Wikihow in newsletters: http://www.wikihow.com/Write-a-Good-Newsletter
Alumni Newsletter Sample: http://www.jhunewsletter.com/
Cindy's Fave newsletter: http://www.positivelypositive.com/
Monday, November 18, 2013
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Short Play assignment
Read the fpllowig play:
http://www.alexbroun.com.au/pdf/becoming%20web.pdf
Be ready to comment on how is this genre different from the others we have studied.
http://www.alexbroun.com.au/pdf/becoming%20web.pdf
Be ready to comment on how is this genre different from the others we have studied.
Literary magazines guidelines
Here you can see examples of amazing lit magazines online.
Magazines
Example with Joomag:
http://www.joomag.com/magazine/vagabond-multilingual-journal-spring-2013/0007982001377638872
This other is the one I created, it is called The Attic of Bertha Mason:
http://www.joomag.com/magazine/the-attic-of-bertha-mason-volume-1/0948159001380301209
You can use Joomag, Word, or printed version.
Include at least:
Editorial: reason for the name, explanation of purpose.
The group answer to Why is writing important?
Sample of student's writing (one or two from each student)
A Biography of a writer (not just copy-paste)
Three recommended wesites related to writing or literature with a short description of what the site offers.
A trivia section related to literature or topic chosen.
An entertainment section of your choice.
Magazines
Example with Joomag:
http://www.joomag.com/magazine/vagabond-multilingual-journal-spring-2013/0007982001377638872
This other is the one I created, it is called The Attic of Bertha Mason:
http://www.joomag.com/magazine/the-attic-of-bertha-mason-volume-1/0948159001380301209
You can use Joomag, Word, or printed version.
Include at least:
Editorial: reason for the name, explanation of purpose.
The group answer to Why is writing important?
Sample of student's writing (one or two from each student)
A Biography of a writer (not just copy-paste)
Three recommended wesites related to writing or literature with a short description of what the site offers.
A trivia section related to literature or topic chosen.
An entertainment section of your choice.
Portfolio rules
Portfolio instructions:
Must have cover page including: name, course number and date.
Must be neatly presented, no loose pages. Use a folder and bind all pages.
Must include a Table of contents, so pages should be numbered.
First entry must be a reflection on what you have learned in the course (what you liked, desliked, what was more difficult, etc.)
It should include (at least):
-Five free writing exercises done in class
-Three writing assignments
- Descriptive paragraph
-2 poems (house, painting )
-biography of classmate birthdate
-short play
-Analysis of the following article: (short essay with main ideas and your own comments)
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/christopher-molaro/is-reading-really-that-im_b_4016380.html
Include original and re-write when apply.
Must have cover page including: name, course number and date.
Must be neatly presented, no loose pages. Use a folder and bind all pages.
Must include a Table of contents, so pages should be numbered.
First entry must be a reflection on what you have learned in the course (what you liked, desliked, what was more difficult, etc.)
It should include (at least):
-Five free writing exercises done in class
-Three writing assignments
- Descriptive paragraph
-2 poems (house, painting )
-biography of classmate birthdate
-short play
-Analysis of the following article: (short essay with main ideas and your own comments)
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/christopher-molaro/is-reading-really-that-im_b_4016380.html
Include original and re-write when apply.
Monday, November 4, 2013
Assignment for Friday Novemeber 15th
Read the story The Sensible Foe
O a piece of prited paper:
1. Is this a folktale? Why?
2. What is the moral of the story?
3. Create your own story based on the same characters.
An emperor was passing through a forest and had lost his way. When he saw a man sleeping under a tree, he became happy that perhaps now he would be guided on the way. But when he went up to him he saw that the man’s mouth was open — some people sleep with their mouths open — and a snake was entering into his mouth. The emperor just saw the tail of the snake. He lifted his whip and started beating that man. The man suddenly woke up — he could not understand! He started shouting and crying, “What are you doing? Why are you beating me? What wrong have I done to anyone? Oh God! What an evil person this man is. He is strong, he is sitting on a horse, he is so powerful that I cannot even fight with him."
The emperor forced him to eat the rotten fruits that were lying on the ground. He didn’t stop, he went on whipping the man terribly. The man was crying and eating, and the fruits were rotten and stinking. The emperor whipped him so much and forced him to eat so much rotten fruit that he vomited and passed out. When he vomited, the snake came out with the vomit.
When the man saw the snake he could not understand what had happened. Then bowing to the feet of the emperor he said, “It is out of your great compassion that you whipped me, that you forced me to eat this rotten fruit, that you made my body shed blood. It is my great fortune. God has sent you at the right time or I would have died. But I want to say one thing: if you had said that I had eaten the snake, that I had swallowed a snake or that a snaked had entered in me, then I would not have abused you and cursed you.”
The emperor said, “If I had told you, then getting the snake out would have been impossible. You would have died of fear. By my beating you did not die. If I had told you that you had swallowed a snake, then I would not have been able to make you eat the fruit; you would have become unconscious and it would have been impossible to save you. So I had to stop myself from telling you and beat you instead. To make you vomit became my main concern. I had to stop worrying about you because if I could make you somehow vomit, the snake would be thrown out.”
Activity:O a piece of prited paper:
1. Is this a folktale? Why?
2. What is the moral of the story?
3. Create your own story based on the same characters.
Assignmet for Friday November 8th
Read the following story:
What they don’t understand
about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re
also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and
three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you
expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just
like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel
like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.
You don’t feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don’t feel smart eleven, not until you’re almost twelve. That’s the way it is.
Only today I wish I didn’t have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I’d have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would’ve known how to tell her it wasn’t mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
“Not mine,” says everybody. “Not me.”
“Whose is this?” Mrs. Price says, and she holds the
red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. “Whose? It’s been sitting
in the coatroom for a month.”
“It has to belong to somebody, ”Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It’s an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It’s maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn’t say so.
Maybe because I’m skinny, maybe because she doesn’t like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, “I think it belongs to Rachel.” An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.
“That’s not, I don’t, you’re not…Not mine.” I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.
“Of course it’s yours, ”Mrs. Price says. “ I remember you wearing it once.” Because she’s older and the teacher, she’s right and I’m not.
Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don’t know why but all of a sudden I’m feeling sick inside, like the part of me that’s three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.
But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater’s still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine. In my head I’m thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, “Now, Rachel, that’s enough, ”because she sees I’ve shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it’s hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don’t care.
“Rachel, ”Mrs. Price says. She says it like she’s getting mad. “You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense.”
“But it’s not –“
“Now!” Mrs. Price says.
That’s when everything I’ve been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I’m crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I’m not. I’m eleven and it’s my birthday today and I’m crying like I’m three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can’t stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren’t any more tears left in my eyes, and it’s just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.This is when I wish I wasn’t eleven because all the
years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and
one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of
the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the
other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it
does, all itchy and full of germs that aren’t even mine.
But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers. I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything’s okay.
Today I’m eleven. There’s a cake Mama’s making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we’ll eat it. There’ll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it’s too late.
I’m eleven today. I’m eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven. Because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny—tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.
On a printed piece of paper do the following:
1. What is the conflict in the story? What type of conflict is it?
2. What does the writer implies about getting older?
3. Write a short story with the same topic, only that the student is turning 16. How would she react differently? Be creative. Include the same conflict.
ELEVEN
by Sandra Cisneros
by Sandra Cisneros
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.
You don’t feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don’t feel smart eleven, not until you’re almost twelve. That’s the way it is.
Only today I wish I didn’t have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I’d have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would’ve known how to tell her it wasn’t mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
“Not mine,” says everybody. “Not me.”
“Whose is this?” Mrs. Price says, and she holds the
red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. “Whose? It’s been sitting
in the coatroom for a month.” “It has to belong to somebody, ”Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It’s an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It’s maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn’t say so.
Maybe because I’m skinny, maybe because she doesn’t like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, “I think it belongs to Rachel.” An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.
“That’s not, I don’t, you’re not…Not mine.” I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.
“Of course it’s yours, ”Mrs. Price says. “ I remember you wearing it once.” Because she’s older and the teacher, she’s right and I’m not.
Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don’t know why but all of a sudden I’m feeling sick inside, like the part of me that’s three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.
But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater’s still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine. In my head I’m thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, “Now, Rachel, that’s enough, ”because she sees I’ve shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it’s hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don’t care.
“Rachel, ”Mrs. Price says. She says it like she’s getting mad. “You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense.”
“But it’s not –“
“Now!” Mrs. Price says.
That’s when everything I’ve been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I’m crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I’m not. I’m eleven and it’s my birthday today and I’m crying like I’m three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can’t stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren’t any more tears left in my eyes, and it’s just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.
This is when I wish I wasn’t eleven because all the
years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and
one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of
the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the
other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it
does, all itchy and full of germs that aren’t even mine. But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers. I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything’s okay.
Today I’m eleven. There’s a cake Mama’s making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we’ll eat it. There’ll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it’s too late.
I’m eleven today. I’m eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven. Because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny—tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.
On a printed piece of paper do the following:
1. What is the conflict in the story? What type of conflict is it?
2. What does the writer implies about getting older?
3. Write a short story with the same topic, only that the student is turning 16. How would she react differently? Be creative. Include the same conflict.
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