Comments on: Marty’s Acknowledgements http://www.heathersellers.com/blog/2008/04/25/martys-acknowledgements/ Official blog of Heather Sellers Tue, 17 Jan 2012 18:00:15 -0700 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.8.4 hourly 1 By: Matt http://www.heathersellers.com/blog/2008/04/25/martys-acknowledgements/comment-page-1/#comment-243 Matt Wed, 30 Apr 2008 01:30:36 +0000 http://www.heathersellers.com/blog/2008/04/25/martys-acknowledgements/#comment-243 I'm not a writer, but you likely said it yourself "I think he wants a space to write things how he wants to write them". "Some people you just can't reach" dialog of The Captain, from the movie Cool Hand Luke (1969). I’m not a writer, but you likely said it yourself “I think he wants a space to write things how he wants to write them”.

“Some people you just can’t reach” dialog of The Captain, from the movie Cool Hand Luke (1969).

]]> By: Anonymous http://www.heathersellers.com/blog/2008/04/25/martys-acknowledgements/comment-page-1/#comment-236 Anonymous Sat, 26 Apr 2008 06:09:10 +0000 http://www.heathersellers.com/blog/2008/04/25/martys-acknowledgements/#comment-236 I think your students trust you. We sit in class and listen intently because for the most part we don't know anything. Empty pods. Even in 454. We rely on you to kick our asses, to push us, to teach us things we don't and can't know yet and that's what makes us better. Because we don't know what better means. If we did, we wouldn't start out writing condensed novels and distant fiction. We would write waiting scenes, stories with one person walking around, or worse yet lines with crying and shrugging and emotional shorthand and think it's okay and beautiful. We don't walk away pissed off at a red light drawn at the bottom of our paper. We walk away hungry to do it again, to do it better, to write something that you would say is worth putting on the refrigerator. I think your students strive for validation from you. You're a sort of literary mother to us. We can't trust our real mother's the same way we trust you. Mother's teach what they know, what they know best. You don't have the fortunate pleasure of just one or two or three kids. You have classrooms full. You do the best you can. You teach us what you know. And you help us. All of us. We know it. We can see it. And we're better for it. Even Marty. I think your students trust you. We sit in class and listen intently because for the most part we don’t know anything. Empty pods. Even in 454. We rely on you to kick our asses, to push us, to teach us things we don’t and can’t know yet and that’s what makes us better. Because we don’t know what better means. If we did, we wouldn’t start out writing condensed novels and distant fiction. We would write waiting scenes, stories with one person walking around, or worse yet lines with crying and shrugging and emotional shorthand and think it’s okay and beautiful. We don’t walk away pissed off at a red light drawn at the bottom of our paper. We walk away hungry to do it again, to do it better, to write something that you would say is worth putting on the refrigerator.

I think your students strive for validation from you. You’re a sort of literary mother to us. We can’t trust our real mother’s the same way we trust you.

Mother’s teach what they know, what they know best. You don’t have the fortunate pleasure of just one or two or three kids. You have classrooms full. You do the best you can. You teach us what you know. And you help us. All of us. We know it. We can see it. And we’re better for it. Even Marty.

]]>