I am standing in my kitchen, staring at a stack of papers about MIDDLE SCHOOL. Beginning next month, through May, I am to take part in several meetings for rising sixth graders who will begin MIDDLE SCHOOL in August. Already, I am being barraged with questions such as WHICH FOREIGN LANGUAGE and WHICH ORCHESTRA OR BAND INSTRUMENT, and WHICH ACTIVITIES.

I want to pretend these papers don’t exist. I want to rip them up and throw them into the recycling bin. Because I am not ready to be the parent of a MIDDLE SCHOOL student. No, I am not. In early August, I will turn FORTY, but that milestone will be far eclipsed by the traumatic event whereby my 11 year-old boards the bus to MIDDLE SCHOOL a week later.

I did not have too hard of a time at MIDDLE SCHOOL. Most of the time, I quite liked it. But there’s something about the term MIDDLE SCHOOL that feels incredibly oppressive and repressive and suppressive and claustrophobic and makes me want to have a drink. Of alcohol. Make that a double.

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Dixon Rice was kind enough to ask me to guest post on his lovely website, Wredheaded Writer. I wrote about how hard we unpublished writers work. Not just me, of course. It always amazes me how much harder other unpublished writers are working. If you have some down time this morning, check it out.

Have a great weekend.