Courtney M. RigginCourtney M. Riggin

Fall 2011--LL ED 597G

Writing for Children

Dr. Susan Campbell Bartoletti

Pennsylvania State University

This portfolio is dedicated to my husband, Justin Thomas Riggin,

who patiently listens to all my tales...

and sometimes helps me discover them;

and to my newborn son, Thomas Walker Riggin,

in honor of the stories he will hear, experience, and create throughout his life;

because, as I like to tell them,

they are my favorites.

Copyright © 2011 by Courtney M. Riggin

All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

Part One

Poem: Autumn Fort

Reflection: Autumn Fort

Poem: How Sunday Best

Reflection: Sunday Best

Poem: A Letter to Rain

Reflection: A Letter to Rain

Poem: Messy Room

Reflection: Messy Room

Short Story: The Feast of the After-Christmas Birds

Reflection: The Feast of the After-Christmas Birds

Part Two

Critique One

Critique One Reflection

Critique Two

Critique Two Reflection

Critique Three

Critique Three Reflection

Critique Four

Critique Four Reflection

Writing Philosophy: An Essay

Part Three

Author’s Note

Biography

Blurbs

PART

ONE

Poem: Autumn Fort

Reflection: Autumn Fort

Poem: Sunday Best

Reflection: Sunday Best

Poem: A Letter to Rain

Reflection: A Letter to Rain

Poem: Messy Room

Reflection: Messy Room

Short Story: The Feast of the After-Christmas Birds

Reflection: The Feast of the After-Christmas Birds

Autumn Fort

As the first Autumn winds whipped through the air,

I hollered for my brother across the yard,

and barely glimpsed his outline as he darted behind a bush.

I dashed around the bush to catch up with him,

leaning into my turn like a rodeo barrel racer;

the bush must have been the size of a funnel cake stand—

the kind with windows and wheels that travels around from fair to fair, circus to circus, and

show to show.

As the swiftly-moving clouds sprinkled sunlight like a disco ball across the lawn,

I suddenly stopped, frowned, and turned round and round looking for him,

I shuffled my feet through the fallen leaves until I heard the soft, smooth sound of a single

harmonica chord.

When the harmonica went silent, I moved closer, staring at the bush’s curtain of leaves;

suddenly his hand burst through a thick vine,

pushing it aside in one sweep,

scattering leaves from the branches like confetti tossed toward a parade float.

As the leaves were caught by the wind and carried through the playful sprays of sunlight,

I realized the branch was only a thin wall of leaves covering a secret space—

I crawled into the entrance and saw the open room he had chopped inside the bush

with the garden shears meant for pruning mother’s holly bushes.

I looked around the room—

I liked the walls and ceiling of gnarly, leaf-studded branches

And the roots and limbs that stood like ballroom pillars across the room;

I liked the spongy floor of twigs and damp leaves

And the way the earth smelled like black pepper and cinnamon sprinkled on the pages of

my favorite books.

As my brother disappeared through the leaf curtain to build a new secret fort,

I decided the room needed a table and two chairs, a vase of flowers,

and a welcome rug to make it just right.

“Autumn Fort”

Reflection

I grew up in a rural community in Alabama. Our house rested on a 600-acre pecan orchard

surrounded by woods. Our yard alone covered 3 acres of Earth. In this yard, there was a bush the

size of a traveling funnel cake stand—maybe even larger—and one afternoon my brother revealed

to me that he had cleared the branches and leaves from the middle of the bush to create the effect of

a room big enough for me to stand and twirl around in. I could probably have managed a decent

cartwheel, too. In real life, my older brother has always been evasive and romantic in his endeavors,

which was how I hoped to portray his character in the poem. In both real life and the poem, he

revealed the hideaway to me only after he had decided to move on to something bigger and better. I

do not know what he did with the fort while it was his secret. I took over the fort and made it my

own, just like the girl in the poem. It’s a wonder all that chopping did not kill the bush; but as I grew

up, it grew back its original density with health and vigor. Although my parents have since moved to

a new house nearby, the bush still stands.

Sunday Best

The pictures etched in the stained glass windows show people

weeping, pleading, bowing, and watching—

never playing, singing, or dancing.

They echo the well-known rule,

Shhhhhh…

Be still!

The stiff wooden pews hold people dressed in starched collars, hot wool, and scratchy lace

sitting like wooden soldiers

staring straight ahead at the priest in his long black robes and heavy silver cross,

And he reminds them,

Shhhhhh…

Be still!

Everyone pretends not to notice Mama

trying to catch my little brother as he scampers by;

scurrying under the pews and out again, marching up and down the rows,

She’s reaching,

He escapes,

She hisses,

Shhhhhh…

Be still!

I sit very straight with my hands in my lap— I am old enough to know how to act.

The preacher asks us to bow our heads for prayer.

Brother scurries by, hopping like a jackrabbit,

He giggles

And it echoes through the heavy pine beams.

They seem to roar,

Shhhhhh…

Be still!

A gray-haired man watches with a scowl,

Then he turns his face

But I can see him chuckle.

A matron in a high-necked wool dress shakes her head and frowns,

Then she holds her handkerchief to her mouth

And her eyes crinkle from the smile she hides.

Brother escapes Mama’s grasp again,

He croons as another giggle rises from his belly.

She begs,

Shhhhhh…

Be still!

I try to be silent, but I giggle too.

Then the gray-haired man and the matron look at each other

And laugh out loud.

Then all the people throw back their heads in a chorus

of noisy laughter.

Who says we should be so quiet?

Who says we should be so still?

As the organ begins the closing hymn,

the sun strikes through the stained glass

casting a honey-glow on the faces of the people

in the rigid wooden pews

and commands them,

Stand and sing!

Stand and sing!

Stand and sing!

Stand and sing!

“Sunday Best”

Reflection

I grew up in a very traditional church atmosphere—and I still prefer traditional services.

However, since I have moved away from my childhood church, they have had a series of issues with

preachers. One of these preachers was plagued by depression. The church congregation wanted to

give him a chance even though his illness often caused him to totally miss church services without

any notice, leaving the congregation members to divvy up responsibilities and lead their own

services in his absence(yes, this is a true story!).

One of these Sundays when the preacher didn’t show up, I happened to be visiting. I was

deeply impressed by the way the congregation honored the essence of their reason for coming to

church and collaborated to thread together a makeshift, informal service (even though they are

accustomed to proper and predictable). Their version was one of the most touching and enjoyable

services I have attended.

I was remembering this incident one Sunday as I sat watching a toddler. I was wondering

why he had been allowed to come into the service and why the mother wasn’t taking him out of the

sanctuary when I suddenly remembered that spontaneous, totally improvised service at my

childhood church. I looked around and an old man caught my eye. From time to time, he would turn

toward the boy and mother with a sour expression. “He’s ticked,” I thought with confidence. Then,

the little boy suddenly escaped and ran up to the man’s pew and slid into the seat next to him. The

man’s face lit up. The boy made lots of racket. The man laughed. I jotted down my observations of

this exchange, and the idea for this poem was born.

Originally, the poem was not child-centric. I am still struggling with some lines and the tone,

but thanks to the suggestions of my classmates and some time spent tweaking the lines, it is closer

to a child’s perspective than it was before. I only submitted this piece to the workshop once, so the

revisions have been solely focused on modifying the poem from an adult-centric observation to a

child-centric piece. My next revisions will focus more on tone and structure. I hope to achieve a

more playful, casual tone than I have now as well as tighten the structure so that the lines form a

repetitious rhythm and the “Shhhhh… be still!” lines are more predictable for a child listening to the

poem.

A Letter to Rain

Dear Rain,

I don’t know why you catch such a racket.

As soon as the weather man says, “Rain, rain, rain!”

boring grown-ups and stodgy kids throw up their hands,

and they moan, moan, moan

as if the forecast for your arrival was the same as,

“Everyone will step in chewed-up, gooey gum today,

and it will stink like canned asparagus.”

But Rain, I don’t agree.

You make me want to parade through your showers cheering, “You’re here, You’re here!”

I throw on my slick raincoat and galoshes and try to trap your wind in my open umbrella.

I imagine your raindrops are candied sprinkles falling

to cover the rooftops, parking lots, and sidewalks like giant cakes squares;

I watch your droplets race down the windows of cars and buildings.

Even after you’ve left, I can watch the squishy earth rise up between my toes

and flood my toenails:

I pretend the murky water is ocean waves

and I am a lifeguard or a surfer or a sandcastle artist;

and then I stir up the waves and become a dancer,

splashing the water to the rhythm of my feet

and making the puddles swirl and splatter.

Rain,

I especially like when you visit in summer

because it’s like a gigantic sprinkler has been turned on

for us to play in together. 

“A Letter to Rain”

Reflection

I wrote this piece by accident. It came from the assignment in which we listed ten things

found in nature. I listed “rain” because I was tired at the time and it was raining outside. As I was

reviewing the list, “rain” caught my eye. For a split second I was going to write about what one can

do on a dreary, rainy day. Then, I thought… maybe a child wouldn’t always see a rainy day as dreary.

In fact, I suddenly remembered that I loved rainy days until I started fixing my hair and putting on

makeup before junior high school each morning. As a child, I thought rainy days were exciting and

even a bit enchanting. So, I decided to write a “Letter to Rain” from a child who happens to enjoy

rainy days. I wanted the child to seem as if he or she was concerned that people’s general reaction

to “rain” was something that hurt rain’s feelings.

Messy Room

Pssst! C’mere and let me tell you something:

A messy room can promote an average middle-school kid

to the ranks of the coolest college guys—the ones who get all the chicks.

All you have to do is smear greasy fingers across the wall

after snacking on Tator Tots; eat funnel cakes in bed

and let the powdered sugar and fried ringlet crumbs

fall between the layers of sheets; let the dust pile up

until you can make mini moguls on the window sill

and surfaces, lounge around with a pack of long-haired dogs

and let them shed their fur and slather their drooling tongues across

everything a soapy mop might clean; leave glasses of half-drunk milk

in every nook and cranny until they curdle and stink and eventually

harden in the bottom of the glass; then pop them out and

whittle little carvings from the small, repulsive slabs

and place them on display.

Well, now I gotta go. It’s almost time for the bash of the year—

Everyone who’s anyone will be there—

And anyone who’s not will be a loser at school on Monday.

My gang of guys will be here any minute...

Oh wait a sec, my mom’s calling me—

“WHAT? But Mooooooom, why do I have to clean my room

before I can go to the party?”

“Messy Room”

Reflection

Writing “Messy Room” was one of the assignments that removed me from my comfort zone.

One of my personal tendencies I have noticed this semester is to automatically slip into a detached,

nostalgic voice. I also tend to be drawn more towards complexity and formality in meaning and

tone rather than just sitting down to write fun pieces. Children generally prefer fun pieces, so my

hope was that in writing a few, I could gradually become more comfortable balancing “fun” and

“funny” with profound meanings and poetic language.

This is not a poem I would want to share with the general public— that “cool” means

“irresponsible” is just not the sort of message kids need more of. Kids get that message enough from

pop culture and peers. I had several suggestions to remove or totally rewrite the ending. This

stanza is meant to convey the point that you won’t actually get anywhere if you live by the “messy is

cool” philosophy—maybe my intentions make the piece a little too pedantic, which is another

reason I wouldn’t strive to distribute it. My hope is that I achieve a point in a lighthearted, Shel

Silverstein way. Regardless, I tried to rework the last stanza rather than delete it, but I am not so

sure it’s tight enough even now. Moreover, I feel the tone is a bit too cool and irreverent for my

tastes, although I think it is consistent and convincing. I am including this poem in my portfolio

because I feel it was an important exercise for me, and I also want to show my flexibility as a writer.

In the final revision, I chose to play with colloquialisms to more greatly influence the overall

tone. In addition, I tried to apply more of my classmates’ suggestions—with the exception of

replacing the term “mini moguls” with a more common image. After considering it, I decided that

“moguls” are common enough for anyone who has attempted snow sports or watched the winter

Olympics—and if the readers doesn’t know the term it would be a good one to learn!

The Feast of the After-Christmas Birds,

A Picture Book

When green polka-dots sprout on the trees,

and pink

and purple

and red

and yellow starbursts

pop from the tight buds,

and the warmth finally drives the nip away

That’s when she remembers the birds.

There was a River Oak tree behind the blueberry patch

where she found them,

living in a hole

deep in the trunk

near the ground.

 

The hole wound down

and around

and through the trunk,

and there,

tucked in the cool, dark bottom,

were four baby birds.

 

They were only scrawny creatures

wrapped in pink skin and tissue

with ugly stems for legs

and gaping beaks

on spindly necks.

 

She hurried to see them every day.

Between chores. Before school. After school.

 

And soon, they began to look fuzzy

(like an odd peach that had sprouted spindly stretches of limbs)

and still so pink

but with a tinge of brown and gray.

 

And then, they grew

soft and plump

with feathers of grayish-brown

like the mud scooped from puddles after a spring rain.

She wanted them to play

in the polka-dotted trees,

the blueberry patch,

and the bright starburst blooms.

 

But Father said,

“Don’t touch them

or the mother might get spooked by your scent

and leave them.”

 

So instead, she left them gifts

of little china teacups filled to the rim with nuts

and seeds

and dried red berries.

And she left cotton fluff she pulled from her pillow

and even some very curly shavings from her school pencils.

 

Then one day, the birds were gone.

She searched through the patches of brush

where the blueberries had all been picked,

and the starbursts

that were already beginning to wilt

and fade.

 

And then she saw them.

No, not them—not the birds—

she saw four velvet feathers

resting  at the bottom of the hole.

 

Her legs shook.

Her lip quivered.

She searched through the brush

and did not find the birds.

She turned from the tree

and felt warm tears begin to drip

down her cheeks.

What went wrong?

She was sure she hadn’t touched them—

But she had gazed

and lingered

and left so many gifts.

School began.

She studied. She played. She laughed some, too.

But she could not—she did not—

talk about the birds.

 

Nor did she forget them.

 

Christmas came.

She and her father decorated an evergreen tree.

Christmas went.

She helped her father take down the tree.

He said,

“Maybe we should have an After-Christmas Tree this year.”

And she agreed.

 

So, she helped him make garlands of dried red berries

and pinecone ornaments gilded with peanut butter, cereal, nuts, and seeds

 to lace throughout the After-Christmas Tree

for the squirrels.

 

And then, they came.

No, not they—not the squirrels—

the birds came.

Grown-up birds the creamy color of rain-puddle mud

fluttered around her After-Christmas Tree.

How many?

One,

Two,

Three,

Four.

Four birds!

 

Every day the snow whipped fresh drifts,

And every day they came

until 

the winter bluster surrendered 

and the feast of the After-Christmas Tree

was over.

 

But, the birds seemed…

very busy.

 

And one day,

in the hole

at the bottom

of the River Oak Tree

she heard a fragile chirp.

 

And behind the blueberry patch,

she heard another,

And near a green polka-dotted tree,

There was another,

And then,

in the pink

and purple

and red

and yellow

starbursts,

she heard a lot of fragile chirps.

And Father said,

“I think we need to put out a bigger bird bath.”

 

And after many teacups of treats,

she once again

found nothing but a soft pile of feathers

where the birds had been.

And this time,

she understood.

The Feast of the After-Christmas Birds

Reflection

This poem is based on an idea I jotted down two years ago and decided to begin writing it

out this semester. At the time of the inspiration, we lived in Charlotte, NC. Even though our house

was just two miles from the bustling uptown, we had a large fenced-in backyard. It was the kind of

yard where something was always in bloom. One spring day, I noticed a hole at the bottom of a tree.

I looked in the hole and saw four gaping, hungry beaks begging me for gourmet worms to eat. I had

seen bird nests in the rafters of porches, nestled in rooftop eaves, and in the limbs of branches, but I

had never seen one in a hole in a tree trunk so close to the ground. Suddenly, this story just came to

me, and I have loved the idea since. Now, I must get it right, which I am learning reluctantly requires

“killing my darlings”, as Dr. Bartoletti quoted.

In my last round of revisions, I tried to focus on cutting words, phrases, and entire stanzas—

especially from the end.

PART

TWO

Critique One

Critique One Reflection

Critique Two

Critique Two Reflection

Critique Three

Critique Three Reflection

Critique Four

Critique Four Reflection

Writing Philosophy: An Essay

Critique One

By: Paula White

For: Courtney Riggin’s “The Barn Loft”

Lesson 5 Workshop

The Barn Loft

After presents had been ripped open and cake eaten down to the chocolate-streaked

cardboard platter and the leftover ice cream had melted in the trash bags and begun to seep out of a

hole onto the garage floor attracting an army of ants, Allie asked if we wanted to see their old barn.

This sounds a bit like passive voice~you might want to rethink this opening as occuring rather than

a recollection-

We all ran behind her with our party hats hanging from our necks or jutting off our mouths

like beaks.This scene has child-centric qualities ~I see the kids running and laughing with the hats

hanging off of their faces. I like this imagery. 

She was right. The barn was old. The red paint had faded to a chalky hue that made it look

as if a fog stood between our little group and the barn. Vines climbed up the looming clapboard

walls, and the metal roof was rusted and dented. Inside, it smelled like hay, manure, and horse

musk. I could hear Allie's three horses blowing and shuffling inside their dark stalls. The air was

cold and with each snort and blow, a little gust of steam puffed through the feeding trough window

at each stall. Perhaps you can pick a tense and present the whole piece in that tense.

"What's up there?" Lucia asked Allie. We all looked to the wooden ladder, draped with

cobwebs and dusted with hay remnants, earth, and pollen. Dried mud clumps clung relentlessly to

the tops of each rung--probably left by someone's boots.

Your story could start here-"Follow me!" Allie whispered mysteriously. We all made our

way silently, single file, up each ladder rung, each one of us hoping not to meet the weaver of the

white, sticky webs.

I was the last one up, and as I crawled over the ledge at the top rung, I saw what I thought

must be God's spirit itself piercing like a beam across the open loft. The effect was from the sunlight

filtering through a broken window, catching the hay particles waltzing through the air. Bales were

stacked up along the walls as high as the ceiling. “This must be what ‘holy ground’ looks like,” I

thought. Allie was showing the group a shoebox coffin where she had buried her dead pet Finch the

year before. It had mummified perfectly so that it looked as if it would hop up chirping at any

moment. “Well, that’s all there is to see up here!” Allie announced. The group--no longer silent and

mystified-- began to clamor a perfect word choice-down the ladder. I thought I'd take just a few

more moments to gaze at what I was sure must have been the spirit of God wafting I like this word

choice, but I'm wondering if your reader will understand that this is a spiritual piece-is it? You say

"holy ground" and allude to the hereafter when you mention death and a coffin (although only with

a pet)...Are you setting up the plot to unfold as a spiritual journey? Just wondering...  across the

room. Suddenly, I couldn't hear the voices of the girls any more. Where had they gone? How had

they gotten out of earshot so fast? Then I looked down the ladder I had come up just minutes ago

and my knees began to shake. I realized with terror that I couldn't climb down.

This beginning unfolds not only as a mystery but also as a spiritual journey of sorts. You

mention "God's spirit itself" and "the spirit of God" and "holy ground." Are these mentions strictly

denotations? They carry some weight. Will the reader take the spiritual journey in which you seem

to be alluding?

 

Critique One Reflection

This particular critique was helpful to me for two reasons. First, Paula showed me another

option for my opening lines when she pointed out “Your story could start here.” I realized as I re-

read that she was right. It would be a much more interesting opening line and more likely to hook

the reader right away—or at least not make the reader work very hard in the first sentence. In this

first draft, the story’s opening line is long and descriptive. It’s a good sentence, as several other

critiques pointed out, but it also makes the reader work. I don’t want my reader to have to work so

hard in the beginning—at least not until the second sentence of the story! Paula’s suggestion brings

the reader right into the story’s action. What’s more, it works out so perfectly to switch a few lines

around, I don’t even need to lose much from the descriptions I really like.

Second, Paula’s questions about the spiritually-driven descriptions in the last paragraph

made me realize the kind of character I was introducing—and I liked it! Originally, I set out to write

about the barn loft. I ended up realizing I was writing about a little girl who fits in well on the

outside the but feels very different within herself. Yes, Paula. This is a story about “a spiritual

journey of sorts”—I just didn’t know it until this critique helped me see it!

Critique Two

By: Lisa Moe

For: Courtney Riggin’s “Autumn Fort”

Lesson 11 Workshop

I felt like I was discovering the fort along with your character.  What a great idea!  Kids and forts go

hand-in-hand, don't they?  :-)

Yellow: sophisticated wording that feels too old for the speaker

Blue: great word choice

Purple: exceptionally awesome imagery

Green: This seem to assign the speaker to a specific gender. If that’s the intent, you’ve done

well. If you’d like to make the poem relevant to all children who fantasize about such a fort,

perhaps you might change this detail to something more gender-neutral.

Autumn Fort

As the first Autumn winds whipped through the air,    

I hollered for my brother across the yard,

and barely glimpsed his outline as he darted behind a bush.

I dashed around the bush to catch up with him,

leaning into my turn like a rodeo barrel racer;

the bush must have been the size of a funnel cake stand—

the kind on wheels that travels around from fair to fair, circus to circus, and show to show.

As the swiftly-moving clouds sprinkled sunlight like a disco ball across the lawn,

I suddenly stopped, frowned, and turned round and round looking for him,

I shuffled my feet through the fallen leaves until I heard the soft, smooth sound of a single

Harmonica chord.

When the Harmonica went silent, I moved closer, staring at the bush’s curtain of leaves;

suddenly my brother’s hand burst through the draping foliage,

pushing it aside in one sweep,

scattering leaves from the branches like the confetti tossed toward a parade float carrying

Miss America.

As the leaves were caught by the wind and carried through the playful sprays of sunlight,

I realized the branch was only a thin wall of leaves covering a secret space—

I crawled into the entrance and saw the open room my brother had chopped inside the bush

with the garden shears meant for pruning mother’s holly bushes.

I looked around the room—

I liked the walls and ceiling of gnarly, leaf-studded branches

And the roots and limbs that stood like ballroom pillars across the room;

I liked the spongy floor of twigs and damp leaves;

I liked the fresh smell of wet earth and cool air;

As my brother exited through the leaf curtain to build a better fort,

I decided the room needed a table and two chairs, a welcome rug,

and a vase of flowers to make it just right.

Critique Two Reflection

Throughout the semester, Lisa has offered so many helpful suggestions. I love reading her

stories and admire her skill, so I always perk up a little as I read her critiques on my own writing

feelings that perhaps some secret potion to acquire some of her talent might be hidden in her

suggestions.

At some point during our workshop experience, Lisa began a color-coding technique. It is so

orderly and makes it easy to skim through the critique, picking out the good and the bad. She also

seems to identify and focus on select facets of craft for each workshop rather than pointing out

everything that needs work in one sitting. I have found that this approach helps me focus more

productively on revisions because the editing load seems more manageable. For example, the first

time I posted “Autumn Fort”, she focused on areas that seemed wordy and phrases with

consonance. In this particular critique from a later posting of “Autumn Fort”, she focused on word

choices and images that work versus those that do not. She highlighted the images that were

“exceptional” and the wording that was “good” so that I could easily skim through those sections

while editing, knowing that her reading considered them valuable. She then highlighted the

wording that did not work, specifically stating that the reason was the age-appropriateness of the

word choices. I think her has worked for me on many occasions because it is direct, constructive,

and concise.

Critique Three

Critique Three Reflection

Critique Four

By: Courtney Riggin

For: Kelly White

Lesson 11 Workshop

Hey Kelly!

I agree with the other two comments on watching pronouns and wordiness and making dialogue more concise. Here are two specific suggestions:

The scent of a wood fire pit burning in the crisp fall air floated through the air as groups of people walked across the large, dirt parking lot situated on a hill where crops were once planted. 

I still think it’s distracting to repeat the word “air” so close together. I’ve offered a remedy below. I think this remedy also shortens your introduction just enough so that there are fewer words padding your lovely details:

The scent of a wood fire pit burning filled the crisp fall air as groups of people walked across the large, dirt parking lot situated on a hill where crops were once planted. 

 

Crowds of people stood in line to see how long it would take them to conquer the 1 ½ mile track where monsters lingered and dead ends played the spoiler to progressing closer to the exit of the maze. This sentence still doesn’t make sense to me…

 

Also, I like the way you switched the perspective from your original piece! It makes it a totally new story in the same setting. If you like the way it turned out from this perspective, I say leave it and work within the text for revising. If you still aren't head over heels for it AND are up for doing a total revision again :) , I suggest keeping the story as close as possible to the original one that included you and your friends but write it from the child's viewpoint. In that viepoint, we won't know what the mom and dad are doing. In this version, the story almost focuses too much on the parents' fear-- and therefore their perspective-- and too little on the child's experience of being lost in a strange, crowded place.

Whatever you decide, I also think you could consider starting the story with less of a scene description and more of the immediate action. Re-read it looking for points of energy and determine if any of those areas would make an interesting beginning. Then, tie in your scene descriptions (which as VERY good!) within or immediately after the action of the opening.

I'd be interested to see how you approach these final revisions! It's a great piece with a lot of options.

I've enjoyed working with you this semester and appreciate your critiques on my work :)

Good luck in all your future endeavors!

Courtney

Critique Four Reflection

By: Courtney Riggin

For: Kelly White

Lesson 11 Workshop

I appreciate criticism more than praise in writing workshops. For that reason, I like to give

more criticism than praise. Granted, I certainly want to know what works and what strikes the

reader as particularly poignant; but in connection with laud, I want to know what stands in stark

contrast as weak. I want to know what drags my story down.

I also like open-ended suggestions or suggestions that contain several options when

someone wants to suggest that my story is not working.

There was one particular workshop critique where I felt I was reading a story with potential

—but one that (in my view) needed to be re-worked in order to reach its potential as a child’s story.

Focus on a few things at a time for each revision.

Take my own advice.

Writing Philosophy: An Essay

PARTTHREE

Author’s Note

Biography

Blurbs

Author’s Note

This course got me wondering, Why don’t I think of myself as a writer? I certainly

enjoy writing and feel compelled to write often. Perhaps I cannot see myself as a “writer”

because I am not published; or maybe it is because I have an everyday job; or possibly it is

merely that I am too busy to be a writer.

In the first several weeks, this course quickly extinguished any logic I might have

argued these reasons carried. I do not need special certification or ordination to be a

writer, as I would to be a priest or a nurse. I do not need a series of books published in my

name and listed in Oprah’s book club to call myself a “writer”, just as I do not need to be

accepted to the Boston Marathon to call myself a runner. Being a writer simply means

appreciating writing, writing often, and working diligently to revise drafts. In short, being a

writer means being a person who writes.

Now, this is not to say I use the term irreverently. I would not call myself a runner if

I only ran 1.4 mile every 3 months. I call myself a runner because running is something I

feel the urge to do several times a week—and something I have decided to focus on. On the

other hand, I do not call myself a photographer even though I take pictures—this is because

taking pictures is not something that drives me or touches my brain in a place that

determines my sanity for that particular moment, nor is it something I strive to improve

and work into my daily routine, like running.

Considering this, I think I can begin to whisper quietly to myself in a mirror each

morning, You are a writer. Therefore you must value the calling you have answered and carve

out some time to write today. So I whisper into empty spaces where only I can hear, I

am a writer. And I write.

Maybe soon I will be able to whisper in someone’s ear. And maybe soon after that, I

can whisper it to a group of people. And maybe someday, I can say it aloud in ordinary

conversation without missing a beat.

Biography

I'm Courtney.

I am currently completing my last course in Pennsylvania State University’s M.Ed. in

Curriculum and Instruction program. I have also completed the Post-Baccalaureate

certificate in Family Literacy, and I have a bachelor's in English from Auburn University.

In my career, I teach reading to children who have language-based learning

disorders or attention deficits. I am in the process of completing my certification in the

Orton-Gillingham approach, which is an individualized, multisensory, phonetic-based

program specifically used to teach reading and writing to students with dyslexia.

My husband and I moved in early September from Greenville, SC to Columbus, GA,

where I have started a new job at a large private school. It's even more exciting because it

will be the school's first venture in using the Orton-Gillingham approach with students who

are struggling in reading. In fact, it is the first school in Columbus to implement Orton-

Gillingham for struggling readers. I feel like a pioneer!

My husband is a handsome and ambitious construction manager. In the four years

we have been married, his job has transferred us to a new state five times. Needless to say,

the online option through PSU was ideal for me, and it has gone so well that my husband

plans to begin an online MBA through the University of Massachusetts in January.

Hopefully, we will settle in Atlanta, GA in the next several years and he will commute to

jobs as necessary. Moving around has been fun and rewarding, but it is exhausting to pack

and unpack an entire house as often as most people pack and unpack Christmas

decorations! This time, we are living just 30 minutes from my parents, and we will be here

for two years instead of one. Because of the familiar area and longer stay, we decided to

buy a house— which we are renovating (as if we don't have enough to occupy our time!). 

Speaking of occupying our time, we had our first child—a boy—on 11-11-11.

Thomas Walker Riggin came into the world two weeks early at 6 lbs 11 oz, and he has been

teaching us many lessons and skills since his arrival! We are thankful beyond words for his

health and presence (and overall adorable-ness!).

Blurbs

Courtney is by far the most innovative and imaginative writer I know. Her use of

hyperboles is exquisite and I have never once been disappointed reading her work. 

-Ashleigh Land, Atlanta, GA

Riggin is a marvelous author! Her imaginative and wholesome tales weave beautiful story

and lessons to be enjoyed by all ages. My students and children ask for stories to read again

and again...and I certainly don't mind obliging!

-Lydia Knizely Johnson, Mobile, AL

Always a delight...Ms. Riggin's writings are at once a cozy warm sweater to the soul and a

jolt of stimulating peppermint mocha to the brain.  She never disappoints!

-Betsy Mazzola, Hatchechubbee, AL