! I’ll keep it in mind next time I’m in Spain. Thanks for sharing.

troll mothering. Do you mean how do trolls mother, or how can humans mother like trolls? And did you find the answers on my blog? (Do I really look like a Pokemon, mother like a troll and homeschool badly? These search engine terms can be so discouraging!)

Some of my favorite searches are the ones I call Google As All-Knowing Oracle searches. These are the ones in which someone types a question into the search engine as if the search engine will answer the question. Now I understand that if you type in a generic question–something like how do you divide fractions?–you are likely to find a web page where others have asked the same question, and received answers. But for most searches, as I pointed out in my original search engine post, you need to type in phrases which are likely to appear in the document you’re looking for. Typing a question is not likely to be helpful–especially if your question is, shall we say, obscure. To wit:

Do goblins attack fairy dishes? I really don’t know. You might be better off asking a goblin, rather than Google (or me).

Did you ever pretend to be a pokemon? That’s a little personal, don’t you think? (Okay, sometimes I play around as that Pokemon that looks like me. And it’s awfully fun to pretend you’re Jigglypuff.)

What does bon jovi own? Sheesh. I write one little post about my kid’s short-lived fascination with Bon Jovi and for over a year have had almost-daily hits from Bon Jovi fans. No, I do not know what Bon Jovi owns. I don’t have photos of his kids; I don’t know where he lives. And I don’t know if he’s ever pretended to be a Pokemon.

how do you wright in chinese? Um, I hate to be rude, but perhaps you should learn to write in English first.

And then, of course, there are those Google-As-Confessional searches:

I hold my pencil weird. There, there. I hope that typing that into a search engine made you feel better.

i want a waldorf play kitchen. And I sure hope you get one. But perhaps you should redirect your request to Santa Claus rather than to Google and me.

* * *

Keep those blog searches coming, you random internet pilgrims! I probably don’t have what you’re looking for here on the farm, but it’s always a giggle to meet you.

October is a good time for wondering.

September can be such a flurry. Such a transition time. Even if your kids don’t go to school, all the regular activities start back up. This year I purposely conjured up a handful of new projects in September, to focus me on a new life homeschooling with just T. And to distract me from the changes, with H at college, and Lulu at high school. A writer’s workshop for younger kids. A science group for exploring the mind-boggling diversity of habitats that we have here in California. A handful of other projects at home and in the community.

Not much time for wondering.

Our homeschooling group hosted its annual Not Back To School Picnic for local support groups, and its fall camping trip–three days near the coast, in the redwoods. I took the photos that accompany this post on the first of October, during that camping trip, on an excursion to the Pescadero Marsh. It was a good morning: a slow hike with time to muse and drink in the nature all around. I picked up my camera for the first time in weeks and just let myself wander.

And wonder.

I thought about something else that had kept me busy in September: The Dictation Project. It started partly as a distraction, partly as a means of focusing me on my book. In those regards it was a success. I wrote a lot, thought a lot. I wanted to give readers tangible ideas, so that meant longer posts and more of them. But one of my other goals for the project was building community. I’d hoped to get people talking about the idea of using dictation as a writing tool. I’d hoped that the comments sections of those posts would be a lively, hopping place. That didn’t quite happen.

I’m still wondering about that.

Not that there weren’t comments. There were comments that weren’t so much comments as stories. Stories of how readers had taken up pencils and pens and written down words and experienced small moments of transformation. And, bear with me, this a slightly ridiculous analogy, but for me these stories are like lembas, the hobbit bread made by elves–small, magical cakes of sustenance for a great journey. Sustenance and encouragement for me as I work at this book. I wish I could convey how much they mean to me without resorting to Lord of the Rings references.

Wanting for more seems like nothing short of Gollum-esque greed. But I do wonder about what happened as the month moved along, and the comments got slighter and slighter. What makes readers comment to a blog post? Personal connection? Having something to say? Were there few comments because the topic of dictation wasn’t pertinent to my readers? When I mentioned this to Chris, he said, “Well, the posts are pretty long.” Point taken. And point struggled with. I wanted to provide my readers with information. I didn’t want to just gloss over the topic of dictation; I wanted to delve in and give practical ideas. Which meant long posts. And maybe more than my readers had time for.

I wrote to a blogging, book-writing friend for advice. I got lots more lembas for my journey. But she also wrote this:  ”rss is dead, i hear, because no one has time to read the blogs they subscribe to. everyone just skim skim skims. sigh. it’s hard to build community when people flit and flit and won’t stick with anything!” Well, I know that I have readers who do more than skim skim skim because you’ve left comments, you’ve emailed, you’ve spoken to me in person.

Still, I wonder.

Are readers just looking for a quick hit when they read blog posts? Just a zap of inspiration before they click along to the next thing? Is it a waste to write longer posts, a waste to try to share something meatier? Should a blogger write what she feels compelled to write–or what she thinks her readers want to read? And when do you let those comments and blog stats start to talk to you? Do you listen when they seem to say that people are losing interest? Or do comments and stats tell the whole truth?

Wondering…

It’s harder too when you have a bigger project in mind. A book, say. How much time do you put in, if you can’t be sure others will find it useful? And how much do you listen to the part of you that calls, that compels you to write anyway, regardless of what others say? My wise email friend also wrote this: “… but if you feel absolutely called to write this book, why would you not do it? even if only one person reads it and is helped by it, you will have done something positive. even if only your children read it, you will have put what you know out into the world.”

Hmmm…

Wondering is best, I suppose, when you just let it be that: wondering. When you don’t try to make a leap for answers before the mulling time is done. When you just let go, breathe in the nature around you, soak it up with your camera and let the metaphors take over, Lord of the Rings references and all. The answers will come. In time. In the meanwhile, October is a good time for wondering.

And this is a wonder farm, after all.

Well, hello.

You may be thinking that I haven’t written here because I got busy with Thanksgiving, but you would be wrong. I haven’t written because I was attacked by the college application monster.

This is the first time this has happened to me. Back in the day, twenty-seven or so years ago, I applied to precisely one college. It was a simple check-the-boxes sort of affair, devoid of essays or any such matter, to a public university that lay within driving distance of my home. Two years later I filled out one more application, a transfer one this time, which may or may not have required an essay–I don’t remember–to a different public university at the other end of the state. I waited for a response and then packed my bags. That was it.

It’s a new millennium and my, oh my, how things have changed. The college application process has morphed into a monster. If you aren’t already acquainted with this particular beast, allow me to introduce you.

H is applying to four colleges. These days, that’s an unreasonably low number, according to H’s high school counselor and most other kids at his school. But this kid knows what he wants, and it’s a very particular sort of film production program. There are two schools which offer programs that thrill him, one that comes in a distant third, and another that fills the role, in application parlance, of “safety school”.

Four applications. Sounds manageable, doesn’t it?

Don’t be silly. Shall we begin with the essays?

You may have heard of something called the Common Application, which allows students to fill out a single application which can then be forwarded to several schools. This year’s essay options for the Common Application are as follows (Choose one, 250 words minimum):

• Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you. 
• Discuss some issue of personal, local, national, or international concern and its importance to you.  
• Indicate a person who has had a significant influence on you, and describe that influence.  
• Describe a character in fiction, a historical figure, or a creative work (as in art, music, science, etc.) that has had an influence on you, and explain that influence. 
• A range of academic interests, personal perspectives, and life experiences adds much to the educational mix. Given your personal background, describe an experience that illustrates what you would bring to the diversity in a college community, or an encounter that demonstrated the importance of diversity to you. 
• Topic of your choice. 

If one essay sounds too good to be true, that’s because it is. Only two of the four schools H is applying to even use the Common Application. The other two schools have their own essay requirements. Which, of course, differ from each other. One school requires a response to one of these prompts (500-700 words):

• Write an essay about an event or experience that helped you learn what is important to you and why it is important.
• Tell us about a creative project, performance or other work of yours and how it reflects your vision or voice.
• Reflect on a challenge you overcame through persistence.

The other school requires a response to each of the following essays (1,000 words for both essays combined):

• Describe the world you come from — for example, your family, community or school — and tell us how your world has shaped your dreams and aspirations.
• Tell us about a personal quality, talent, accomplishment, contribution or experience that is important to you. What about this quality or accomplishment makes you proud and how does it relate to the person you are?

And, lest you think that a single essay for those Common Application schools is all that’s required, let me tell you about the insufficiently named “school supplements”. These are extra applications for Common Application schools, unique to each school. Some of the “supplemental” questions H must answer are:

• If you had the opportunity to spend one day in New York City with a famous New Yorker, who would it be and what would you do?
• Write a haiku, limerick or short (eight lines or fewer) poem that best represents you.
• In the year 2050, a movie is being made of your life. Please tell us the name of your movie and briefly summarize the story line.
• Please tell us what led you to select your anticipated academic program and what interests you most about your intended discipline.
• Please tell us three specific features of our university that interest you.

Oh, and let’s not forget the short responses for the non-Common Application schools:

• Tell us about an activity that is important to you and why.
• Describe your academic interests and how you plan to pursue them at our university.
• Optional: Please provide any information that you believe is relevant to our consideration of you as an applicant, but not already discussed or explained in your application.

Then there are “quick-takes” which are one-line responses to silly questions like “favorite food”, “last book read” or “role model”. My kid loved these because he could fill in goofy answers just because the requests are so ridiculous and it’s fun to fill in those spaces with something temporary and completely inappropriate so your mother sitting beside you can freak out, panicking that the form will somehow submit itself with your “role model” response saying “Jack Black” or “Bob” or “You”.

Okay. That’s a lot of writing, but it seems manageable, no? Not so fast, my friend, we haven’t even begun with the film program requirements. One school requires this:

• The personal statement will be read by the Film & Television Production Admission Committee as a measure of creativity, self-awareness and vision. There is no standard format or correct answer. We are looking for a sense of you as a unique individual and how your distinctive experiences, characteristics, background, values and/or views of the world have shaped who you are and what you want to say as a creative filmmaker. Be specific, vivid and focused. (1,000 words or less)
• The Production Program is committed to providing students with a broad understanding of both fiction and nonfiction filmmaking, in cinema, television and new media, and in the major creative roles of writing, producing, directing, cinematography, editing and sound. Given what you know now (and without committing yourself in any way) tell us which of the above aspects of filmmaking seems of particular interest to you and why. (200 words or less)
• Writing Samples (choose one) 

1. An outline for a four-minute film that contains no dialogue. It can be fiction or non-fiction. The story has to be communicated visually. (no more than two pages)
2. A dialogue scene between two people. Provide a one-paragraph introduction describing the two characters in screenplay format. (no more than three pages)
3. Describe a concept for a feature-length movie, fiction or documentary, which you would like to develop. (No more than two pages) 

• Create a brief narrative video in which you had a major creative role. The video can be either live-action or animation, fiction or documentary, but it should reflect your aesthetic tastes and intellectual and emotional interests. (no more than five minutes)
• Portfolio List: The portfolio list is a written record of the applicant’s creative materials. It should include a concise description of each project, the month and year the project was completed, the applicant’s creative role and the purpose of the project.

Another film program requires this:

• A one-page resume that highlights creative work accomplished, activities and relevant employment.
• A film or video/ live action, animation or documentary.  Your submission should reflect storytelling skills that convey conflict, character as well as a beginning, middle and end. 
• Dramatic Essay  – Introduce yourself.  Describe an unforgettable event in your life and how it changed your perception of yourself or the view of someone close to you.  This event can be dramatic and/or comedic.  The assignment may be written as a short story in the first person or as an essay. (Up to four typed, double-spaced 8.5” x 11″ pages.)

And a third this:

• Essay one: Describe your dream job. (One page maximum.)
• Essay two: Create a self-introductory video no more than two minutes in length. Your video should visually highlight something about yourself, your personality, your interests, etc. that is not related to film. The only rule is you may NOT appear in the video in any way (including any photographs of yourself) so be creative. 
• Creative resume: Provide a one-page resume highlighting 5-7 pieces of what you consider to be your best creative work. 

Did you see that little video requirement? That meant H couldn’t use a film which he’s already made. He had to film a new one entirely.

Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, one of the schools H is applying to doesn’t accept film school applications until students are college juniors. So H didn’t have extra application work there. Phew.

Don’t breathe too easy yet though–there are also letters of recommendation needed. H required, I think, twelve different letters from five different people, and each request needed to be accompanied by a properly-addressed envelope, with postage applied. He also needed to arrange for transcripts and test scores to be sent to each school.

Oh, and about those transcripts? If your child has homeschooled for all or part of high school, you, as a homeschooling parent, get the glorified job of writing that transcript. I do not recommend waiting until your child is applying to college to write a transcript because you just might be busy helping that child with other things. Like his or her college applications.

Luckily for me, I’d already written a transcript for H’s homeschooled 9^th and 10^th grade years, when he applied to high school as a junior. I spent fathomless hours crafting that baby, and it’s a document of beauty, I tell you. That single part of the application process was easy: I just hit “print” and mailed copies.

And did I help H with the other parts of the applications? Do vegetarians like cheese? I’m a homeschooling mother–helping is my default mode. Yes, I helped. Kids who can corner this monster without the help of parents or school counselors deserve to get into every school they apply to. H is a smart kid, he’s a competent kid, but he couldn’t have done it on his own. I nagged and badgered about those essays, beginning last summer. (Did he listen then? No.) I helped him sort the deadlines and requirements for each school. I helped him brainstorm his essay drafts and I gave him feedback. I sat beside him and sighed and groaned and swore when online applications submitted with blank pages, or did not display necessary forms, or logged themselves out repeatedly because everyone under the sun was filling out the same application, two nights before the deadline.

(Note: Do not try to submit an online application the night before it’s due. The website’s servers will be busy. I just tried to pull up an application to copy questions for this post, and the application, which is due tonight, is inaccessible. And it’s too late for a snail mail postmark. Boy, do I feel sorry for all the kids trying to complete that application.)

Doesn’t this all sound insane? What if H had applied to as many schools as his counselor recommended?

The craziest part is that H is doing all this on top of seven classes-worth of coursework. You’d think his high school could make an elective class of the college application process, give credit for it. I mean, these kids are researching potential schools, they’re writing essays, they’re managing deadlines, they’re learning how to fill out forms, how to ask for letters of recommendation. A pretty educational process, don’t you think?

As of yesterday, H’s monster is three-quarters slain. The beast is hunkered down in his cave, gasping and dribbling green drool. In the last two weeks, three applications have been submitted, and H has one more to complete, due January 1^st.  Meanwhile, he has three weeks of messing around (with seven classes-worth of final papers and exams). Then, come Winter Break, he’ll finish that last application and kill the monster off for good.

Then we’ll have to wait and see what the monster hath wrought.

For years I’ve struggled with the term unschooling. It’s such a great word, implying a complete departure from school. To me, it conveys a sense of kids leading their own educations, which is something we value around here. But it’s also come to imply, it seems, a certain lack of structure, and that’s the part that keeps me from embracing it. I’ve never felt that we could call ourselves unschoolers because we have a definite structure to our days. Or at least part of our days.

Structure. Now there’s another loaded word. Structure seems reinforced with negative connotations: rigidness, confinement, predictability.

I realize that I’ve written about this before. But it’s something that I think about often. And the more new homeschoolers I meet, the more I notice that many people still believe that there are two basic camps of homeschooling: unschooling and school-at-home. Sometimes new folks don’t realize that there’s a stunning variety of shades across that spectrum.

I know I’ve said this before too, but here’s a nutshell history: when we started homeschooling, we were fairly schoolish. It had only been a few years since I’d been a classroom teacher myself, and that was what I knew. Granted, I was a pretty creative teacher, and I had lots of neat projects in mind! But my oldest child quickly cured me of all My Good Ideas. “I don’t want to do that art project,” he’d say, or “I don’t want to read that book.” He asked questions like, “Why should I write down my thinking on that math problem when I can just tell you? You’re sitting right next to me!”

Good points. He was right. When I let him do projects that interested him, he was immersed. When I forced him to do work he didn’t want to do, he was angry and frustrated and didn’t learn much. I learned to stop doing that. (Well, I slowly learned to stop doing that. Sometimes I’m still learning.)

I got better and better at dropping the schoolish thinking that had me teaching him, and planning lessons for him. But we kept the habit of working together for a few hours most mornings. We had fun reading together, making things together. Knowing we had a few open hours meant we could take on big projects, make big messes. Plus, it was the one time of day that the kids knew they had my full attention, that I wasn’t going to get lost on the computer, or start talking on the phone. Still, the fact that we did it every day, at a particular time, made it a structured activity. With all those negative connotations.

I finally came to terms with our homeschooling style a few years back when I read The Creative Habit, by choreographer Twyla Tharp. I read the book for help with my writing practice; only later did I realize its implications in our homeschooling life.

Tharp writes:

“There’s a paradox in the notion that creativity should be a habit. We think of creativity as a way of keeping everything fresh and new, while habit implies routine and repetition. That paradox intrigues me because it occupies the place where creativity and skill rub up against each other.”

And:

“I will keep stressing the point about creativity being augmented by routine and habit. Get used to it. In these pages a philosophical tug of war will periodically rear its head. It is the perennial debate, born in the Romantic era, between the beliefs that all creative acts are born of (a) some transcendent, inexplicable Dionysian act of inspiration, a kiss from God on your brow that allows you to give the world The Magic Flute, or (b) hard work.

If it isn’t obvious already, I come down on the side of hard work. That’s why this book is called The Creative Habit. Creativity is a habit, and the best creativity is a result of good work habits. That’s it in a nutshell.”

Reading her book convinced me of what I’d already sensed: that scheduled practice doesn’t have to undermine creativity; rather, it can help it to thrive. I could see this with my writing. I don’t have the freedom at this point in my life to write whenever the muse strikes; instead I have to plan time for it. And I’ve done it for long enough now that my creative mind is conditioned to get right into the work, pretty quickly after I sit at my desk. I only have so much time, and I don’t want to waste it.

I think it’s the same for my kids. Gathering in the kitchen at 9:30 or 10:00 each morning for tea and a snack is their cue to start thinking, start bouncing ideas from their heads to the ceiling to the yellow counters and back again. I’ll often throw out a few suggestions, depending on what they’re working on, but more often than not, they have their own ideas. Today Lulu wanted some ideas for writing and I pulled out our copy of the utterly fabulous Don’t Forget to Write for her. Something there gave her the idea to make found phrases poems from the newspaper. Mr. T wanted to do more work on the game he’s designing. Would they have done these activities later in the day, on their own? Maybe. They do lots of interesting projects on their own, in the afternoon. But this morning, Mr. T needed my help to write his game rules, and Lulu wanted help brainstorming a project. And I was there to help them. Then they were on their way.

Sometimes I call what we do structured unschooling because the phrase is so laughably oxymoronic. But I think I’ll just strike the word structure from my vocabulary and use habit instead. A homeschooling habit. That’s what we have most mornings around here–complete with tea and snacks.

Last week Molly and I were talking blog posts. She asked if I ever worried, when writing my essayists posts, that the writers might visit my blog and read what I’d written. She said she’d once written about a craft book, and the author had shown up and commented on it. (Luckily, what she’d written had been positive.)

“Nah,” I said. I don’t think the likes of Annie Dillard, Adam Gopnik and Joan Didion bother poking around on piddly blogs like mine.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so sure. Remember how I posted this picture the other day, and praised Spunk and Bite? One guess as to what happened.

Go ahead and click on the photo, which will take you to my flickr page. Read the comment below the photo. But promise you’ll come back.

Isn’t that fun?

Isn’t that terrifying?

What if Pico Iyer shows up and sees how I’ve been ribbing him? (After a whole post of lavishing, mind you.) What if the guy from Dead or Alive drops by and reads the comments on the spinner post and discovers how I’ve compared him to the child catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?

Oh dear. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad M.F.K. Fisher is dead. So I won’t gnaw my nails to the nubs as I write her essayist post in a few days.

I suppose there’s only one thing I can do if more famous folks mosey on over. I will simply take a deep breath and muster all my spunkiness.

We’re off for a few days of camping with our homeschooling buddies. Let me know if I should eat a s’more for you. See you next week.