…So today you’ll all be treated to stories from my day job.
I’ve mentioned before that I’m a professional grown-up, AKA a substitute teacher. Over the summer of 2015, I was a camp counsellor at a school-run summer camp. It was a blast. Highlights include briefly convincing a group of children that I rode a broomstick to work and repeatedly saving the life of a young lady who did not understand the concept of “drowning”.
Whenever I wind up at that school over the year, I’m enthusiastically informed by the kids that they remember all the things we did over the summer. Like forcing Miss Alex down a giant waterslide or that time I told them all about where bacon comes from. (Or, in the more heartwarming stories, that my crochet lessons turned into a bonding tradition between one little girl and her grandma.)
I don’t think I’ve elaborated on this much before, but I am deathly afraid of flying.
It’s a control thing, mostly: every time the plane hits a slight bump or catches a wind shear I’m made pretty acutely aware of how little control I have over the vehicle I’m in and it’s currently 30,000 feet in the air oh god I’m going to die. That is my exact thought process. If the flight’s calm enough I can usually distract myself, but if it’s rough (like the Chicago-New York flight I just stepped off of) I’m pretty much just stuck rigid in my seat until we land.
I’m in the process of submitting a bunch of work to a whole bunch of places, which means workshopping and editing the hell out of things. Which means right now, my whole life feels like a plane ride.
Welp, didn’t make it this year. Shit happens: holidays, family drama, local plagues. All that stuff happened last year, too, but my subject matter this year was a lot heavier. I mean, I killed off a thirteen-year-old girl in Chapter Two.
I still learned a lot, though.