I went to Fris Office Supply today. I wanted to restock my supply of plain white paper. I couldn’t remember what kind of paper I’d bought–only that it was the best paper–smooth, a tiny bit shiny, sort of like a silk dress, or porcelain dishes.  I love love love this paper.

So, I took a sheet of it up to the counter–a sheet with a poem-in-progress printed on it–that’s what I had handy. I asked the young Fris at the counter if he knew what kind of paper this was. I wasn’t hopeful he would know. I felt weird and disorganized.

He touched it with his thumb. He turned behind him, and pulled out a ream from the shelf. “This is what you have,” he said. I was dumbfounded. “Give me three reams,” I said. “And thank you.”

Because this is the midwest, he didn’t ask me what I was working on, or share his favorite kind of paper. He didn’t say anything at all besides, “Receipt in the bag or with you?” But that’s okay. Because this is the midwest, we didn’t launch into a conversation about our grandmothers, and their preferences, or the events in our lives that brought us to this point, a sheet of paper between us like a marriage bans.

I can’t imagine this happening at a big box store. I can’t imagine this happening in a big city or a smaller town. I love Fris Office Supplies and I love my town.

My revised and improved textbook, The Practice of Creative Writing, will be coming out in the summer. Today, I just received a first look at the cover — I love it so much!  I’m also really proud that three students, Mehgan Wilson, Charlie Walter, and Matt Baker, are featured in the new edition!

Last week, our department manager asked each of us to write about what we learn from our students. Here’s what I wrote:

For me, the most important thing is to create an environment where we can be, as teacher and students, authentic, open, honest, vulnerable, “real.” My work is to try to “see” the student.  I don’t think I have a chance to help her bring forward her best work unless I am able to see inside of her.

When my students are laughing, talking, intent on the poems before them, changing their minds mid-sentence, passing around cookies and hollering and losing all track of time, and I’m not really doing anything at all, that’s great teaching.

Listen to each other and like each other. That’s what they’ve taught me.