Since my students are now threatening to visit my blog, I thought I'd include a list of websites that adequately explain parts of speech. I give this to give them a leg up on next week's lesson.
http://web2.uvcs.uvic.ca/elc/StudyZone/330/grammar/parts.htm
Simple definitions.
http://www.arts.uottawa.ca/writcent/hypergrammar/partsp.html
This site breaks it up into the basic eight with more in-depth definitions.
http://eslus.com/LESSONS/GRAMMAR/POS/pos.htm
This site includes pop quizzes at the end of each lesson. I think it's way fun.
http://www.quia.com/mc/65832.html
This site has games to help practice.
That should do it, non?
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Sentence Diagramming
My students are having difficulties recognizing whole sentences, so I taught them how to diagram.
These are the best diagramming site links I've found:
http://www.geocities.com/gene_moutoux/diagrams.htm
(and my favorite sentence here: http://www.geocities.com/gene_moutoux/dialit9.htm)
http://www.lifestreamcenter.net/DrB/Lessons/TS/diagram.htm
(this site is very basic)
http://grammar.ccc.commnet.edu/GRAMMAR/diagrams2/diagrams_frames.htm
(this one requires that you understand parts of speech and grammatical terminology)
http://www.slate.com/id/2201158/
(too political for classroom use, but quite amusing)
http://www.conceptdraw.com/en/products/cd5/SentenceDiagramming/sentence_diagramming_1.php
(and this is where you order the software that will do it for you - cheaters!)
These are the best diagramming site links I've found:
http://www.geocities.com/gene_moutoux/diagrams.htm
(and my favorite sentence here: http://www.geocities.com/gene_moutoux/dialit9.htm)
http://www.lifestreamcenter.net/DrB/Lessons/TS/diagram.htm
(this site is very basic)
http://grammar.ccc.commnet.edu/GRAMMAR/diagrams2/diagrams_frames.htm
(this one requires that you understand parts of speech and grammatical terminology)
http://www.slate.com/id/2201158/
(too political for classroom use, but quite amusing)
http://www.conceptdraw.com/en/products/cd5/SentenceDiagramming/sentence_diagramming_1.php
(and this is where you order the software that will do it for you - cheaters!)
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Character
As a very young person interested in creative writing, I learned an odd fact. Writers tend, at the beginning, to create characters similar to themselves. Unfortunately, writers are largely sedentary and passive people, more interested in making observations than in experiencing stories, which means their characters may end up with the same difficulty.
I think I see what it meant, and not only in my own writing. I've begun dividing stories into character-driven, and plot-driven. Some authors write stories in which either a main character or a combination of characters creates a fascinating and complex story. Other authors create a character, usually a variation on a stereotype (as most characters are), and then throw things at them (usually bad things, like pianos and bolts of lightening) just to watch them squirm, I suspect.
Before Derrida rolls over in his grave, I must admit that several stories have found positions in the spectrum, but not entirely of one sort or the other, and although I am inclined to favor character-driven plots, man vs. man and all that, as being somehow the result of more skill (perhaps because they require a much more detailed familiarity with human nature), event-driven plots require a stronger grasp on the laws of probability.
Maybe I think that although humans fill the whole scope of action and attitude rather evenly and are defined by their rebellion, events obey certain laws almost always without fail. A writer who can keep both in mind, I think, might be able to put together quite the masterpiece.
Any volunteers?
I think I see what it meant, and not only in my own writing. I've begun dividing stories into character-driven, and plot-driven. Some authors write stories in which either a main character or a combination of characters creates a fascinating and complex story. Other authors create a character, usually a variation on a stereotype (as most characters are), and then throw things at them (usually bad things, like pianos and bolts of lightening) just to watch them squirm, I suspect.
Before Derrida rolls over in his grave, I must admit that several stories have found positions in the spectrum, but not entirely of one sort or the other, and although I am inclined to favor character-driven plots, man vs. man and all that, as being somehow the result of more skill (perhaps because they require a much more detailed familiarity with human nature), event-driven plots require a stronger grasp on the laws of probability.
Maybe I think that although humans fill the whole scope of action and attitude rather evenly and are defined by their rebellion, events obey certain laws almost always without fail. A writer who can keep both in mind, I think, might be able to put together quite the masterpiece.
Any volunteers?
Monday, January 19, 2009
Dickens
I finished reading another Terry Pratchett, and a Nursery Crime novel by Jasper Fforde so now I'm back to academia. I'm working my way through Bleak House.
The introduction of this Oxford paperback edition mentions that unlike most Dickens novels, the bad guys do not get the satisfying beating that we see in Nicholas Nickelby, for instance, or even the righteous hanging in Oliver Twist. The end is a sort of fading.
I believe that this reflects Dickens attitude toward an enemy he could not defeat. Individual villains are easily vanquished, but Dickens' own experiences with Chancery would have taught him more abject humility in the face of such overwhelming futility.
The introduction of this Oxford paperback edition mentions that unlike most Dickens novels, the bad guys do not get the satisfying beating that we see in Nicholas Nickelby, for instance, or even the righteous hanging in Oliver Twist. The end is a sort of fading.
I believe that this reflects Dickens attitude toward an enemy he could not defeat. Individual villains are easily vanquished, but Dickens' own experiences with Chancery would have taught him more abject humility in the face of such overwhelming futility.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Syllabi
Some hours after dark, when my mother called me in to our meatloaf dinner, I suddenly realized I hadn't changed out of pyjamas. I had been brasier-less for almost seventeen hours (a fact my father would rather not have known, and yet somehow I feel perfectly safe sharing it here).
Having been awoken during the seventh hour of the morning by a sister's hair-dryer, a sound that hasn't failed to arouse in me a homicidal rage in two decades, I rolled over and plunged back into a dream that was thankfully not about sex and stayed there until just before ten. At that point I decided it was time to get up. I'm certain I cursed. Oversleeping makes me quite angry at myself.
I breakfasted on malt-o-meal cheerios while playing Riven until eleven, at which point I decided that the semester had officially begun and I was being left behind. I cracked open my textbook to write the syllabus for my class which shall commence on the morrow.
The mail lady sacrificed her poor lower spine to bring me a box full of antique paperbacks at around noon. After a good giggle at the trouble I'd put the USPS to, I took stock of my progress and realized I still had almost no idea what information was in the textbook.
At two I emerged from my Campion-steeped den for a spot of lunch. I think I may have eaten two hamburgers and some thousand-island on a bun. I had begun reading the Dixie State College requirements for syllabi, but hadn't synthesized it.
At four my father knocked on my door, asking for his copy of DUNE, as John's was missing. I had to dig through a pile of semi-dirty clothes. At that point I had translated my inner German Governess into my totally intolerant attendance, plagiarism, and grading policies. As I continued, I could now hear the Boses commence a semi-constant boom from the next room. I'll never quite understand why spice mining can't be just a tad quieter.
Dinner was called at six-fifteen, and I'd mostly laid out the reading assignments and essay due dates. After meat-loaf and garlic bread, I returned to Campion and my syllabus and embarked on the most difficult stage. I sold out. I tainted the elaborate legal and balsa-wood structure I'd painstakingly constructed with that final two-pages chunk of "required elements," like lowering the Albert Memorial unceremoniously atop a garden gazebo. It made a "thock" noise.
Family Home Evening came abruptly at eight, and I abandoned both Campion and syllabi for a brief series of spiritual moments followed by peach sherbet drowned in green apple Jones Soda.
It's almost ten-thirty, and I have syllabus burn-out. I shall frighten all five of my students off and end up jobless, or I shall find myself embroiled in some Dickensian legal squabble which will eat my twenty-dollar fortune and leave me penniless and fever-scarred (and there my Dickens-ness will stop, with my social luck), so I'd better pick out a very striking outfit.
Having been awoken during the seventh hour of the morning by a sister's hair-dryer, a sound that hasn't failed to arouse in me a homicidal rage in two decades, I rolled over and plunged back into a dream that was thankfully not about sex and stayed there until just before ten. At that point I decided it was time to get up. I'm certain I cursed. Oversleeping makes me quite angry at myself.
I breakfasted on malt-o-meal cheerios while playing Riven until eleven, at which point I decided that the semester had officially begun and I was being left behind. I cracked open my textbook to write the syllabus for my class which shall commence on the morrow.
The mail lady sacrificed her poor lower spine to bring me a box full of antique paperbacks at around noon. After a good giggle at the trouble I'd put the USPS to, I took stock of my progress and realized I still had almost no idea what information was in the textbook.
At two I emerged from my Campion-steeped den for a spot of lunch. I think I may have eaten two hamburgers and some thousand-island on a bun. I had begun reading the Dixie State College requirements for syllabi, but hadn't synthesized it.
At four my father knocked on my door, asking for his copy of DUNE, as John's was missing. I had to dig through a pile of semi-dirty clothes. At that point I had translated my inner German Governess into my totally intolerant attendance, plagiarism, and grading policies. As I continued, I could now hear the Boses commence a semi-constant boom from the next room. I'll never quite understand why spice mining can't be just a tad quieter.
Dinner was called at six-fifteen, and I'd mostly laid out the reading assignments and essay due dates. After meat-loaf and garlic bread, I returned to Campion and my syllabus and embarked on the most difficult stage. I sold out. I tainted the elaborate legal and balsa-wood structure I'd painstakingly constructed with that final two-pages chunk of "required elements," like lowering the Albert Memorial unceremoniously atop a garden gazebo. It made a "thock" noise.
Family Home Evening came abruptly at eight, and I abandoned both Campion and syllabi for a brief series of spiritual moments followed by peach sherbet drowned in green apple Jones Soda.
It's almost ten-thirty, and I have syllabus burn-out. I shall frighten all five of my students off and end up jobless, or I shall find myself embroiled in some Dickensian legal squabble which will eat my twenty-dollar fortune and leave me penniless and fever-scarred (and there my Dickens-ness will stop, with my social luck), so I'd better pick out a very striking outfit.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Silence
There are moments - just after your roommates close their eyes but before they begin snoring, for instance - when it seems the air bates its breath for the frantic moments of dreaming that approach.
The sound of the car engine and the tires on the freeway, the cool hum of a forest under snow, the whine of plumbing in a long, hot shower, the hum of computer cooling systems or the wide, background roaring of the ventilation all appear only when everything else ceases.
When for an hour there are no sirens, no click of typing, no cell-phone gossip or cluttered radio - when from behind the drywall there come no explosions or crescendoing soundtracks, or the syncopated rhythms of tap-dancing suddenly there are spaces. No one argues, or laughs. No one applauds or declaims. Nothing is turned on, or warmed up, or begun.
In those moments crowd all the neglected thoughts of the day and cry pitifully for attention, and they must be sorted out carefully before any new comfort can be had. All my infant thoughts must be sung to, lullabyed into slumber before my tired body thoughts drift out into the warm dreamtide.
In the glowing dreamtide beneath the blackest of skies I find all the harmonies of silence.
The sound of the car engine and the tires on the freeway, the cool hum of a forest under snow, the whine of plumbing in a long, hot shower, the hum of computer cooling systems or the wide, background roaring of the ventilation all appear only when everything else ceases.
When for an hour there are no sirens, no click of typing, no cell-phone gossip or cluttered radio - when from behind the drywall there come no explosions or crescendoing soundtracks, or the syncopated rhythms of tap-dancing suddenly there are spaces. No one argues, or laughs. No one applauds or declaims. Nothing is turned on, or warmed up, or begun.
In those moments crowd all the neglected thoughts of the day and cry pitifully for attention, and they must be sorted out carefully before any new comfort can be had. All my infant thoughts must be sung to, lullabyed into slumber before my tired body thoughts drift out into the warm dreamtide.
In the glowing dreamtide beneath the blackest of skies I find all the harmonies of silence.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Thursday
Thursdays are not Fridays. James Joyce wrote Ulysses about a Thursday (mostly). He said "Every Friday buries a Thursday" in his Hades episode. My Joyce class was held on a Thursday. It sparked a fascination.
Friday evenings usually find me in a bit of a lonely funk. Maybe it's because they're all funerals for Thursdays, or maybe there is a darker, more socially significant reason. Maybe I'm just lonely.
It's the first of January, for another seventy minutes or so. In 2009 I look forward to the possible beginning of a PhD program and a new direction and focus for my academic life. I feel almost as if that new direction hangs on the toss of a coin subject to all the laws of probability. A whole crowd of friends and relatives are waving their hands in the air and singing "Maybe, maybe not" in falseto voices. I'm mixing my allusions. It's not my decision, nor is there any longer anything I can do to either help or hinder the coming of that opportunity. I have only to wait well.
I will be turning twenty-eight this year. I would like to publish something, either fiction or nonfiction, before I turn thirty but unless the opportunity walks up, grabs my head and plants a juicy kiss I won't pursue it.
Speaking of juicy kisses, it is time I divided my life into that which is under my control and that which is not. I cannot control whether I am accepted into the PhD program, whether I am asked on a date, how much money I earn (if any at all), whether someone will take my room before April, and any accidents which may occur.
I can control what I learn, how I balance my time (within reason), how I treat people, whether I give my students a fair chance and an opportunity to learn, and if I fulfill my responsibilities as a teacher, member of my congregation, and member of my family. I can make sure that I keep my word. I can control a percentage of my efforts to increase my health.
Don't think that means I will.
Friday evenings usually find me in a bit of a lonely funk. Maybe it's because they're all funerals for Thursdays, or maybe there is a darker, more socially significant reason. Maybe I'm just lonely.
It's the first of January, for another seventy minutes or so. In 2009 I look forward to the possible beginning of a PhD program and a new direction and focus for my academic life. I feel almost as if that new direction hangs on the toss of a coin subject to all the laws of probability. A whole crowd of friends and relatives are waving their hands in the air and singing "Maybe, maybe not" in falseto voices. I'm mixing my allusions. It's not my decision, nor is there any longer anything I can do to either help or hinder the coming of that opportunity. I have only to wait well.
I will be turning twenty-eight this year. I would like to publish something, either fiction or nonfiction, before I turn thirty but unless the opportunity walks up, grabs my head and plants a juicy kiss I won't pursue it.
Speaking of juicy kisses, it is time I divided my life into that which is under my control and that which is not. I cannot control whether I am accepted into the PhD program, whether I am asked on a date, how much money I earn (if any at all), whether someone will take my room before April, and any accidents which may occur.
I can control what I learn, how I balance my time (within reason), how I treat people, whether I give my students a fair chance and an opportunity to learn, and if I fulfill my responsibilities as a teacher, member of my congregation, and member of my family. I can make sure that I keep my word. I can control a percentage of my efforts to increase my health.
Don't think that means I will.
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