lagniappe 2.0

The flip side of "better than you" is "never good enough."

Fold that any way you wish...

When “back to work” means “everything rests on my ability to watch 'Grey’s Anatomy'."

An email in response to a friend's question about watching Grey's Anatomy tonight:

-----Original Message-----
From: Jen [mailto:]
Sent: Thursday, September 21, 2006 2:53 PM
To: Friend X; Friend Y; Friend Z
Subject: RE: Grey's Anatomy

Hey everyone,

I MIGHT be watching this episode, I don't know. Right now my cable is freaking out. I just went to set the VCR because I might not get to watch the show tonight--never able to plan my schedule around the shows I like, dammit--and we aren't getting any reception at all. So, we'll see. I thought it might be just a "rabbit ears" issue, but it's something else.

That said, I will NOT be watching this season if something bad happens to the Christina or Burke characters. I hope Addison stays, though, and finds a decent man. I'm not a McDreamy fan--for her or Meredith. And yes, M needs to do something with the mop on her head.

Hope you're all doing well. Back to work.
Jen
-------------------------

A slightly later email, wherein said "work" was performed...



-----Original Message-----
From: Jen [mailto:]
Sent: Thursday, September 21, 2006 5:18 PM
To: Friend X; Friend Y; Friend Z
Subject: cable hookups and ph.d.s

Hi all,

You know how I sometimes make fun of the faculty (as a whole, of course) and its inability to operate simple machinery like, say, an overhead, or a copier. Well, I must be on my way toward professor-hood because I "solved" my cable problem this afternoon in one easy step.

After much hemming, hawing, and hand-wringing, during which time I contemplated several possible solutions to my problem**, I finally pulled on the cable part of the rabbit ears. Yep, it was not attached to the TV anymore. F'ing brilliant. I plugged it back into its place and Voila! Channel Nine is fully operational.

Thought you'd get a kick out of that little lesson in humility. Now, do I tell Russell to make him laugh, or do I keep this shameful experience to myself?

Jen

**Solutions to cable problem including but not limited to: calling Russell at work, calling landlord and pressing "1" for "emergency" on the maintenance line, climbing onto the roof to check the antenna myself, calling the cable company (meaning, Channel Nine) to determine if service was out all over Cinti, crying, calling the City of Cincinnati to determine if winds (it's not even windy today) had taken down a line... No, I'm not
obsessed. Why do you ask?


------------------------------

baby hat sweatshop

The announcements began trickling in back in November and December, I'd say, when the holidays brought families and friends together. At first the numbers were moderate: my sister-in-law, two friends from school, my best friend Kate. But then came the deluge, and when it was over thirteen of my friends were going to give birth by mid-September.

Without sounding cheap, I hope, I must say that I freaked out at first at the potential cost. Depending on the parents-to-be, the registries can be prohibitively expensive. The diaper champs, the Baby Bjorns (if you don't know what that is yet, don't panic--a pregnant friend will surely fill you in at some point), the myriad bedding and clothing options...for this graduate student, it all seemed like an exercise in savings depletion. The first shower I went to set me back $55.00. At that rate I was looking at $600.00 plus bucks for the entire summer, and I knew I'd spend more that that on my particularly close friends. Couple that with the fact that I don't get paid during the summer and you can perhaps understand my anxiety.

I certainly don't mean to sound dour about my situation. I mean, I was ecstatic that so many women I care about were having babies. But that celebration was always tinged with, "How will I pay for it?" And that's no way to usher in the joyous occasion of new life.

So, I purchased about ten skeins of Artful Yarns "Candy" and went to town. It's been a baby hat summer. I began with some so-so needles and finally made the investment in some Addi-turbos. (For all you non-knitters out there, the "turbo" is for real--they're super slick and fast!)

Here's the first hat I made:


Pretty cute. And relatively simple. A hat plus a book for baby made a fun, affordable (for me) gift. And for a while I was a machine, cranking out a hat per shower in no time at all. But then I started to expand my repetoire. I wanted to make a couple of my friends a sweater to go with the hat. I began with the same "Candy" yarn for two, and those sweaters turned out really well. I mean, they weren't perfect, but that's what "homemade" means, right? The Candy yarn has a little elastic in it, so it's very forgiving.

Then I asked a friend to give me some suggestions for a color and she chose solid blue. Well, there's no solid blue "Candy," so I went to regular cotton. So much harder. But here's the result:


Check the buttons:


When my friend Kate gave birth on Sept. 5, she was the last of the thirteen. I thought my stint as mad-baby-hat-knitter was over. I ordered myself some Cash Iroha to make the Hourglass Sweater from Last Minute Knitted Gifts and dreamed of finishing one of my shawls.

On Saturday, I received an invitation to another baby shower. So, back to the sweatshop I go...

other people's dreams are boring...

But that isn't going to prevent me from sharing a dream I had last night...

I want to remember this dream. And it's my blog, right? Right.

I think it's relatively safe to say that anyone who's ever been in school has had the dream wherein you don't have your calculator and it's the final exam in algebra and you're just screwed. Right? I mean, we've all been there. The rest of the class is filing into the room and you suddenly intuit, without even looking, that your calculator is NOT in your backpack where it's supposed to be. And then you look and OF COURSE it's not there, but you have to take your seat anyway, and the test comes at you over the back of the person in front of you and all you can do is sit there and wait until you wake up.

I've been in school a long time, so I have the test thing pretty well sussed. Seriously. I'm in, like, 25th grade, I think. And since I've been teaching, I haven't had the "no calculator" problem. Instead I have the "Oh my God, I've been assigned to teach 'Algebra I' and it's the first day and what am I going to do" dream instead.

There's part of me, when I have that dream, that says, "Okay, I've had Algebra, for Petessake. I can do this. All I have to do is start at the front of the textbook, stay ahead a few chapters and I'll be fine."

And then in my dream I get to class and I find out they're already on Chapter 15 (which is matrices, and I never understood those to begin with) and I'm screwed and I all I can do is sit there in front of my students and wait until I wake up.

I guess because I'm writing my dissertation and am somewhat beholden to my chair I feel childish and student-like. I'm also not teaching this semester, which feels strange. I'm only a student.

Anyway, last night I had the "I'm the student" dream again. This time it was the biology final, and I'm thinking: "Okay, I was a microbiology major in college, I can pass this thing" and then I realize I haven't read a page of the textbook and I decide that calling in to school with the flu is definitely the right decision.

Sadly, I'm writing my dissertation on the language of heredity and "natural selection" so I'd better have at least a Biology 101 level understanding of it, but call in sick I did.

I suppose this dream is first of many...

I can smile about it now, but in my dream last night I was definitely freaking out. I distinctly recall trying to get Kreb's cycle straight in my head, and then thinking "Okay, I know what a stomata is, so the botany question is under control."

because i'm catholic? or because i'm crazy?

Today has not been a particularly successful day of writing. And you'd think I could handle that. However, the guilt has been overwhelming, perhaps because I have a couple frequent reminders that I should be writing.

First, the author of a blog I read regularly has been posting somewhat more intermittently than usual, and with good reason. She's trying to write a book herself. Lately, when I go to the blog for a little relaxing reading, a little break from my work, I find one of two things: a.) nothing, or b.) a post about how hard she's working on her book. Not at all soothing, no.

Second, a squirrel has lately been using a tree near my window to air his (or her) lament to the world. I'm not sure what the source of this squirrel's trouble is (neighborhood dogs on the prowl? acorns not ready for fall? twigs for nest are soaked because of all the rain??) but it seems as if he (or she) wants some answers from the small god of squirrel troubles. All I've been hearing all day is a sort of half-squeal, half-whine that sounds like "Weeeellllll? Weeeeeeeeellllllll??" As in, "Weeeeeeeellllll, small god of squirrel troubles, when are you going to give me a hand down here."

To my ears, that squirrel is my conscience saying "Weeeellllll?? Are you going to just sit there, or are you going to write something?" "Weeeeeelllllll??? Is that all you can do?"

I know, I know. It's not guilt, it's clinical...

and another thing...

I'm sorry.

This post

http://on-pens-and-needles.blogspot.com/2006/07/saying-so-long-to-culture-of-critique.html

is a sad excuse for a bridge.

It should be two separate posts. I know that. I just had trouble starting them both so...smash.

My bad.

remember when you got to go to europe for a semester?

I don't. I've never been. I know it's deplorable, but there it is. You can pity me, but I hope you'll still consent to be my friend...

However, I do believe I now understand the freedom that comes with a foreign country--paid for by school or otherwise.

I'm officially on fellowship.

***
Today was difficult. I could barely contain myself. Everyone I know began teaching, but I did not. I'm not accustomed to that. Usually it's the other way around. I have the jackass summer schedule and then I tamp it down while everyone else eases into fall as if A) it never mattered to begin with or B) they have some other, important, duty to contend with that doesn't require teaching.

(I really do love teaching. I do.)

This year, everyone else had to create syllabi, summon good karma, and otherwise throw themselves prostrate to the machine. But I, I have a fellowship...

Before you start to hate me, let me explain: it makes me feel like a real writer. And anyone who's read this blog knows how much I struggle with the Lack.

It just made me feel professional, you know? As if I had something to say. I wonder how anyone else would feel if an institution said, yeah, go ahead, work that dissertation...we'll cover it!

It's glorious.

***
A friend emailed me about getting together tomorrow for coffee and inquired about my new "prestigious" position, to which I replied:

--Are you talking about the prestigious position that doesn't require us to teach for an entire semester? Yeah, I started that one. Felt weird. I slept through the night for the first "first-day" ever.

I'll see you tomorrow. With some work.

But how awesome is it???
--Jen



***
The first question I'm going to ask Susan--who also has a fellowship--before I plunge into more reading and writing and reading and writing is:

Is this live?

I can hardly believe it myself...

Where are the hoops? How high must I jump?


***
Some Fitzgerald then, if I may...


Then they were in an elevator bound skyward.
"What floor, please?" said the elevator man.
"Any floor," said Mr. In.
"Top floor," said Mr. Out.
"This is the top floor," said the elevator man.
"Have another floor put on," said Mr. Out.
"Higher," said Mr. In.
"Heaven," said Mr. Out.


***
And yes, I get it.

metaphors we live by

My metaphor of choice for the beginning of my writing process has always been that of pouring peanut butter out of a jar—an exceedingly slow, subtle shift of matter culminating in a resounding “plop” when the entire mass lands on the page. Today, I’m turning in that metaphor for a new model. Today, I am a plane, overburdened with the cargo of a million other writers, packed to the hilt with information and ideas (what belongs to me, if anything?), desperate to get this thing off the ground, but feeling the immense weight of the anxiety of influence.

Feel free to extend the metaphor as far as you wish. There’s plenty of fodder in entailments like baggage, drag, endurance, “airworthiness”…you get the picture.

lagniappe? i want to think so...

Correction. Endnote. Let me be clear here:

Teaching and occasional writing should mean just as much, if not more, than its converse. No one likes the writer who occasionally teaches. They're only sometimes good writers, and seldom good teachers.

Why does the academy let this happen?

We're an academy. We teach. Sheesh.

neuroses

When I read an article like this one I can’t help but continue thinking about it a few days later. (Read the whole thing. Whenever. It’s a great essay.)

And then my thoughts arrive like a thunderbolt.

--Oh my god! Does the fact that I prefer, am better at, teaching writing to writing itself make me the proofreader of the writing community? Does my inherent (?) enjoyment of helping people make more sense as they write, does that mean I have to relate to the article? Am I destined to clean up, like her Burger King table-wiper? Or can I walk the walk I talk?

But in between those thoughts are about eleven million other related or slightly-related thoughts. Brewing, steeping, curing. The thoughts are usually about me, bien sûr, but aren’t I supposed to consider the manner a personal essay or personal narrative relates to me?

Which brings me to writing. Of course.

--Can one teach and never write? Can one try to write, and be better at teaching, but really want to write better?

I’ve always hated the statement/cliché/booktitle(!) that goes: Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. I mean, I just googled it. It's alive and circulating.

But a stereotype’s a stereotype for a reason. So I must ask.

--Am I that girl?

***
Thankfully, one of the reasons I’m even sitting down to write tonight is that I’ve had a nice breakthrough on my dissertation. I feel better, mentally, about my ability to write than I have in months. Since April, I think. So I don’t actually have to delve into the question too deeply. But the idea that I might never finish my dissertation makes me nervous. Not to brag, but I have a cool plan, so I really want to write it. I really like my topic.

But lately, I’ve been drowning in reading. Reading reading reading reading reading reading reading. I could go on. Sadly, I probably will. Go on reading. I’ll stop with the reading reading reading, etc.

--So the fact that I haven’t been writing seems okay? Right? I need to read before I can write about it, right? Right? Right? Right?

***
Just kidding. I couldn't help myself.

***
--Oh, and one more thing: Should I worry that I’m still fully capable of giving others advice on their writing? That particular talent never seems to go away. Blessing? Curse? Who cares? Could I just shut my teacher’s mouth, please?

And then I reflect on the article.

What if I’m only “good for teaching”? What if I can’t actually write? Is not my career SCREWED if I can’t write? I’d say yeah.

***
Did I mention that I had a breakthrough on my dissertation? Praise to the small gods of stranded writers.

Saying "so long" to a culture of critique?

Writing a dissertation feels different for a lot of reasons, but I’ve been thinking about one in particular. Lately I’ve been enjoying some kinder, gentler feelings about writing that recall my classroom practices but not my “professional” writing style, which is, like most English majors, mostly critical.

A few weeks ago, I had dinner with my friend, Shannon. She’s an English major at a nearby university. During the school year, we get together to read/study/grouse about once a week, sometimes more. Before I continue, I should mention that Shannon is what the university calls a “non-traditional student,” which translates to “she’s not entering the university fresh out of high school.” Shannon is very bright. She’ll probably pursue a graduate degree in film studies, so English is a good choice. In a perfect world, Shannon would be able to focus on the conventions of various genres of writing and storytelling. However…

One of Shannon’s complaints about school centers on the inane writing assignments she is asked to complete. “Analyze the significance of the tree in Jane Eyre.” Or, “Choose one chapter of Joseph Andrews and convince your readers that it contains all of the main themes of the novel.” Or, “Write an assertion (that’s really what they call it) about what you believe to be the most important plot point. Make sure to use lots of textual evidence to support your argument.”

Not the most inspiring of prompts, you see. They ask students to “critique” the texts they’re reading, but they do not ask them to do anything with the text. The emphasis is on analysis rather than invention.

I’ve seen Shannon’s notes from class, I’ve read her “freewrites,” and I’ve talked with her about her reading—it’s clear that she knows the material back and forth. However, when it comes time to write, she often struggles to fulfill the page requirement. (Seriously, five pages about the stupid tree in Jane Eyre? Give me a break…who would want to write that much??) A prompt that asked Shannon to create a new context for the story of Jane Eyre would be perfect. “Revise the story of Jane Eyre for a modern audience, changing only one or two elements of the story.” (Think Emma to Clueless.) Or, “rewrite a chapter from JE for a modern film version. Include details about setting, character development, dialogue.” Both papers could still incorporate an argument, but it would be more of a “here are the reasons this revision is relevant/significant”.

In order to respond to these prompts, students would have to know the text, so teachers would have a means of evaluating the students’ interaction with and understanding of the material. However, students would also have an opportunity to engage with the text on a more creative, even collaborative, level.

While I was musing on Shannon’s problem, I realized that I no longer feel the need to critique my texts in the same way that I have in the past. So many of my seminar papers began with me challenging another author on his or her interpretation of a text, problem, or issue. Writing was an antagonistic, critical, analytic enterprise. I often felt that I had to tear down the critic before I could float my own ideas.

But now, as I begin this dissertation, I don’t think of composing in the same way. I mean, I still disagree with some of the interpretations I’m reading, but I’m only thinking about those differences as ways to frame my discussion. I find myself thinking about ways that I can use these other interpretations to buttress my own ideas about what I’m reading, or ways that these other authors can support me as I try to explain myself. The whole process feels more creative and collaborative rather than so argumentative. In the same way that asking a student to develop one of her own ideas using an existing text (Jane Eyre as modern social commentary, for example), this new approach allows me to see the similarities between my project and other projects and to emphasize the similarities for my own purposes.

I’ll write more on this topic in the future. For now, I’m still trying to find ways to explain what I feel. Shannon’s issue seemed like a good way to open the discussion for me. Perhaps the difference is that I have more control over how the dissertation turns out. Or maybe it’s the fact that I came up with my own question, so I can answer it in any way I want (rather than having a question posed to me and being asked to demonstrate my knowledge in a five-page response.) I don’t know yet…

But it feels great to envision my work as a part of a collaborative conversation (pardon the cliché) and less like a vitriolic talk radio shouting match wherein I better have my proof or I’ll get an F.

when you're fantasizing about marathons

Something's not quite right.

I used to run a lot--30-35 miles a week in my heyday. And never once did I think to myself, "If only the six miles ahead of me was a six-page paper to write, then I could do it, no problem."

Yesterday, while staring at a blank page of legal paper, I thought: "If this dissertation was a marathon, then I could do it, no problem."

So, it's like that...

overdue

Of all of the romantic notions about writers, the one that I can’t seem to purge from my mind/psyche is the “writers carry beautiful journals and write in them whenever they have a beautiful thought.” Never mind the inherent perspicuity and splendor of the prose, the real draw is the automatic, habitual, impulse to write the thought down. That one’s inclination to get the words on paper should overpower everything else—that’s what makes a writer, right?

I can’t recall exactly when I obtained my first journal (perhaps the diary I had in sixth grade should count?) but I do know that they’ve appeared about one-per-year since that point. I welcome each one with fresh enthusiasm and verve, promising myself that this time, this journal, will be the One that will solidify my status as “writer.”

My journals are lined up nice and tidy on one of my bookshelves. Each one has about two weeks worth of entries, followed by a billion blank pages.

I started this blog in part to cure me of this problem. I figured the possibility of an audience might encourage me to put my thoughts down, invoking the idealized writer I (apparently) so desperately want to be.

And, judging by the length of time between this post and the previous post, I’ve all but shelved this blog. I hate myself a little bit for that. I also hate the fact that my friend the disciplinarian might be right. Perhaps it is a matter of sitting down to write, even when I don’t really have much going.

I’m going to keep trying. Practice makes perfect.

Or better yet, “After the final no there comes a yes…”

knitted, felted laptop bag

I might as well title this post "Thankfully, off needles" because I didn't really enjoy my last project at all. Ordinarily I love knitting, but this laptop bag about ruined me.

I got the idea for this bag because two friends of mine are using the Interweave Knits pattern. I didn't want to shell out for the pattern (sorry, Interweave) so I searched online for other knitter's ideas. I found this entry in a blog and I used her specs to create my bag.

Her bag was 25" by 22" when folded, and after felting it turned out to be 17" by 13.5", a loss of about 8" during felting. I measured my laptop (a 14" by 10.5" by 1.5" Dell) and decided I would want a post-felting size of 17" by 11.5" to ensure enough room for the thickness and for some handles. That meant that I would need to have a 25" by 19.5", and because I wanted to make my stripes go up and down rather than across, the pre-folded, pre-felted piece would have to be 50" by 19.5". That, my friends, is a lot of knit, knit, knit; purl, purl, purl.

You bet your sweet ass I knit a swatch first. I always knit a swatch. Anyone who doesn't is a fool.

So here's a picture of the finished piece pinned to my rug:


When I tell you that this thing took forever, I mean it. I had to take breaks to knit a couple of baby hats and to begin a sweater while I worked on this thing. It was mind-numbingly boring. I'm sorry, but it was.

But, this afternoon, all the work suddenly became "worth it" when I felted the bag. It took me two cycles to get it to the right size (I thought it might take three!) And here is a picture of the bag next to my laptop. I stuffed it with newspaper to shape it for the laptop. Now I just have to wait until it dries...

mark my words

At some point in the very near future, I'm going to write down all the connections in my head between writing, design, and architecture. I've sat in on so many conversations wherein the three disciplines/actions/passions collapse into the same set of verbs and meanings that it seems unfair not to talk aloud in a public forum.

Why can't we all see our connections rather than our differences?

(My guess would be capitalism, but what the hell do I know.)

More on the conflations between building an essay and building a building tomorrow...

my brother...the writer??

Yesterday my brother sent my parents and me a newsy sort of email. It had been a while since he'd spoken on the phone to them or me, so he thought he’d update us together in print. He began the email with a description of the dinner he’d eaten the night before—a homemade Skyline Chili three-way. (NB: if you’re not from Cincinnati, a three-way is spaghetti, chili, and shredded cheddar cheese. It sounds gross, I know, but don’t knock it till you try it.)

So, in his email, he waxes poetic about this concoction, detailing cheese amounts and rationalizing his decision to use mini-shells instead of spaghetti. The mini-shell, he explains, was “strategically picked to be ‘cup shaped’ so as to hold the correct amount of chili within its starchy confines.”

What? Starchy confines? I mean, seriously! And the rest of the email is equally eloquent and fun to read. I forwarded it to my husband because I thought he’d get a kick out of it and when I asked him if he read it he said, “Yeah. And hey, I didn’t know your brother was such a good writer!”

Before I start to sound like a condescending older sister, let me explain a couple of things. If asked, I would guess my brother would tell you that he hates, HATES, English as a subject, and he might also tell you that he doesn’t particularly enjoy writing. If I had to speculate on the source of these feelings, I’d guess it was this terrible teacher he had in junior high (really, as a teacher’s kid, I rarely bash teachers, but this woman was truly awful). I believe she squelched any positive feelings he may have had about his own writing.

In high school, things went from bad to worse. I encouraged him to take classes from all of the English teachers I loved, only to find out that they made him hate English and writing even more. College writing classes did not help—in fact, I don’t think he took a writing-related course after he finished his first-year writing requirements.

After reading the email, I’ve been thinking about how things might have been (I know, I know, dangerous.) What if he hadn’t had that loathsome teacher in junior high? What if his high school writing teachers had dumped the boring research paper (complete with 3x5 notecards) and grammar drills for an autobiography assignment, or a journalistic-style profile of an object or event, or even a series of short essays on a subject of his choosing? What if he had taken an upper-level writing class in college? Fiction, perhaps, or maybe life narratives? Would he like English and writing more?

One things seems pretty clear to me: my brother enjoyed writing that email. I’d be willing to bet he took pleasure in choosing words and crafting sentences. The email reads as if the author liked to write. I know I enjoyed reading it.

My brother is by no means alone in his frustrations about English classes and writing classes. I’d say at least 50% of the students who enter my first-year writing classroom LOATHE writing class and see it as a necessary evil—the bitter pile of Brussels sprouts they have to eat before they can leave the table. So, now I’m wondering: What was missing in all of those classes he took? And why, oh, why do so many people see writing as a chore? As punishment rather than as a pleasurable activity? What are we writing teachers doing wrong? Is it because the courses are required? Is it the assignments? Do we teachers not do enough to incorporate the kinds of writing students want to do into our courses? I could go on...

therapy for writing for therapy

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend and her husband, both of whom, like me, are working on their dissertations. It wasn't long before our conversation turned to writing--what were we working on? how was it coming? do we like our current work/chapter/section? etc., etc.

As is perhaps obvious, I'm a bit of a nerd about writing. I love thinking about it, reading about it, talking about it, writing about it. So at one point in the conversation I apologized for what I thought might be over-enthusiasm on my part. (Not everyone likes to talk about their own work as much as I like asking.) And my friend's husband replied, "Are you kidding? It feels good to actually talk about it. It's not like any of us has a healthy relationship with our writing!"

I almost fell out of my chair laughing. It's so true!!

The next thing he said was true as well: "And there's no one else we can talk to about it. It's not like my mom understands or anything."

But that part didn't make me laugh as much.

I know that some would argue that writing is easy, that it's just a matter of sitting down and doing it. I'm not sure I agree with that assessment.

While I wouldn't go so far to say that writing (as work, as a job) is any harder than any other job, I do think there's a measure of self-motivation that must be taken into consideration. I don't have a "boss" looking over my shoulder, and no one is directly depending on me for one or another pages of work. That is to say, no one needs me to finish writing a section of my dissertation before he can finish his work. An architect must finish her drawings because the electrical engineer needs them, as does the structural engineer, the client, etc. But no one but me needs page 5 to be completed. Some days I could use a little pressure...

There's also a measure of self-doubt that factors into writing. And a measure of shame (when the writing is not forthcoming, or when it's bad, etc.) But I'll save that for another day...

I know that everyone in my life supports my work, but that doesn't necessarily mean that they understand the struggle. To be fair, I'm not sure I always understand their work or the efforts it entails, either.

Ironically, the same man who penned the "writer's, quit complaining" article linked above used to have a column entitled "Mr. Blue" wherein he gave advice to other struggling writers. I guess that's as close to therapy as we get...

Unless we write about it to get it out.

the limits of "self-control"

Before I began working as a TA (as part of my graduate school program) I had to take a teacher training course. Even though I had already taught while getting my master’s, the course was extremely useful. I especially appreciated the attention we gave to our own feelings about writing (our own and others’) and about teaching writing (our prior experiences teaching or being taught). We reflected on our own experiences as students of writing, we analyzed our writing processes, and we surfaced some of our frustrations about writing in general, all in an effort to develop ourselves as teachers and to help us help our students.

One of the assignments for that class asked us to "inventory" our feelings about our own writing process—what was effective, ineffective for us? What rituals did we practice? How did we go about revising? What kinds of writing did we enjoy doing, not enjoy? Etc., etc., etc. I distinctly remember one section of that piece. In it I vowed never to chastise myself for “procrastinating” because my inability to write (comfortably) on command was not (as had been subtly implied to me) because I was lazy, stupid, or slovenly, but instead because I needed time to envision the papers in my head first. When I write anything, I need to map it out, determine its structure, test and allow or reject particular forms and sources before I am ready to sit down to write. I promised myself then that I would always give myself plenty of time before writing in order to have that necessary thinking time, and that I wouldn’t expect myself to churn out writing like a machine or a robot.

I’m ABD now: I’ve finished my classes, passed my exams, submitted a successful prospectus of my dissertation, and am currently researching and writing a second chapter. Up until a week ago, I’d been satisfied with my writing process. I hadn't let myself down, nor had I beat myself up.

I have a friend, also a graduate student, who insists that writers must get the words on the page, ready or not. She will struggle (her words) for an entire afternoon to craft one paragraph. She considers this “discipline.” I consider it unnecessary and counter-productive. In a recent collaborative writing session we had an argument—she wanted to compose word by word, I wanted to get the big idea sketched out and then circle back to fill in the gaps. It was awful. We’re both strong-willed, so things got a bit ugly. She wanted to get the work done that day, even though it wasn’t “due” for another four days. I suggested that we put the work down (at least for a day) and come back to it after some thought. I finally gave up and helped where I could. I left feeling inept. I also began doubting my writing process.

So I just caught myself, today, yelling at myself for not being able to write on command. I’ve been trying to compose a letter to a fellow teacher about a class of his that I visited. One copy will go to the teacher, another copy goes into an archive as a record of the kinds of teaching we’re doing at the university in 2006. It’s a tricky document: multiple audiences, multiple purposes. For the past hour I’ve been on a freakin’ hamster wheel. I get up from my computer, pace my apartment, berate myself for not writing, sit back down to the computer, try to write, force some words onto the page, read the absolute shit that I just produced, delete it, force more words out, delete them, stare out the window, and then get up from my computer again. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Anyone who tries to tell you that writers never struggle or that people who write for a living must be “naturally talented” are full of it. Writing is hard work, no matter how you do it. More importantly, any teacher (or friend!) who tells you there’s only one way to compose, by sitting down and cranking it out, is also full of it. Right now, I’m more angry at myself for internalizing my friend’s crazy idea of a writing process than I am for not being able to write. And so, with any luck, this rant has purged me of the demonic “disciplined” approach to writing and will reaffirm my commitment to thinking and designing in my usual fashion. Writing is not boot camp.

Yeah. So there.

And on a related note: Jeffery Eugenides’ Pulitzer-prize winning book Middlesex took him about nine years to write. Obviously he was not simply “cranking it out.” Obviously there are many kinds of discipline, and thinking and constructing take just as much (if not more) than merely putting words on a page.

So take that, too.

I eat too much; I drink too much; I want too much, too much

To suggest that we Americans live in a “consumer society” that overspends, overeats, overworks and overpollutes is to flog a truth so obvious it feels clichéd. You can’t skim a newspaper, open a web browser, or click on your television without hearing about the perils of our over-consumption. Our children will never know what a glacier is, and even if we don’t manage to destroy our earth, we’ll never take the time to see any of it. Besides, our kids will be too busy playing video games and eating Cheetos, which is fine with us—we need the newest blah, blah, blah and we’ll be at the mall with our credit cards in hand.

Put together, those clichés seem ridiculous, but we’ve all hear one iteration or another of such dire predictions. So why don’t we care?

***
When I got my first job out of grad school, I moved into a two-story apartment near downtown Columbus. At that point I had been a student so long that my possessions were very few. Sure, I had a futon, a rickety old papasan chair, and about a million well-worn books, but that was about it. Couple my new huge apartment with my new huge (compared to a TA stipend) salary and you get a vendor’s dream. I spent hours shopping and spending. Gone were the days of slipcovers—I bought a sofa. Gone were the days of ramen noodle dinners and grilled cheese eaten out of the same pan I'd used to make them—I hit Williams Sonoma for all my kitchen equipment and started splurging on goat cheese and kalamata olives. Gone were the nights of quiet reading with a glass of wine—I went to movies, saw bands perform, and sipped $10 cocktails. And, of course, I simply had to have all new clothes for work. Right? Yes, of course. Easton was my Mecca; I went there once a week, minimum.

One day I went to a natural foods store in Columbus for some fresh shitake mushrooms (for a fancy recipe, no doubt) and I saw this flyer: a quick guide to living a more simple life. The third suggestion hit me like a ton of bricks: Don’t use shopping as entertainment. Ouch.

***
A few weeks ago, I did go shopping with my mom. After performing a seasonal “purge” of my closet (giving to Goodwill everything I haven’t worn in two years), my wardrobe was in desperate need of some basics. So, I spent a fair amount of money on some new duds—money, I might point out, that I had saved up over the winter for this purpose. After the spree, I felt sick about how much I had purchased (even though, in truth, I needed the stuff). I felt wrong for buying so much and expressed concern that maybe I didn’t need some of it. I said as much later in a conversation with a woman of my acquaintance. She replied, “Oh, I love shopping. I love buying stuff. It makes me happy. It relieves stress for me. And if it feels good, then you should just go ahead and do it without guilt.”

You know when you have a difference of opinion that is so wide there is simply no way to bridge it with a response? Yeah, me too.

***
After my encounter with "the flyer" (which, by the way, lives on my fridge as a daily reminder), I took steps to change my lifestyle. I moved to a smaller, cheaper apartment; I quit buying shit just because I could afford it; I put myself on a "book-buying freeze," denying myself any more books until I had read the ones I owned; I instituted the aforementioned seasonal closet purge; I stopped going out and started reading more; I pretty much quit shopping altogether; I started going to museums instead of movies. I'm still working on saying "no" to stressful commitments, but at least I'm trying.

However, even now when I consider how much of my time I spend engaged in consumption of one form or another, I feel a little sick. As a graduate student/teaching assistant, the vast majority of my job-related tasks demand that I consume something: student papers, e-mails from committees I’m on, class lectures, texts I read for teaching, texts I read for my dissertation, texts I read to “stay current,” e-mails from my students, journal articles, guest lectures by scholars in my field. On the way to and from school, I listen to NPR—I consume my news that way—or I listen to one of six CDs that I have in my car stereo at any one time, CDs which, of course, I buy. I eat (occasionally more than I should). I drink (also occasionally more than I should). I read books for pleasure. I watch Grey’s Anatomy and 24 on a weekly basis. I subscribe to Netflix.

It makes me feel full. I hate feeling full.

I sometimes envy my brother. He’s in construction. He goes out every day and builds houses. He uses his hands and PRODUCES something at work every day. He’s always hungry.

***
I want to read this book on consumerism. But then again, do I? I can't imagine it will ease my mind.

***
For the past year or so, I’ve been on a knitting tear. Last spring I enrolled in a community knitting class through the University of Cincinnati’s Communiversity. Since then I’ve had at least one project on needles at any given time, often more. Right now I have two shawls, two bags, one scarf, one baby hat, one baby sweater, and one knit hat on needles (mind you, few of these items are for me; most notably not for me? the baby stuff.). I get itchy fingers sometimes just thinking about starting a new project.

Knitting has become increasingly popular in the past decade. Some say the trend is celebrity-driven; others believe knitting is part of a larger move toward crafting of all kinds (scrapbooking, sewing, quilting); still others point to the savvy marketing of yarn companies, who have increased production of fun, fast-knitting “novelty yarns” that bring instant satisfaction. I have my own beliefs.

***
Last February, I hosted a “Stitch and Bitch” (some knitting, some wine, some snacks, and lots of talking) at my apartment. We maybe did more drinking and talking than knitting, but it was still a sight to see—young women, knitting needles or crochet hooks in hand, participating in an activity we had been (as products of a feminist era) encouraged to shun as “matronly” and “old-fashioned.” As I looked around the room, I wondered how many of us were, for the first time that day, or even that week, making something, CREATING something, rather than simply consuming. We could have been at a bar or a restaurant, we could have been watching a movie, we could have been reading, or listening to music, or eating. But we weren’t. We were knitting.

***
I’m not saying that knitting is the panacea for all our consumption woes. Obviously, others would argue that we have a lot more to do. But for me, knitting eases stress, it stimulates my brain (patterns are like puzzles—there’s actually a lot of logic and theory involved in knitting), it forces me to sit still and focus on one thing (at least for a while), and, most importantly, it allows me to create something with my hands, to produce something meaningful and beautiful, and to share it with my friends and family.

catching up

My husband Russell keeps very current when it comes to music. He's always bringing home CDs two months before they're "hits" and his iTunes space is filled with bands I've never heard of, even in passing. Needless to say, he's been enjoying the new Yeah Yeah Yeah's album "Show Your Bones" for some time now.

Me? I'm just now wrapping my ears around the White Stripes, a band whose entrée into the mainstream music scene took place about two years ago. Lately I've been revisiting the bands of Russell's college and post-college days: Kruder and Dorfmeister, Nightmares on Wax, Morcheeba, Portishead--bass beats and electronics--stuff I would have scoffed at in my younger days, but that I now enjoy a great deal. I guess it's easy-listening for a girl who used to blare Led Zeppelin's first album--but I'm getting old.

Anyway, I know critics have panned "Show Your Bones" in the typical "It's their sophomore effort and it's okay that it's not as great as that one song 'Bang,'" but I'll be damned if I wasn't singing "Gold Lion" all day yesterday.