I'M LIKE A COAL TRAIN NO BRAIN ROCK-A MY SOUL

And we continue to teach the children. Of course, it's much easier to teach them when they don't say things like, "I don't see the point of talking about stories because it ruins the magic of them," or "I don't think workshopping is useful," because, fuck, maybe you're a lot better than I was at that age, but what else in the world can you do? How else are you going to learn how to write? Good luck, 17-year-old savant; I look forward to reading your stories in the New Yorker in the next six months.

Here's how teaching is for me: some days I feel like I'm riding the crest of a wholesome instructional wave! I am able to turn water cooler conversation into productive classsroom discussion! No part of the world is too small to contain some illustration of my ideas! That, or I keep on drinking the coffee and bottled water in the hope that I'll sooner choke than let myself say, "LISTEN UP, YOU LITTLE SHITHEADS!" the way I want to. As with all things, it ebbs and flows. (Don't worry; I would never call a student a shithead. But sometimes I really, really want to.)

I've been finding a way of working out every day, which makes me feel a lot better. Erie is a weird place. I could imagine all of my flesh rotting away while I'm here. I mean, it wouldn't be a stretch.

I only have two and a half weeks here. Today is the halfway point for the entire program. I need to sneak around and smoke a cigarette. I miss you. Write to me.