Former Sudanese Lost Boy Has Hope for Better Tomorrow

Wadeng. In comes from the language of the Dinka people of Southern Sudan, and loosely translated into English, means: "Look to tomorrow. It will be better." It has been Jacob Akech Deng's mantra since he was a young boy growing up in Duk Padiet, dreaming of a life that wasn't constantly threatened by war.

Jacob DengJacob Deng was seven years old in 1987 when insurgents burnt down Duk Padiet, his village. Separated from his mother and sisters he fled, on foot, across scorching Africa. He was what became known as a "Lost Boy of Sudan." Displaced. Homeless. Orphaned. Vulnerable. Many died but Jacob survived threats of exposure, starvation, thirst, disease and wild animals, eventually arriving at a refuge camp in Ethiopia. Three years later, when it too was invaded, he fled on foot once more, this time to Kenya. "I was motivated by a desire to stay alive," Jacob told me.

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Sprint and distance writing – a balanced approach

An interesting study out of Hamilton, Ont. this week as reported in the New York Times, shows that one minute interval training can be even more effective that longer, steadier work-outs in improving your overall fitness level. When it comes to working out, less—provided it's flat-out 100% effort—can be more. Of course, long bouts of moderate cardio exercise are also still great for you, so my overall deduction is that a combination of both approaches is the best of both worlds. The same, I believe, is true of writing.

Writing a thesis or a book is like a long, steady cardio workout. You might chat with a friend as you are completing it. You will sweat a little but not often profusely. You will take breaks for food, water and rest, and while you will make progress, there are times it feels like the end is beyond reach.

That's why writing bursts, like blogging or short writing exercises, are so important. They rapidly strengthen the writing muscle.

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You can't have talking chickens in nonfiction

In my three years with the Writers' in the Schools (WITS) program, I've met hundreds of children with whom I've conducted writing workshops. Most students are enthusiastic about writing. Some even seem to regard me with an admiration I've not earned. (Yet I'll accept. The writer's life is otherwise disproportionately high on rejection and criticism, and low on praise.)

My WITS approach is to lesson plan and come prepared with exercises, samples and talking points. I pack a tight schedule. But last year a little grade one girl brought my talk to an abrupt halt when I asked: "How is fiction different than nonfiction?" Her answer: "You can't have talking chickens in nonfiction." I paused, then burst out laughing. It was the perfect answer to my question, and the exact reason why I love WITS. Children give you the straight goods.

I usually meet elementary classes, and my consistent message is that to become a better writer, you have to 1. read (a lot) and 2. practice  (a lot).

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Slowing down while time speeds up

Legend goes that children grow up in the blink of an eye. One day they arrive, the next they leave for jobs or university. I suggest this only seems the case in retrospect. There are many long parenting days when babies are first born. While on maternity leave, I recall counting down the minutes until my spouse returned home from work. I was desperate to get to that magical six-week mark when people said it would get easier—the baby would know day from night, space out feedings and cry less. Then I wanted him to roll over, crawl, walk, feed himself, talk, and toilet train. I was so anxious for him to grow up that I wasn't spending any time in the moment, and although back then they were longish moments, I knew they were somehow also fleeting and I shouldn't wish them away.

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The reluctant poet

I've studied and practiced various genres of writing for many years but I've never considered poetry my thing. It thought it flew in the face of so much I thought I valued in writing: structure, clarity, straightforwardness. I discussed my resistance with a close friend who likened my experience as a (primarily) nonfiction writer studying poetry, to her experience as a (primarily) modern dancer studying ballet. You may not love it, she told me, but it's fundamental to your field. It's your ballet.

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