At the end of the year, you got your own book back to keep.
This was a really great school project.
At the end of the year, you got your own book back to keep.
This was a really great school project.
Unfortunately, there's been a general decline in reading comprehension since the '50s. Things that would have been understood to be fiction are now read as unironic fact. Backwoods literalist christianity and backwoods literalist islam burst on the scene at around the same time that academia embraced a malformed version of deconstructionism. Back in the 90s we were so sick of irony we just wanted it to die. Turns out this is how it happened.
Students at school who wanted to could write a book (typically 3–10 pages, but occasionally longer), and the handwritten or typed document with line art would be xeroxed 3 times then each copy would be colored by the student, laminated, and spiral bound, with one copy sent home, one to the classroom, and one to the school library. All of the student authors would get to go to a ceremonial “authors’ tea”, held a few times each year.
It was optional but a great experience and some kids enjoyed it so much they “published” several books a year. Others only did it once during primary school, or not at all.
This was all back in the time when schools had enough budget to fund a full-time school librarian who could organize such a project. I don’t think it has continued down to today.
In junior-high, I had convinced the band conductor to devote 20 minutes (in sacrifice to the sehr verehrter Herr James Swearingen) to a reading of a composition I had written for that ensemble. Hearing someone whose name or face I didn't know whistle one of the trite themes I contrived instilled in me an aeternal question mark: was that mocking or camaraderie?
Later, as an undergraduate, I awoke to hear some vandals (one of which was claimed to be the offspring of Frank Zappa -- as if that that put him on the order of a C.P.E Bach) demur to hurl paint on my door because he heard my sting quartet at workshop ("no dude, he's cool, did you hear...").
One may as well convince others of your worth by means of buying companies (a ls Musk) or by hurling interstellar bottles into space, only to suffer the heat-death.
The saddest, most devastating thought that has ever occurred to me is that despite Voyager's drift, the genius of J.S. Bach will ultimately be erased.
It's a book project, if it makes you cynical and go on a diatribe about Bach, you may need to chill down a bit.