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Posts Tagged ‘writing

The Self-Publishing Classroom: Script Frenzy

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Today’s post on The Writing Teacher inspired me to think about a script-writing unit for writers’ workshop and social studies.

“Who wants to spend the next thirty days writing a script?” This is the question that led my sixth grade class on a writing adventure that took us from war-torn beaches to invading aliens, and from invading gnomes to talking kittens trying to break their fellow felines out of the pound. It was a journey of creativity and wonder, and a ton of teachable moments!

Script Frenzy is an international script-writing event that occurs April 1st – 30th every year. Participants have one month to write a script (Script Frenzy says “screenplays, stage plays, TV shows, short films, comics and graphic novels” are welcome). The website gives students tools and tips to write their scripts. Teachers can receive a free Script Frenzy Classroom Kit.

Next year, I hope to make this a social studies project where students turn historic events and narratives into scripts.

Check out The Writing Teacher’s article for ideas and links to help you plan and execute your unit.

Who knows, maybe I’ll be mentioned in an Oscar’s acceptance speech someday…..

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The Self-Publishing Classroom: Glossy Magazines with Magcloud

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Who needs to work for Condé Nast or Time Warner when you can publish professional-quality magazines in your own classroom? In an article entitled Do-It-Yourself Magazines, Cheaply Slick, the NYT introduces H.P.’s new service called Magcloud.

In the words of H.P.:

MagCloud enables you to publish your own magazines. All you have to do is upload a PDF and we’ll take care of the rest: printing, mailing, subscription management, and more.

How much does it cost?

It costs you nothing to publish a magazine on MagCloud. To buy a magazine costs 20¢ per page, plus shipping. For example, a 20-page magazine would be four bucks plus shipping. And you can make money! You set your issue price and all proceeds above the base price go to you.

How are they printed?

MagCloud uses HP Indigo technology, so every issue is custom-printed when it’s ordered. Printing on demand means no big print runs, which means no pre-publishing expense. Magazines are brilliant full color on 80lb paper with saddle-stitched covers. They look awesome.

I pay particular attention to how students publish work. There are many (reasonably priced) self-publishing websites that give students an authentic medium to publish their work. The process of choosing prices of books (on websites where the books are put up for sale) is a learning and community-building experience. Magcloud opens up a new medium where students can produce professional quality work in the classroom.

Many schools do not have software that exports high resolution PDFs (Adobe InDesign, Quark, etc). If you know of free alternatives, please tell us about them via comment.

Short Story: On Mercy Killing in the First Grade (or, how I stopped worrying and learned to appreciate punch lines)

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Short story: On Mercy Killing in the First Grade (or, how I stopped worrying and learned to appreciate punch lines)

I’ve known the meaning of the term “mercy killing” since I was 7 years old. First grade aged me considerably. You’re probably trying to picture me at 7 years old. I remember bits and pieces. My hair had a part down the middle and a plait on each side that my mom braided while we watched the Today Show. I was into neon stirrup pants – with matching hair ties, shoe laces, and mom-painted shirts. I had red framed glasses “ABCs” on them. I might not have needed glasses then but I knew I’d look good and smart in them. I wish I could go back in time for my sneaker collection: LA Gears with lights flashing in the back, black British Knights with gold details, and high tops with the (useless) basketball-shaped squeeze pump on each tongue.

“Hurry up!” I yelled at TJ as we ran from the school bus to our classroom. For him being on the baseball team, and me being a girl, I thought it was ridiculous that he lagged so far behind. Everyday after school I would run from the bus, down the street, and up two flights of stairs with my best friend TJ. We were into Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers, Super Nintendo, and riding our 10-gear bikes (they were the envy of our apartment complex). TJ and I were juice-box pals in toddler care but now my ambition often left him behind. “Ugh – I’ll save you a spot there!” I screamed back at him and picked up my pace. I wanted something badly – badly enough to make my best friend to fend for himself on the morning filled bully playground. I slowed down as I got to the door, threw my backpack in my cubby, and speed-walked to the corner of the classroom. “DAN! SIMON! QUIT IT!” I yelled. Dan and Simon tried to shoulder check me out of line. All of my best friends were also my competitors – whether it was beating their saved games on Super Mario Brothers, finding the best hiding spot during our Super Soaker revenge matches, or getting what I wanted in school. We were competing for a glimpse of our newly hatched baby chickens. I wanted to give one water with a dropper, pet it, and sing to it. Although I had only known them for a day, these chickens were my life. I was the youngest – both my older brother and sister were out of the house most of the time. I never had a pet you could touch – except when you were giving it a toilet flush funeral.

The chickens were Mr. Clement’s idea. He was my first grade teacher and taught by puppet and song. Mr. Clement was not overly nice, like my Kindergarten teacher, who made me doubt her authority. Mr. Clement had shaggy hair, blue jeans, white tennis shoes, and a guitar that seemed glued to his hands. He was my first encounter with a Seattle hippie. Mr. Clement wrote a song for every lesson. He taught me about commas – how they slowed the words that often fell out of my big mouth. He also taught me about subtraction. Taking things away. I doubt he thought our classroom pet project would turn into a subtraction lesson.

My first grade class hatched the chicks for a project. We kept the eggs warm in an incubator, did research about where we’d send the chicks to live a happy life (and not end up in a sandwich or on the playground), and learned about the life cycles about animals that hatched from eggs. We picked out chick names, had chores (I liked incubator watch-duty), and directed our read-alouds to the eggs. Finally, the eggs hatched and four chicks came into the world. We watched them sip water and rest. We were proud parents. All I could talk about was the chicks – I’m sure my mom was tired  of hearing about them.

“Ahh!” someone gasped. There were three chicks in the “coop” instead of four. I kept my calm – first graders always hope for the best. “Maybe he’s at the doctor or visiting another class!” I said.  Mr. Clement frowned. His eyes were red and guitar-ready fingers were shaking.

We sat down on the carpet. “When I came into the classroom this morning, I noticed one of the chickens was in pain,” Mr. Clement started. The classroom fell silent and students’ eyes were already welling up with tears.  “His organs were outside of his body when he was born – he was in a lot of pain”. I felt everyone hold their breath for what was coming next.

“I decided to stop his pain by holding his beak shut and putting his head in a cup of water…..he needed to die so he wouldn’t feel pain anymore. It was a mercy killing”. Usually first graders know how to comfort each other when there is bad news, but this was too much for us to handle. Welling tears turned into soul wracking sobs. I didn’t cry. I patted TJ on the back. “Don’t worry” I said.

Parents expect to outlive their children. I expected to keep the chicks company for a few days and then ship them off to a beautiful farm and receive postcards from time to time (kind of like when my mom told my brother to go to college). My hopes were dashed. The rest of the day is a blur. When we got off of the bus, I didn’t race TJ to my house. Although I was wearing neon colors and light up shoes, I felt dim.

“What happened today at school? Where’s TJ?” asked my dad while he made me a snack in the kitchen. “Nothing….I’m just tired, that’s all”. Without a peep from the television or finishing my after school snack (my favorite meal of the day), I slinked into bed and took a nap. A long, long nap. That day changed me forever. Long naps are my primary mode of escape. Now, I’m a pleasant cynic.  I know things I love can be taken from me at any moment and often we have to be the ones who pull the plug. I know to taunt the world for its uncertainty and absurdity. I’m not a first grader who hopes for the best. Instead, I’m a 23 year old looking for punch lines.

Written by TeacherC

12 March 2009 at 3:51 pm

Posted in Short Stories

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