Awake

It's 3:23 am and I've been awake for an hour.

This isn't good, considering that in less than three hours I will be at the wheel barreling down the turnpike toward a day to be spent on my feet performing in front of a captive audience of teenagers.

Teaching British Literature to 16 and 17 year olds is physically and mentally exhausting; want to know what it's like?  Well, it's kind of like trying to sell fruitcake at a springtime bake sale: not only is it out of season, but most buyers aren't mature enough to acknowledge and appreciate its tradition in season, let alone select it when placed alongside a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting, freshly baked chocolate chip cookies or heck, even a store bought Tastycake.

The fruitcake market relies on a very particular consumer, one who is not the average baked goods buyer but instead one who seeks a taste of nostalgia in every bite.  Try as one might to convince buyers to take a chance and bite into its glazed fruited exterior (by claiming, perhaps, that it was baked by a renown fruitcaker or by relying on a flashy presentation or even by projecting an authentic love of fruitcake) is pretty much setting oneself up for bake sale suicide.

At best, sales are going to be slow, if at all; the majority will be pity sales - ones in which the purchaser buys in to the salesperson only to dump the product in the trash once out of sight.

Successful teaching requires not only mastery and passion in terms of content but also the same in terms of sales.

And that sales-teacher needs to be bright eyed and bushy tailed.

And on that note, I'm heading back to bed.  It's 3:56 now and my alarm is set to sound in an hour and fifteen minutes.  Cross fingers that my eyes close without effort and I get at least another 45 sleep filled moments before it's time to get up and make the fruitcake.