Day 46: Little Monsters.

I like to stay up late
My mommy says
Don't stay up late
But I like to play at night
Please let me see
How tomorrow comes
Muse L. - Age 6

I started working with a new student last week. Philippe is not only one of the brightest kids I've ever met, he's autistic.

He reads like a fiend and has any number of wonderful insights, but he's all over the place. Instead of having organized thoughts - rows and rows of file cabinets in the brain, which is how I like to envision things - his thoughts are randomly mixed together, like thousands of papers piled up on the floor.

He also likes to yell. He gets up and spontaneously dances, claps, makes odd clucking sounds through his teeth, and veers off on unrelated tangents every time the conversation gets too intense.

I wasn't sure exactly how to react, so I just went with it. I raised my voice and got excited when he did, I gave no sign that I saw any strange behavior, and I treated him like an equal. At the end of the lesson, he asked me when I would be back. I told it would be on the same day at the exact same time the following week. He nodded, wrote it down, stood up, and abruptly left the room.

His mother, who'd been listening while she worked nearby, was thrilled. She said that she'd never seen such a successful first meeting. Somehow, she said, I'd gotten through to him. She was so pleased that she made me leave with two huge Korean pears wrapped in little yarn cozies.

I left happy - as I do almost every time I tutor - and not just because I like pears. It felt good to have an impact.

That said, I won't lie to you. I'd rather be making my living as a screenwriter again. I miss the challenge, the glamour, the money, the excitement ... I swear to god, I even miss how empty and ultimately alone it made me feel.

Then again, doing what I do now actually matters.

For the last two years, I've spent maybe 12 hours a week helping kids learn to be better writers and critical thinkers. A few have learning issues, but most are bright students whose parents want them to excel beyond what the public schools can offer. Once a week, I go to their houses for an hour and meet with them alone or in groups of two. They range in age from kindergarten (where I'm literally teaching them to write) to 10th grade, and because I have a waiting list, I'm able to choose carefully. I actually like every single kid I work with. I give them homework every week, and they do it without fail. I write my own curriculum, and it works.

Sure, I complain about it sometimes.

The rugrats are little germ carriers.
If I have to correct another Character Analysis Report on "Sideways Stories From Wayside School," I'll shoot myself.
I'm sick of driving to their houses.
I need to work on my own stuff.
I don't have the energy today.
Their teachers aren't teaching them jack shit about how to write.
I just can't read another story about "The Day My Family Turned Into Cats and How I Saved Them," or "My Very Strange Trip Inside the Human Body," or "Stranded! Two Weeks Alone on a Deserted Island."

Then a kid like Philippe comes along. Or Ned, an 8-year-old with ADD (among other things) and a huge heart who just gets to me on a level I can't explain. Or Muse, a 6-year-old who writes poetry the way Mozart must have played piano as a child.

When I worked as a screenwriter, and something I wrote got made, I'd get this hardcore adrenalin rush watching it appear on the screen (usually the small screen). Millions and millions of people were listening to me.

Problem was, I wasn't saying much. TV shows, TV movies, film ... it was all just entertainment. My ego may have been in heaven, but my soul felt a tad neglected.

Now, those tables have turned. I'm not speaking to an audience of millions any more, which kills my ego, but maybe that's okay. For now, maybe it's more important to reach out one little monster at a time.

I want a friend
Who is nocturnal like me
So we can stay up all night together
I want a friend
Who is a fish like me
So we can swim all day together
I want a friend
Who does not like to watch TV like me
So we can watch each other instead.
- Muse L., Age 6

* Note: Muse's mom gave her the word "nocturnal' - Muse had asked if there was a word for people who preferred to stay up all night.