It was on this day in 1952 that the classic childrens' novel Charlotte's Web was published. The book by E.B. White has received many awards and praises over the years, but none can match the bright eyed enthusiasm of a young reader flipping these pages for the first time.

I read Charlotte's Web when I was in the third grade. I remember that I read it from cover to cover in a matter of five or six hours while my babysitter was downstairs watching her stupid soap opera and eating Oreos (it has been awhile and perhaps my details are flawed... they may have been Girl Scout Cookies... probably Thin Mints).

It was the first book I had ever looked at that could hold my interest for more than a fleeting moment. I devoured it. I was in tears by the end of the book. Whatever, I was 8. I was allowed a little emotion. Anyway, to make a short story shorter, the book rocked my world. And yet, for some reason, I haven't picked it up again since.

This weekend I shall remedy that. Care to join me? You won't be sorry. If you've never read this book, you're in for quite a treat. ... I suppose I have to buy Oreos now, too. Sheesh!

Today I attended the Celebration of Teaching and Learning in New York City. It was an all day event in which educators from all over came to share their love of what they do... and get free stuff.

One of the highlights of the day (and there were many) was getting to hear Frank McCourt speak about what it means to be a teacher and writer. Long before Mr. McCourt won his Pulitzer Prize for his novel Angela's Ashes, he was an English and Writing teacher in New York Public schools for over 25 years!

McCourt was born in Brooklyn and his family moved to Ireland when he was very young. There, he endured grim poverty, witnessed horrific illnesses, and suffered an alcoholic father. One of the reasons McCourt is such a respected writer is that he illustrates who he is and where he comes from with such shameless honesty and humourous bravado that, in reading him, you feel as if you are walking alongside him through his life.

When he returned to New York from Ireland at the age of 19, McCourt set out to become a Writing teacher. After a few bumpy years of rooting out the teacher he so wanted to be, McCourt began to light his students' creative spark by asking them to pen the pages of themselves. "I tried to show my students the significance of their own lives which they sometimes thought insignificant," McCourt once said. "I hoped they'd realize the value of their own lives, that they were good enough to write about. So they took the plunge and they wrote and some were willing to read to the class and I think they were glad they did."

That is what makes an effective writer of non-fiction, my friends. When writing about your life, hold nothing back. Be unafraid to delve into the deepest sections of your heart--so deep that even you have yet to find them. You can discover the most wonderous things about who you are, once were, and who you aim to be, just by writing. And it can be as secret or public as you like. You can write your innermost fears and desires in your journal and lock it away under your bed... or write what makes you happy and share it with all your friends and family... or write what makes you different from the rest of the world and submit it to a popular magazine--perhaps one that has a blog (wink wink :).

However much you care to disclose is completely up to you. Just remember to never be ashamed for who you are and never ever lie about yourself when you are attempting to get at the real you in your words. You're in there. Don't deny it. Write it.

You can purchase and/or read an excerpt of Frank McCourt's new book Teacher Man here.

Short story by Michael Schonhoff, Grade 8

He carried a single, small bag with him, for that was all that he owned. He was wearing old cloth pants with holes at the knees. His shoes looked like they had been used for target practice, with holes almost everywhere. Through these holes his dirty, calloused feet were showing.  His shirt was much too big for his skinny body. It went down to his lower hip and bunched up everywhere. He had found the shirt in a rich man's trash; it was all white with a dark, brown coffee stain running down the middle. The white shirt made a deep contrast to his dark skin. His face was thin and narrow. His sharp eyes caught every movement, for he had needed them to when he was a beggar. He had curly, black hair that was not much longer than his finger length.

He did not know what he was going to do once he got there. He did not even know if they were going to let him in. He did not know how they were going to test him.  He only knew that he was headed for a better place--America. He had often heard stories about America as a little boy. As he had sat in the town center of the small village, he had heard someone talking about a county where money was infinite and everyone was happy. As a little boy, he had believed them. He had marveled at the thoughts of splendid food, nice clothes, and money. He had been a beggar then, as a little boy. People looked at his skinny, raggedly-clothed body, and they felt sorry for him. But in a country as poor as his, he rarely received any handouts. One time, he had received a whole Naira though, one time, long ago. 

But now he was on the boat. The boat--it was a horrid, cramped place. The decks were packed to the fullest with people like him, people looking for a better life.  He did not know anyone on the boat. He did not even see any other people who were Nigerian.

Hey, it's Spring!

Write something.

Word.