Writing - the physical act of writing - has been a somewhat challenging road for Ethan. He is likely dysgraphic, meaning there's a brain glitch of sorts that makes it difficult for the motions used in writing to become automatic. (Yes, I'm sure that's the technical term ... brain glitch.) Last year, after listening to a talk by Diane Craft, we figured out what we could do to help him. Writing has become much easier for him, although I don't know that it will ever be something he enjoys. This year, we've been focusing pretty intensely on composition, an area he has not done a lot with due to his previous difficulty in writing.
He has made tremendous progress, and has begun to enjoy the composition process a lot, especially if he is allowed to type his assignments. Last week he was supposed to write a conversation between two people, including description of body movements - his favorite type of assignment because it allows so much freedom for using his imagination. The result - while disturbingly gory - just tickles me because he is doing so much better than before.
Oh, and if you're familiar with Redwall, you might notice the influence of that style of adventure novel in his writing.
Just after dusk, Riptung and Marface were arguing over the best way to invade Ordamuk. "We should scale the walls and slaughter them in their beds!" screamed Riptung insanely, spitting half-chewed snakemeat toward Marface's partially-fleshless face.
Slamming his silky, black paw on the flimsy table, Marface angrily replied, "It would be better to mine beneath their walls and hit them where it hurts most!"
"But I am this horde's leader!" shrieked Riptung, foaming at the mouth and wildly swinging his crusty and reddened battleaxe at the ferret's midnight velvet neck. Dodging the weasel warlord's axe, Marface whipped out his own long, razor sharp dagger, and in one fluid motion flung it into Riptung's paw, pinning it to his bloody axe. Roaring in pain, Riptung leaped over the table and split the chair where Marface had been sitting, but the spry ferret had ducked around the table. Drawing his sickle-shaped sword, he sank the blade, tip-first, into the warlord's back.
"I will command this horde to victory!" hissed Marface. A smug grin spread slowly across his torn, ugly face as he watched the weasel's eyes mist over, dying on the bloodied table.
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