Thursday, February 4, 2016

The Diary Of Zita Cecilia McNamara

Editor's Note: Click HERE to read Dr. C's previous post on the origin of 13-year-old Zita's diary. 

I  was a different kind of kid. First, from age five, I always wanted to become a teacher and a parent—yes, in that order. At a very young age, in my bedroom or in the basement, I held my classes. I always lined up my dolls and teddy bear as my “students.” Later on, I outgrew using these toys. I just developed my imaginary “students.”  

As my reading skills developed, at age ten, I read the plays Agamemnon and Macbeth and taught my “students” these plays as my mother was on the other side of the basement washing clothes and listening to my giving them their “lessons” and instructing them to pay attention: “Now, you listen you Sojos; this is very important.” “Pumpkin, who are ‘Sojos’ ”? “Mommy, you know. There are freshmen and juniors and seniors and sojos!” She chuckled and helped me understand that they are called “Sophomores.” Thus, my career as a teacher really continued on the right foot.

Dr. C's New and Very Different Journey: "Diary of Zita Cecilia McNamara"

"Dear Diary..."
For the past year, I have taken you on an academic "Creative Writing" cruise on my blog. I was the "Captain" of the cruise ship and students in my community college English classes were my "crew mates."  Check out my blog and read some of the entries. 

While those entries focused mainly on classroom lessons, I have decided to launch a blog diary series that will mix fact and fiction. The purpose of this shift is to allow me to do what I have taught for so many years – use my creative skills to write a work that can mix fact and fiction.  I have authored books, but not a work that uses fact and fiction. I am looking forward to exploring a different kind of genre.

Ever since I reached my early thirties, I wanted to write a book—a book about hope and survival. However, initially after reading so many other books with similar themes, I figured that my life was quite ordinary and boring compared to the provocative autobiographies I had read. I doubted I had a story like those. Then, I thought about the fact that I had a wealth of stories that just might interest folks; they were contained in my diaries, which I began when I was thirteen. Even as I got older, I continued to record my life experiences, and I recognized that my entries were important—at least to me—and, perhaps, to others. Still, I did not want to write the regular kind of diary, just about one day to the next.