After a considerable dry spell, I am back to academic manuscript editing this morning. This is not a bad thing: in truth, I'm tired of thinking for myself. I know that sounds awful, but I do believe that stepping back is a necessary refreshment, even though I am awash with guilt nonetheless. Manuscript editing is a bit like playing scales, whereas writing is like composing the symphony. And sometimes you just need to go back to that muscle memory--active versus passive constructions, capitalization and spelling consistency, the conventions of comma use. I also have a book review to write this week, which is weighing on my conscience. And I also have a sick kid at home, who is sick partly because he is recovering from a traumatic weekend in which a set of judges decided that, instead of using the drama competition critiques as teaching moments, they would use them as Simon Cowell "you suck and your stage sets are as ugly as sin" moments. If you're a teacher reading these words, I know you are right now closing your eyes and taking a deep breath and trying to keep your blood pressure under control. My child came home absolutely incoherent with rage and distress--not because his play had lost but because he and his cast members and, most importantly to him, his director, had been publicly humiliated for taking innocent pride in their work. No, this play did not deserve to win a regional championship. Yes, the participants deserved to be treated with dignity and respect. However, they were treated like insects. What kind of blind, self-inflated "judge" decides that crushing eager fourteen year olds is a good idea? News flash, grown-ups: do not bludgeon children with your skewed reality-TV fantasies. Your accomplishment? You convinced the cast that they will never, ever, ever attempt to perform in a one-act competition again. There's nothing like destroying the very event you were hired to promote.