and moving.
Here's my new address:
http://onpensandneedles.wordpress.com
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
who's first?
I've incorporated a journal component into one of my classes this semester. Most of the students are future teachers, juniors and seniors in English Education, so I envisioned the journals as a space for teaching ideas, concerns, observations about the practices of other teachers, field experience notes, etc. However, many students create their own prompts, which is perfectly fine with me.
During this last round of journals, one prompt was especially popular: a list of identities, qualities, skills, beliefs, etc., beginning with the phrase "I am."
I haven't used this prompt yet. And tonight, right now, I think I know why. What would I put first? How would I begin?
I am a woman? I am a teacher? I am a wife? I am a student? I am anti-corporation? I am a closet Weezer-lover? You get the point.
Here's the problem I'm dealing with tonight: I really might put things in roughly this order. I mean, yes, somewhere near the beginning I'd also identify as a daughter/sister, daughter-in-law/sister-in-law, and an aunt (family is important to me), but "teacher" would most assuredly be in the top three.
What if I'm not teaching next year? Can I do anything else? In my mind, who I am is so wrapped up in what I do that I'm all of a sudden frightened. What am I if I'm not a teacher? I think I'd rather say "I am a writer"!!!! At least I have a wee bit of control over that identity.
(A shaky premise, I know, but I have to have something.)
What would you put first?
During this last round of journals, one prompt was especially popular: a list of identities, qualities, skills, beliefs, etc., beginning with the phrase "I am."
I haven't used this prompt yet. And tonight, right now, I think I know why. What would I put first? How would I begin?
I am a woman? I am a teacher? I am a wife? I am a student? I am anti-corporation? I am a closet Weezer-lover? You get the point.
Here's the problem I'm dealing with tonight: I really might put things in roughly this order. I mean, yes, somewhere near the beginning I'd also identify as a daughter/sister, daughter-in-law/sister-in-law, and an aunt (family is important to me), but "teacher" would most assuredly be in the top three.
What if I'm not teaching next year? Can I do anything else? In my mind, who I am is so wrapped up in what I do that I'm all of a sudden frightened. What am I if I'm not a teacher? I think I'd rather say "I am a writer"!!!! At least I have a wee bit of control over that identity.
(A shaky premise, I know, but I have to have something.)
What would you put first?
Monday, November 26, 2007
positioning one's lap
(Warning: meandering post ahead.)
When I think back on things I've hoped for and received, I often imagine? recognize? a string of coincidences that lead me to believe that fate played a major role in my success. For example, I chose to** read Middlemarch rather than study for a virology exam, which I subsequently failed. Because I had to take the course over the next spring (seriously, folk, I really failed--I earned a 21% on the exam!) I ended up as a double-major, which itself subsequently changed my life. I could go on with this example: there was an opportunity to co-teach with a favorite professor that gave me teaching experience, a terrific phone "interview" with a graduate director, etc., etc. But the point is that I started graduate school for my MA at the ideal school for me, landed a TAship, and fell in love with teaching, all because I read Middlemarch instead of my Human Virology textbook.
Though not the best example, I suppose, this chain nevertheless illustrates a question that I think about a lot, probably more than I should: How much of my success is luck and how much is the consequence of my actions?
***
Lately, my desire to write has been non-existent. Furthermore, I have not taken a picture with a camera other than my stupid phone for months. I’ve barely been eeking out journal entries for my 304 class, and these entries are the antithesis of inspiring. They suck. It’s embarrassing. I think the worst part about my utter lack of creative output is not the dearth itself—I mean, I’m busy with teaching and job searching—but instead the overwhelming apathy I’ve been feeling about it. I simply haven’t cared to take photos or write or even knit really. Mind you, I’m not depressed. It’s not sadness or melancholy. I would admit as much. No, it’s been a deep feeling of “screw it all.” And, honestly, I haven’t written about it because I really haven’t cared to. I feel like Bartleby—I’d simply prefer not to.
***
In an informal conversation with a professor/mentor of mine, the subject of fate and success emerged. I shared with him my question: how much of our success is luck and how much skill and hard work? He responded with some advice that I’ve carried with me since then. He said, “Things do fall into our laps, but it never hurts to position your lap…” I know I could boil this statement down into a tidy and familiar maxim, but I don’t want to. I like to think about being ready for good things to happen instead.
***
Tonight I walked to the local grocery to pick up a few items. Most of our trees are bare now (yea!) but the sweet gum in my neighbor’s yard is still in full force. I looked up, and as I did I recalled an earlier photo of this tree, taken about this time two years ago. As I continued my walk, I thought about my enthusiasm for taking pictures, and for writing, and I began to wonder if I’d ever feel it again.
***
In this time of non-writing, I’ve been reading way, way more crap online than I ever have in my life. Okay, so the New York Times isn’t crap, but a lot of the other sites I have been hitting are worthless. Lately the reading has been making me feel icky, as if I should be doing something else. And truth be told, I should. But there’s a part of me that feels empty, void of ideas, and reading these sites (along with books, of course) makes me feel connected. For example, I read an article a few weeks ago about The Ambassadors (my favorite James novel) on Slate.com. Earlier this week I read an article about sedum as a colorful and practical ground cover for arid climates. Both entertained me, and both offered a few beautifully constructed sentences—neither encouraged me to write.
***
It occurred to me on my walk tonight that one of my major problems at this point is that I’m not creating opportunities to write. I’m not actually doing any writing, nor am I setting up an environment that encourages it. My stash of white narrow-ruled legal pads is exhausted, my planner has been sitting at home because my bag has been heavy with student papers and job stuff, the sheer number of student emails I receive in a given week has increased exponentially this semester. I could go on. The point is this: things are not going to fall into my lap unless I position my lap, unless I create an environment where writing can emerge.
***
When I look back on this post in a couple years, I want it to represent the seed crystal, the catalyst, for my renewed interest in writing… I want to recognize this moment as a shift in position, one that puts me in a better position to "catch" the writing when it falls.
***
Thank you, Dave B. I know you’ll probably never read this blog, but your advice stays with me to this day. The other tidbit I carry with me? Your honest response to my inquiry about whether or not most professors have read every book in their offices cover to cover. I didn’t drop out of grad school because of your honesty. So…thanks. You’re the best.
**Yes. I know that “chose to” implies that it was my actions, not fate. But why did I pack THAT particular book for a weekend in Memphis? And how did I end up loving George Eliot when many readers would gladly read Human Virology in its entirety than deal with Eliot’s, um, lovingly rendered descriptions?
When I think back on things I've hoped for and received, I often imagine? recognize? a string of coincidences that lead me to believe that fate played a major role in my success. For example, I chose to** read Middlemarch rather than study for a virology exam, which I subsequently failed. Because I had to take the course over the next spring (seriously, folk, I really failed--I earned a 21% on the exam!) I ended up as a double-major, which itself subsequently changed my life. I could go on with this example: there was an opportunity to co-teach with a favorite professor that gave me teaching experience, a terrific phone "interview" with a graduate director, etc., etc. But the point is that I started graduate school for my MA at the ideal school for me, landed a TAship, and fell in love with teaching, all because I read Middlemarch instead of my Human Virology textbook.
Though not the best example, I suppose, this chain nevertheless illustrates a question that I think about a lot, probably more than I should: How much of my success is luck and how much is the consequence of my actions?
***
Lately, my desire to write has been non-existent. Furthermore, I have not taken a picture with a camera other than my stupid phone for months. I’ve barely been eeking out journal entries for my 304 class, and these entries are the antithesis of inspiring. They suck. It’s embarrassing. I think the worst part about my utter lack of creative output is not the dearth itself—I mean, I’m busy with teaching and job searching—but instead the overwhelming apathy I’ve been feeling about it. I simply haven’t cared to take photos or write or even knit really. Mind you, I’m not depressed. It’s not sadness or melancholy. I would admit as much. No, it’s been a deep feeling of “screw it all.” And, honestly, I haven’t written about it because I really haven’t cared to. I feel like Bartleby—I’d simply prefer not to.
***
In an informal conversation with a professor/mentor of mine, the subject of fate and success emerged. I shared with him my question: how much of our success is luck and how much skill and hard work? He responded with some advice that I’ve carried with me since then. He said, “Things do fall into our laps, but it never hurts to position your lap…” I know I could boil this statement down into a tidy and familiar maxim, but I don’t want to. I like to think about being ready for good things to happen instead.
***
Tonight I walked to the local grocery to pick up a few items. Most of our trees are bare now (yea!) but the sweet gum in my neighbor’s yard is still in full force. I looked up, and as I did I recalled an earlier photo of this tree, taken about this time two years ago. As I continued my walk, I thought about my enthusiasm for taking pictures, and for writing, and I began to wonder if I’d ever feel it again.
***
In this time of non-writing, I’ve been reading way, way more crap online than I ever have in my life. Okay, so the New York Times isn’t crap, but a lot of the other sites I have been hitting are worthless. Lately the reading has been making me feel icky, as if I should be doing something else. And truth be told, I should. But there’s a part of me that feels empty, void of ideas, and reading these sites (along with books, of course) makes me feel connected. For example, I read an article a few weeks ago about The Ambassadors (my favorite James novel) on Slate.com. Earlier this week I read an article about sedum as a colorful and practical ground cover for arid climates. Both entertained me, and both offered a few beautifully constructed sentences—neither encouraged me to write.
***
It occurred to me on my walk tonight that one of my major problems at this point is that I’m not creating opportunities to write. I’m not actually doing any writing, nor am I setting up an environment that encourages it. My stash of white narrow-ruled legal pads is exhausted, my planner has been sitting at home because my bag has been heavy with student papers and job stuff, the sheer number of student emails I receive in a given week has increased exponentially this semester. I could go on. The point is this: things are not going to fall into my lap unless I position my lap, unless I create an environment where writing can emerge.
***
When I look back on this post in a couple years, I want it to represent the seed crystal, the catalyst, for my renewed interest in writing… I want to recognize this moment as a shift in position, one that puts me in a better position to "catch" the writing when it falls.
***
Thank you, Dave B. I know you’ll probably never read this blog, but your advice stays with me to this day. The other tidbit I carry with me? Your honest response to my inquiry about whether or not most professors have read every book in their offices cover to cover. I didn’t drop out of grad school because of your honesty. So…thanks. You’re the best.
**Yes. I know that “chose to” implies that it was my actions, not fate. But why did I pack THAT particular book for a weekend in Memphis? And how did I end up loving George Eliot when many readers would gladly read Human Virology in its entirety than deal with Eliot’s, um, lovingly rendered descriptions?
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
the one good thing
about the nights when russell works really late?
I can have asparagus and red wine for dinner, and nothing else, and no one complains.
In other news, I am not that girl.
(By the way, I'm not proud of this photo. In fact, I'm perfectly ashamed. But I've been too busy to write anything but dissertation and job materials, so taking a real picture is out of the question. Not so anal after all?)
I can have asparagus and red wine for dinner, and nothing else, and no one complains.
In other news, I am not that girl.
(By the way, I'm not proud of this photo. In fact, I'm perfectly ashamed. But I've been too busy to write anything but dissertation and job materials, so taking a real picture is out of the question. Not so anal after all?)
Thursday, August 30, 2007
cliché # 865: bloom where you’re planted
Or root. Whatever works.
***
No matter what, Russell and I will not be in our apartment next year on this date. Even if I don’t get a job, even if I do get a job, even if we decided to stay in Cincinnati just one more year, we will no longer live in this apartment, at this address, in these rooms. We understand that this change is minor and not at all life-threatening. We don’t care. We’re still sad.
***
I do the dishes in our relationship. For the most part. Russell is a fabulous cook, and I appreciate the thinking time that doing dishes affords. The view’s not bad either…
And beyond my little "greenhouse" I can see the leaves of the beautiful ash outside my window as well as a giant oak tree in the next yard. It’s lovely and contemplative and green.
Tonight as I was scrubbing a pan I was thinking about a class I’m teaching this semester. I’ve assigned a journal component, not just because I’m mean, but because I really do believe that writers, and teachers of writing, should reflect on writing and teaching writing. It makes for good practice and it is good practice.
I’ve assigned this book for its journaling prompts. I like it and I don’t—but that’s a topic for another day. What I want to address right now is the author’s first chapter, the chapter I assigned to my students for their first journal prompt.
(I should point out right now that I’ve made the sameegregious error decision to write all assignments with my students.)
So the author tells us, in her very first sentence, “Home is a blueprint of memory.” Later, she insists that “Finding home is crucial to the act of writing. Begin here. With what you know.”
***
Earlier, over dinner, I say to Russell: “Today is our last August 30th in this apartment.”
There is a pause before he replies, “Yeah. We’ve had our last whole August in this apartment.”
We sit there for a minute, letting the reality of this statement sink in. My first thoughts are remorseful: where did August go? did I appreciate our time here enough? was I even paying attention? no, I wasn’t. oh my god, what did I do last week? yesterday??? too fast….
After some nostalgia, we make a pact. I’ll write every day for the rest of the time we’re here; Russell will take photos of all of the idiosyncratic things about this place we adore. We agree that offering each other suggestions is okay. I make a list for Russell…
***
I know we’ve only lived here for four years, but it’s “home.” But only for another 11 months.
***
Goodbye, blueprint.
***
I’m thinking this thought and more as I finish the dishes. But I’m also looking at the many plant cuttings and baby plants in my mini “greenhouse.” Several thoughts occur to me at once, not the least insightful of which is the lesson these plants can teach me. Not two days ago I trimmed a jade—chopped it, really—in order to help it grow. I took the pile of stalks, tidied them up, and placed them in some water to root.
When I went back to the plant, I noticed my other jades, one of which I had trimmed last week. I remember that it was a small plant, from a trimming, not six months ago. And it had undergone it’s first trimming this summer.
***
There’s no such thing as “home,” Georgia. And you say as much later, after I’ve already worried over my “blueprint” and its now-constant state of fade. I think I’ll stick to my jades and roots, which remind me every day that there’s a system, a process to keep in mind. Root, plant, water, ignore, tend, enjoy, trim, root, plant, water…
Reminds me of notice, think, read, daydream, draft, savor, revise, notice, think, read, draft…
***
No matter what, Russell and I will not be in our apartment next year on this date. Even if I don’t get a job, even if I do get a job, even if we decided to stay in Cincinnati just one more year, we will no longer live in this apartment, at this address, in these rooms. We understand that this change is minor and not at all life-threatening. We don’t care. We’re still sad.
***
I do the dishes in our relationship. For the most part. Russell is a fabulous cook, and I appreciate the thinking time that doing dishes affords. The view’s not bad either…
And beyond my little "greenhouse" I can see the leaves of the beautiful ash outside my window as well as a giant oak tree in the next yard. It’s lovely and contemplative and green.
Tonight as I was scrubbing a pan I was thinking about a class I’m teaching this semester. I’ve assigned a journal component, not just because I’m mean, but because I really do believe that writers, and teachers of writing, should reflect on writing and teaching writing. It makes for good practice and it is good practice.
I’ve assigned this book for its journaling prompts. I like it and I don’t—but that’s a topic for another day. What I want to address right now is the author’s first chapter, the chapter I assigned to my students for their first journal prompt.
(I should point out right now that I’ve made the same
So the author tells us, in her very first sentence, “Home is a blueprint of memory.” Later, she insists that “Finding home is crucial to the act of writing. Begin here. With what you know.”
***
Earlier, over dinner, I say to Russell: “Today is our last August 30th in this apartment.”
There is a pause before he replies, “Yeah. We’ve had our last whole August in this apartment.”
We sit there for a minute, letting the reality of this statement sink in. My first thoughts are remorseful: where did August go? did I appreciate our time here enough? was I even paying attention? no, I wasn’t. oh my god, what did I do last week? yesterday??? too fast….
After some nostalgia, we make a pact. I’ll write every day for the rest of the time we’re here; Russell will take photos of all of the idiosyncratic things about this place we adore. We agree that offering each other suggestions is okay. I make a list for Russell…
***
I know we’ve only lived here for four years, but it’s “home.” But only for another 11 months.
***
Goodbye, blueprint.
***
I’m thinking this thought and more as I finish the dishes. But I’m also looking at the many plant cuttings and baby plants in my mini “greenhouse.” Several thoughts occur to me at once, not the least insightful of which is the lesson these plants can teach me. Not two days ago I trimmed a jade—chopped it, really—in order to help it grow. I took the pile of stalks, tidied them up, and placed them in some water to root.
When I went back to the plant, I noticed my other jades, one of which I had trimmed last week. I remember that it was a small plant, from a trimming, not six months ago. And it had undergone it’s first trimming this summer.
***
There’s no such thing as “home,” Georgia. And you say as much later, after I’ve already worried over my “blueprint” and its now-constant state of fade. I think I’ll stick to my jades and roots, which remind me every day that there’s a system, a process to keep in mind. Root, plant, water, ignore, tend, enjoy, trim, root, plant, water…
Reminds me of notice, think, read, daydream, draft, savor, revise, notice, think, read, draft…
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
breaking it down
Today has been less than productive. Okay, it’s been almost entirely unproductive. I think I’ve refreshed every single website and blog I frequent at least 50 times today, which is only about ten fewer than the number of times I’ve hit “Send/Receive” on my email. And while I would ordinarily beat myself up for my inability to focus on my writing (can’t pass up an opportunity to self-flagellate!), this time I’m not at all certain I’m entirely to blame.
When’s the last time you wrote an abstract? Seriously. Abstracts suck. It’s just not natural to distill 35 pages down to one 50-word paragraph. Not only have I been reduced to, gasp, fumbling through a thesaurus for the right word, but I’ve also been writing in a voice that sounds to me like it comes from one of those academics who introduces himself/herself as “Dr.” when you first meet. Think Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop—“Not gonna fall for the banana in the tailpipe”—and you’re there. Yuck.
As I made my 700th trip to the kitchen to see if something other than lemon lime Canada Dry and carrots had materialized in my fridge, I had a pretty horrifying thought about abstracts and my inability to produce one. It began with a question:
Why is this so freaking hard? Why can’t I just crank these little paragraphs out like so many spoken explanations of my work? What is my basic problem?!!!?!!
Continued with a defensive response:
You know, I’ve never really learned how to write an abstract. It’s not as if I’ve had much guidance or practice…
And culminated in this solution:
Maybe I'll force my first-year writers to create abstracts or précis of all of the readings we’ll do for class this fall. So they don't suffer like I have today.
You know those parents who, being unable to accomplish something in their own youth, project onto their children their desires? Little Susie may not want to be a cheerleader, but dammit, she’ll jump around whether she likes it or not. And Tom, well, he better set his origami to the side because he has to play tennis or else. Yeah, those parents. Uh huh. Yeah. How creepy is that? Discipline and punish.
(This post burned approximately 15 minutes. I’m that much closer to hanging it up and giving myself over to a run/walk and the Pixies…)
When’s the last time you wrote an abstract? Seriously. Abstracts suck. It’s just not natural to distill 35 pages down to one 50-word paragraph. Not only have I been reduced to, gasp, fumbling through a thesaurus for the right word, but I’ve also been writing in a voice that sounds to me like it comes from one of those academics who introduces himself/herself as “Dr.” when you first meet. Think Eddie Murphy in Beverly Hills Cop—“Not gonna fall for the banana in the tailpipe”—and you’re there. Yuck.
As I made my 700th trip to the kitchen to see if something other than lemon lime Canada Dry and carrots had materialized in my fridge, I had a pretty horrifying thought about abstracts and my inability to produce one. It began with a question:
Why is this so freaking hard? Why can’t I just crank these little paragraphs out like so many spoken explanations of my work? What is my basic problem?!!!?!!
Continued with a defensive response:
You know, I’ve never really learned how to write an abstract. It’s not as if I’ve had much guidance or practice…
And culminated in this solution:
Maybe I'll force my first-year writers to create abstracts or précis of all of the readings we’ll do for class this fall. So they don't suffer like I have today.
You know those parents who, being unable to accomplish something in their own youth, project onto their children their desires? Little Susie may not want to be a cheerleader, but dammit, she’ll jump around whether she likes it or not. And Tom, well, he better set his origami to the side because he has to play tennis or else. Yeah, those parents. Uh huh. Yeah. How creepy is that? Discipline and punish.
(This post burned approximately 15 minutes. I’m that much closer to hanging it up and giving myself over to a run/walk and the Pixies…)
Sunday, August 12, 2007
keeping it real. and just keeping it.
First, some background. Architects have to take a series of nine exams before they are officially licensed, which means that, until they are, they can’t “stamp” anything as certifiably sound, even their own work. Mind you, these exams come after a six- to seven-year stint in school (BA and MA, or a “professional” degree, offered by some schools in a six-year program) and 5600 hours of training under a licensed architect, all of which must be documented and signed off on before starting the exams.*
So, Russell’s getting ready to take his “General Structures” exam and he’s telling me what he’ll need to review. He says, “Yeah, I have to remember all of that sine, cosine, tangent stuff. I haven’t thought about that since Algebra.”** My feelings about my math abilities are documented here, but regardless, I offer to find and loan him my chart from my high school trigonometry class. I also take a minute to brag about the beauty of my chart, the neatness of my printing, the straightness of my, yes, multicolored lines, and the overall economy of space designated to so much important information.
However, instead of gratitude, Russell informs me that his chart is most certainly superior to mine, and proceeds to challenge me as to the merits of our individual handiwork. (We had to make them for the same class because, yeah, we went to the same high school. No, we didn’t hang out.) At the time of the challenge, we were walking downtown to the farmer’s market, so we decided to table the discussion until we returned home.
(As a side-note, yes, I know this kind of conversation is as juvenile as it is ridiculous, to say nothing of dorky, but what can I say? This is my life. I’m a dork.)
No sooner do we get home before I’m rifling through my files. It doesn’t take long to find it:
See? Beautiful, right?
Russell’s is nowhere to be found…
And maybe that’s because he’s not a packrat. A shot of my files, which contain notes from high school, undergraduate, and graduate classes, all of which are neatly packed into manilla folders and ordered by class and/or date taken:
For the next hour or so, I dipped into a few of these files, reading aloud particularly insipid, yet utterly earnest passages—from documents I esteem(ed) enough to haul from Perrysburg, Ohio, to Oxford, Ohio, to Moscow, Idaho, to Columbus, Ohio, to Cincinnati, Ohio, and beyond—while Russell listened and laughed at me.
Have you ever heard of Cringe, a reading series wherein people share their (really awful, embarrassing, usually poorly written) adolescent writing? Well, I have half a mind to start an offshoot series for really bad academic writing. I’m certain there’s already a site for this kind of thing, with a cool title and everything, but I’m ready to start one anyway. (Attention: I’m terrible at titles, so feel free to offer one up.) I’m obviously ready to go with excerpts like this gem, from a paper on Silas Marner:
“When creating a novel, many writers chose a scenario or way of life on which to base the storyline. By carefully choosing and expanding on characters in a novel, the author draws us into the story and allows us to “see” through his or her eyes.”
Seriously? They do? Sage, Jen. Sage.
Or this, from an application to, ouch, graduate school for my masters degree:
“This letter has, I hope, provided you with a clearer picture of who I am and where I want to go. I think my diverse areas of study are a good indication of my flexibility and determination as a student, but I also hope my desire to focus upon literature is apparent to you.”
I cannot begin to articulate in words the shame I felt just typing the phrase “focus upon.” It makes me want to barf and laugh at the same time. Awkward and nervous, my favorite combination. I sound so very sincere. Not even a whiff of irony. And I can’t even think about the word choice…
Anyway, the whole thing made me laugh today—I mean, who actually keeps (to say nothing of freaking LAMINATING) their trigonometry chart???? But it also gave me pause: with so much evidence to the contrary, can I honestly presume to teach writing? In ten years, when I look back on my job letter and my CV, will I be able to bear the shame? And what about the fact that I just used the phrase “gave me pause”? Gouge away.
Before I end this tome, here’s a picture of the gorgeous and super-flavorful REAL tomatoes we bought at the market today. In my opinion, only two good things happen in the summer: baseball and what I call “dirt tomatoes,” tomatoes grown in the ground instead of in hydroponic, sterile environments that make them taste like plastic… Sea salt, fresh pepper, olive oil…yum.
*While I sympathize with this perspective on architects (I’ve listened to an hour-long conversation about the wonder that is concrete), I also sympathize with anyone who must endure so many hurdles for so little pay. It’s no wonder they want to talk about it. They’re sure as hell not being suitably compensated or appreciated.
**Seriously, what are the practical uses of sine, tangent, or cosecant? I really want to know. Ryan N., I’m looking at you here…
So, Russell’s getting ready to take his “General Structures” exam and he’s telling me what he’ll need to review. He says, “Yeah, I have to remember all of that sine, cosine, tangent stuff. I haven’t thought about that since Algebra.”** My feelings about my math abilities are documented here, but regardless, I offer to find and loan him my chart from my high school trigonometry class. I also take a minute to brag about the beauty of my chart, the neatness of my printing, the straightness of my, yes, multicolored lines, and the overall economy of space designated to so much important information.
However, instead of gratitude, Russell informs me that his chart is most certainly superior to mine, and proceeds to challenge me as to the merits of our individual handiwork. (We had to make them for the same class because, yeah, we went to the same high school. No, we didn’t hang out.) At the time of the challenge, we were walking downtown to the farmer’s market, so we decided to table the discussion until we returned home.
(As a side-note, yes, I know this kind of conversation is as juvenile as it is ridiculous, to say nothing of dorky, but what can I say? This is my life. I’m a dork.)
No sooner do we get home before I’m rifling through my files. It doesn’t take long to find it:
See? Beautiful, right?
Russell’s is nowhere to be found…
And maybe that’s because he’s not a packrat. A shot of my files, which contain notes from high school, undergraduate, and graduate classes, all of which are neatly packed into manilla folders and ordered by class and/or date taken:
For the next hour or so, I dipped into a few of these files, reading aloud particularly insipid, yet utterly earnest passages—from documents I esteem(ed) enough to haul from Perrysburg, Ohio, to Oxford, Ohio, to Moscow, Idaho, to Columbus, Ohio, to Cincinnati, Ohio, and beyond—while Russell listened and laughed at me.
Have you ever heard of Cringe, a reading series wherein people share their (really awful, embarrassing, usually poorly written) adolescent writing? Well, I have half a mind to start an offshoot series for really bad academic writing. I’m certain there’s already a site for this kind of thing, with a cool title and everything, but I’m ready to start one anyway. (Attention: I’m terrible at titles, so feel free to offer one up.) I’m obviously ready to go with excerpts like this gem, from a paper on Silas Marner:
“When creating a novel, many writers chose a scenario or way of life on which to base the storyline. By carefully choosing and expanding on characters in a novel, the author draws us into the story and allows us to “see” through his or her eyes.”
Seriously? They do? Sage, Jen. Sage.
Or this, from an application to, ouch, graduate school for my masters degree:
“This letter has, I hope, provided you with a clearer picture of who I am and where I want to go. I think my diverse areas of study are a good indication of my flexibility and determination as a student, but I also hope my desire to focus upon literature is apparent to you.”
I cannot begin to articulate in words the shame I felt just typing the phrase “focus upon.” It makes me want to barf and laugh at the same time. Awkward and nervous, my favorite combination. I sound so very sincere. Not even a whiff of irony. And I can’t even think about the word choice…
Anyway, the whole thing made me laugh today—I mean, who actually keeps (to say nothing of freaking LAMINATING) their trigonometry chart???? But it also gave me pause: with so much evidence to the contrary, can I honestly presume to teach writing? In ten years, when I look back on my job letter and my CV, will I be able to bear the shame? And what about the fact that I just used the phrase “gave me pause”? Gouge away.
Before I end this tome, here’s a picture of the gorgeous and super-flavorful REAL tomatoes we bought at the market today. In my opinion, only two good things happen in the summer: baseball and what I call “dirt tomatoes,” tomatoes grown in the ground instead of in hydroponic, sterile environments that make them taste like plastic… Sea salt, fresh pepper, olive oil…yum.
*While I sympathize with this perspective on architects (I’ve listened to an hour-long conversation about the wonder that is concrete), I also sympathize with anyone who must endure so many hurdles for so little pay. It’s no wonder they want to talk about it. They’re sure as hell not being suitably compensated or appreciated.
**Seriously, what are the practical uses of sine, tangent, or cosecant? I really want to know. Ryan N., I’m looking at you here…
Friday, June 22, 2007
it's official
I'm old.
As I've mentioned, I live in an urban section of Cincinnati. I love, love, love it here, except when passers-by insist on booming their car stereos. Seriously, it's a problem--for the windows in my apartment and the fillings in my teeth. I can't express the sheer decibel level other than to say that conversations stop when some of these jokers drive by. There's just no talking over it.
I realize I should be thankful I live in such a safe neighborhood that my biggest problem is too much duuuuurh-durrh, duuuuuuuurh-durrh, but that doesn't stop me from harboring fantasies of egging one tan Caprice in particular from my office window.
Anyway, today, just now, my curmudgeon's heart nearly burst with joy as I heard the Caprice drive by followed by a "You need to turn your music down" from a loudspeaker. As I peeked out the window, I saw a cruiser cruising right behind my man, telling him to shut it down.
I can barely contain myself.
Pass the Ensure.
As I've mentioned, I live in an urban section of Cincinnati. I love, love, love it here, except when passers-by insist on booming their car stereos. Seriously, it's a problem--for the windows in my apartment and the fillings in my teeth. I can't express the sheer decibel level other than to say that conversations stop when some of these jokers drive by. There's just no talking over it.
I realize I should be thankful I live in such a safe neighborhood that my biggest problem is too much duuuuurh-durrh, duuuuuuuurh-durrh, but that doesn't stop me from harboring fantasies of egging one tan Caprice in particular from my office window.
Anyway, today, just now, my curmudgeon's heart nearly burst with joy as I heard the Caprice drive by followed by a "You need to turn your music down" from a loudspeaker. As I peeked out the window, I saw a cruiser cruising right behind my man, telling him to shut it down.
I can barely contain myself.
Pass the Ensure.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Monday, April 30, 2007
a circuitous route
In an effort to prevent the kind of dinner “conversation” that sometimes occurs between people who have lived together for a while, my friend Abby gave me this beautiful box of questions. I like to think of it as CPR for the life of the mind--there’s simply no recovering from “Oh, you went out for lunch today? What did you order?” Yes. It can get that bad.
Anyway, one evening Russell and I sat down to a nice dinner at the end of a particularly long week, and I pulled a card that read: “Do you live more in the past, the present, or the future.”
Go ahead, think about it for a minute.
***
I’m not sure if it’s the result of my (somewhat) Catholic upbringing, or my habit of comparing myself to my near-perfect parents, or some sort of hardwired desire for perfection and closure, but I spend a lot of time reflecting on what I could/should have done differently. To say I’m utterly steeped in regret sounds so melancholy, and I don’t always feel sad when I look back, but I do regret not doing one thing or another almost every day. Even when my “mistakes” turn out to be the best decisions I’ve ever made, I still feel a lot of disappointment in myself. For example, failing a class (MBI 464—Human Viruses) in college resulted in me being a double-major in Microbiology and English because I had to stay an extra year to retake the class. I’m now working on my PhD in English! I should be thankful I blew off my first exam in order to finish Middlemarch. Yet, I still think to myself, “I wish I’d actually studied in college. Who knows where I would be right now.”
That’s some seriously flawed thinking right there. And it’s not just school, it’s everything. Relationships with friends, family, acquaintances, writing I've done, papers I've submitted, things I’ve said, purchases I’ve made (I’m currently regretting our couch), you get the point. If there was a do-over button, I’d have worn through the enamel on that baby!
***
Russell, on the other hand, lives in the future. He’s a forward-thinking, progressive sort of fellow. He embraces the possibility and change that the future brings. Occasionally I like to go there with him. We talk about what will happen when I finish my dissertation, when we move out of Cincinnati, when we have our own house, when this crazy summer, fall, winter, what have you is over. In these moments, I’m tempted not only by the promise of this, and this, and this, but also by the lure of the fresh start, the clean slate, the new horizon. An exercise in escapism, to be sure, but when I daydream about planting a small vegetable garden and watching my zinnias bloom, it doesn’t feel all that wrong.
I believe that this perspective is one that we (as Americans) are supposed to have, the one we’re encouraged to cultivate in ourselves. We push ourselves first through junior high and high school for the promise of college and, once there, we push ourselves through with visions of “the dream job,” which allows us to look forward to the serious relationship, the house, the kids/pets, the cars, upgrade, upgrade, upgrade…. All in the name of progress, right?
***
Not this past New Year’s, but the year before that, I made a resolution to “Be Here Now,” to appreciate the moment rather than looking to the past or the future. Not an easy task, I assure you. At the party that year, my proposal was met with both skepticism and seriousness. A friend loaned me a book—half-joking, half-seriously—to give me some insight. Published in 1971, Ram Dass’s tome on spirituality and, well, acid, was an interesting read, but it was a bit out there for my 2006 sensibilities. I won’t discount the message (I think the reviewer’s comments on the Amazon page speak to the profound changes that come from rethinking our perspectives on time), but I guess I was looking for something more practical, less drug-fueled. You know, something to help me focus when I’m gearing up for a self-imposed guilt trip about not reading something sooner, or when, on Monday, I’m already thinking about how great the following weekend will be.
***
Lately, I’ve found a bit of a mental loophole to help me out, but only with my writing and my school work. (No matter how hard I try, and believe me, I do try, I can’t “be here now” when I’m stuck behind someone who doesn’t understand the whole “right on red” thing.) Whenever I get frustrated with the dissertation process, the writing, the reading, the note-taking, the synthesis, the lack of progress, I try to envision how my future self would feel about my current attitude. Said another way, I’m trying to pre-empt some of the regret I might feel when looking back on this period of my life. Perhaps an example will clarify…
Rather than look back on this summer and think, “Why didn’t I savor those long lovely days at the library where I had peace and quiet, a huge table all to myself, and all the AC I could handle?” I consciously try to appreciate my surroundings as they are right now. Rather than reflect on Ch. 4 as messy and disorganized, beating myself up for not having it perfect the first time around, I try to be aware of the dynamic, pliable qualities of my writing, now, before it hardens into a final draft.
***
I know my solution is shaky, in part because I’m using the future to reconfigure my past, neither of which really counts as “now.” Furthermore, it seems problematic to depend on something that doesn’t exist (the future) to avoid a past (which also doesn’t exist yet) that only stands in for the present. And maybe you’re thinking: Jen, you’re missing the point, you should be focused on the present, the right now!!! But what if it works? Maybe it’s a temporary (and probably metaphysically flawed) fix, but it’s a fix, and I’ll take it.
***
Two quick things before I end this post: first, I made the same resolution this year (2007) and it’s just as difficult the second time around; and second, I never, ever have any trouble “being here now” when I’m knitting. None at all. I should probably take that as a sign…
Anyway, one evening Russell and I sat down to a nice dinner at the end of a particularly long week, and I pulled a card that read: “Do you live more in the past, the present, or the future.”
Go ahead, think about it for a minute.
***
I’m not sure if it’s the result of my (somewhat) Catholic upbringing, or my habit of comparing myself to my near-perfect parents, or some sort of hardwired desire for perfection and closure, but I spend a lot of time reflecting on what I could/should have done differently. To say I’m utterly steeped in regret sounds so melancholy, and I don’t always feel sad when I look back, but I do regret not doing one thing or another almost every day. Even when my “mistakes” turn out to be the best decisions I’ve ever made, I still feel a lot of disappointment in myself. For example, failing a class (MBI 464—Human Viruses) in college resulted in me being a double-major in Microbiology and English because I had to stay an extra year to retake the class. I’m now working on my PhD in English! I should be thankful I blew off my first exam in order to finish Middlemarch. Yet, I still think to myself, “I wish I’d actually studied in college. Who knows where I would be right now.”
That’s some seriously flawed thinking right there. And it’s not just school, it’s everything. Relationships with friends, family, acquaintances, writing I've done, papers I've submitted, things I’ve said, purchases I’ve made (I’m currently regretting our couch), you get the point. If there was a do-over button, I’d have worn through the enamel on that baby!
***
Russell, on the other hand, lives in the future. He’s a forward-thinking, progressive sort of fellow. He embraces the possibility and change that the future brings. Occasionally I like to go there with him. We talk about what will happen when I finish my dissertation, when we move out of Cincinnati, when we have our own house, when this crazy summer, fall, winter, what have you is over. In these moments, I’m tempted not only by the promise of this, and this, and this, but also by the lure of the fresh start, the clean slate, the new horizon. An exercise in escapism, to be sure, but when I daydream about planting a small vegetable garden and watching my zinnias bloom, it doesn’t feel all that wrong.
I believe that this perspective is one that we (as Americans) are supposed to have, the one we’re encouraged to cultivate in ourselves. We push ourselves first through junior high and high school for the promise of college and, once there, we push ourselves through with visions of “the dream job,” which allows us to look forward to the serious relationship, the house, the kids/pets, the cars, upgrade, upgrade, upgrade…. All in the name of progress, right?
***
Not this past New Year’s, but the year before that, I made a resolution to “Be Here Now,” to appreciate the moment rather than looking to the past or the future. Not an easy task, I assure you. At the party that year, my proposal was met with both skepticism and seriousness. A friend loaned me a book—half-joking, half-seriously—to give me some insight. Published in 1971, Ram Dass’s tome on spirituality and, well, acid, was an interesting read, but it was a bit out there for my 2006 sensibilities. I won’t discount the message (I think the reviewer’s comments on the Amazon page speak to the profound changes that come from rethinking our perspectives on time), but I guess I was looking for something more practical, less drug-fueled. You know, something to help me focus when I’m gearing up for a self-imposed guilt trip about not reading something sooner, or when, on Monday, I’m already thinking about how great the following weekend will be.
***
Lately, I’ve found a bit of a mental loophole to help me out, but only with my writing and my school work. (No matter how hard I try, and believe me, I do try, I can’t “be here now” when I’m stuck behind someone who doesn’t understand the whole “right on red” thing.) Whenever I get frustrated with the dissertation process, the writing, the reading, the note-taking, the synthesis, the lack of progress, I try to envision how my future self would feel about my current attitude. Said another way, I’m trying to pre-empt some of the regret I might feel when looking back on this period of my life. Perhaps an example will clarify…
Rather than look back on this summer and think, “Why didn’t I savor those long lovely days at the library where I had peace and quiet, a huge table all to myself, and all the AC I could handle?” I consciously try to appreciate my surroundings as they are right now. Rather than reflect on Ch. 4 as messy and disorganized, beating myself up for not having it perfect the first time around, I try to be aware of the dynamic, pliable qualities of my writing, now, before it hardens into a final draft.
***
I know my solution is shaky, in part because I’m using the future to reconfigure my past, neither of which really counts as “now.” Furthermore, it seems problematic to depend on something that doesn’t exist (the future) to avoid a past (which also doesn’t exist yet) that only stands in for the present. And maybe you’re thinking: Jen, you’re missing the point, you should be focused on the present, the right now!!! But what if it works? Maybe it’s a temporary (and probably metaphysically flawed) fix, but it’s a fix, and I’ll take it.
***
Two quick things before I end this post: first, I made the same resolution this year (2007) and it’s just as difficult the second time around; and second, I never, ever have any trouble “being here now” when I’m knitting. None at all. I should probably take that as a sign…
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
lighten up, francis
My apologies for yesterday's angry post--not all days spent writing are sunshiny and inspired, but that doesn't mean I need to spew negativity, either. Who knows how many dreams lay dashed as the result of my rant on Romantic Writing. Oh, the horror.
After posting, I paced around my apartment a bit, watched my neighbor mow his law, watered my plants and then it hit me--I'd forgotten Matt Groening's excellent advice via his "Life in Hell" comic strip. All I needed to do was leave off the writing and pick up a book. Which I did. A real page turner, despite the dry title.
That, and I needed to chill out. Sometimes I forget that, too.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
taking the turn to negative town
My students and I are blogging in our English 225 class. The assignment for tomorrow asks us to post an entry describing our feelings about writing in general, about drafting the final long paper (a position paper on an issue of personal significance or a manifesto—a great writing exercise despite recent events), about writing online, or about any old thing they wish. Right now, I’d rather write about my feelings for salt (love it!) or people who drive slowly in the left lane (hate ‘em), but I’ll try to tackle the writing thing.
The other day, I had a conversation with one of my colleagues about the romanticizing of writing that occurs in upper-level writing classes. I’m probably as guilty of this practice as the next person—I think a lot of people who enter a PhD program in Composition and Rhetoric believe they have something important to say, that they need to write to live fully, that they possess a special passion for writing, that they write to understand themselves and their world, blah, blah blah. I’d be lying if I said I never felt (or, perhaps more truthfully, wanted to feel) those things. However, there are other, less beautiful reasons I write. And, sadly, on this day, the ugly reasons are overshadowing the romantic ones.
Case in point: If I had to pinpoint my feelings about writing at this moment, I’d identify “obligation” as the strongest. If I don’t finish my stupid dissertation, then I don’t get my PhD. And if I don’t get my PhD, I can’t teach. And, since I’m not fit to do anything else at this point, write I must. Oy.
My colleague? He told me he writes because he’s good at it. That’s it. He chose his career because he’s a good writer. By that logic, I should be putting something in alphabetical order right now (or some other organizational task). Too bad I can’t get my PhD in California Closets and ordering Crayola crayons by color.
Shoulda posted about salt.
The other day, I had a conversation with one of my colleagues about the romanticizing of writing that occurs in upper-level writing classes. I’m probably as guilty of this practice as the next person—I think a lot of people who enter a PhD program in Composition and Rhetoric believe they have something important to say, that they need to write to live fully, that they possess a special passion for writing, that they write to understand themselves and their world, blah, blah blah. I’d be lying if I said I never felt (or, perhaps more truthfully, wanted to feel) those things. However, there are other, less beautiful reasons I write. And, sadly, on this day, the ugly reasons are overshadowing the romantic ones.
Case in point: If I had to pinpoint my feelings about writing at this moment, I’d identify “obligation” as the strongest. If I don’t finish my stupid dissertation, then I don’t get my PhD. And if I don’t get my PhD, I can’t teach. And, since I’m not fit to do anything else at this point, write I must. Oy.
My colleague? He told me he writes because he’s good at it. That’s it. He chose his career because he’s a good writer. By that logic, I should be putting something in alphabetical order right now (or some other organizational task). Too bad I can’t get my PhD in California Closets and ordering Crayola crayons by color.
Shoulda posted about salt.
Monday, April 16, 2007
(re)discovering beets and asparagus, and other tales of taste
So, you know how there's that idea that your taste buds change every twelve years? That, for example, if you hated Brussels sprouts as a kid, you might want to try them again as an adult because you just might love them? Well, after this weekend, I'm wondering if the same can be said about movies.
If you had asked me at the beginning of 2007 how I felt about B-movies, horror movies, and the like, I would have explained that I don't like violence, thank you, and told the story of how I had to stop watching Casino to throw up. Literally. (I know, I know, Casino is neither B nor horror, but to me it was all so much blood and guts and therefore unwatchable.)
However, two recent viewing experiences have made me wonder whether my tastes have expanded. First, I watched The Descent with friends and, after getting over my inital squeamishness, decided it was one of the most fun movies I'd seen in a long time. I mean, it was creepy and scary, and I'll probably never willingly enter a cave again, but it was also hilariously funny and full of parodies of the horror movie genre. I enjoyed thinking about how and why the director did what he did.
Then, yesterday, Russell talked me into seeing Grindhouse, the new double-feature by Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino. It was amazing. Seriously. The most fun I've had at a movie for a long, long time. As soon as it was over, I announced to Russell that we'd be seeing it again. As we walked home, I chattered about how much I loved the first movie, "Planet Terror," and how funny the trailers were, and didn't he love the second movie ("Death Proof"), and wasn't Rose McGowan awesome, and what about Marley Shelton and...
So, yeah, pass the Brussels sprouts!
If you had asked me at the beginning of 2007 how I felt about B-movies, horror movies, and the like, I would have explained that I don't like violence, thank you, and told the story of how I had to stop watching Casino to throw up. Literally. (I know, I know, Casino is neither B nor horror, but to me it was all so much blood and guts and therefore unwatchable.)
However, two recent viewing experiences have made me wonder whether my tastes have expanded. First, I watched The Descent with friends and, after getting over my inital squeamishness, decided it was one of the most fun movies I'd seen in a long time. I mean, it was creepy and scary, and I'll probably never willingly enter a cave again, but it was also hilariously funny and full of parodies of the horror movie genre. I enjoyed thinking about how and why the director did what he did.
Then, yesterday, Russell talked me into seeing Grindhouse, the new double-feature by Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino. It was amazing. Seriously. The most fun I've had at a movie for a long, long time. As soon as it was over, I announced to Russell that we'd be seeing it again. As we walked home, I chattered about how much I loved the first movie, "Planet Terror," and how funny the trailers were, and didn't he love the second movie ("Death Proof"), and wasn't Rose McGowan awesome, and what about Marley Shelton and...
So, yeah, pass the Brussels sprouts!
Saturday, April 14, 2007
a day of reckoning
A week or so ago, a student asked me why I never wear anything I’ve knit. I didn’t hesitate when I told her that the onslaught of babies has prevented me from being able to finish anything for myself. What I failed to mention is the fact that, for the time being, my knitting for babies is all done.
The truth? Well, that’s a bit harder to explain.
It’s like this: I have been busy writing, teaching, reading, knitting stuff for others, but I’ve also been maybe a bit distracted by the sheer number of projects I have going on at once. Said another way, I have too many projects on needles and I tend to work on all of them a little at a time and I continue finding new projects to start and I have this thing where I get sad when something is over and I’m a process knitter and…
So the truth looks a little more like this:
or this:
or this:
or even this:
And, sadly, there's more where that came from.
So, there it is. The real reason I’m not wearing anything I knit.
The truth? Well, that’s a bit harder to explain.
It’s like this: I have been busy writing, teaching, reading, knitting stuff for others, but I’ve also been maybe a bit distracted by the sheer number of projects I have going on at once. Said another way, I have too many projects on needles and I tend to work on all of them a little at a time and I continue finding new projects to start and I have this thing where I get sad when something is over and I’m a process knitter and…
So the truth looks a little more like this:
or this:
or this:
or even this:
And, sadly, there's more where that came from.
So, there it is. The real reason I’m not wearing anything I knit.
Monday, April 09, 2007
will i ever learn?
Painfully aware of the rapid disappearance of whatever modicum of cool I ever had, I tend to imagine my students on some cutting edge that I’ve long since renounced as remote and unreachable. I can’t understand their IM speak, their video games are too fast and confusing for me (I miss Punch Out, Tetris, Super Mario Brothers), and, as I’ve already confessed, I can’t keep up with their music.**
In no place is this feeling of being “out of it” more persistent than the realm of technology. Seriously, I sent my first email when I was in college, in 1997, and even then I was late to the game. I don’t own an iPod, use Tivo, understand HTML, download music, use Facebook, or have a Blackberry. I only began blogging last year for a class.
My students, on the other hand, have probably been blogging since they were in knee pants, posting their thoughtful musings, video clips, graphics, and photos on their own websites (built from scratch, of course).
Or so I thought.
Like last year, I’m teaching a composition class wherein I ask my students to create their own blog in order to write for a broad public audience. And as this sequence of assignments approached, I had some serious qualms about asking my students to blog. I worried that (certainly already having blogs of their own) they might not find anything of use in this process, that they might resent having to cover old ground.
Turns out, as a class, they have relatively little experience with blogs. Really, almost none. So much for my stupid assumption.
At first I was elated. I find blogging such an interesting writing exercise and I like the way it forces me to rethink composition (and rhetoric) as systems of communication. But now, after reading some of their responses to blogs they found for class, I have a new fear:
Is it ethical for me to ask my students to publish their writing on the internet?
Many of them wrote about stalkers, privacy issues, disclosing their identities, the consequences of blogging on their future careers, etc., etc., etc.
In my mind, I see a continuum of safe to risky blogging techniques, and I’ve been trying to highlight the different strategies bloggers use to attract and/or repel particular audiences (to say nothing of practical advice about how to keep one’s identity shielded.) But I’m now wondering about the ethics of asking a student to publish online as part of a grade. Something to consider…
**Last year, after admitting that I still loved the Beastie Boys, a student laughed at me and stated with disdain, “they’re so old.”
In no place is this feeling of being “out of it” more persistent than the realm of technology. Seriously, I sent my first email when I was in college, in 1997, and even then I was late to the game. I don’t own an iPod, use Tivo, understand HTML, download music, use Facebook, or have a Blackberry. I only began blogging last year for a class.
My students, on the other hand, have probably been blogging since they were in knee pants, posting their thoughtful musings, video clips, graphics, and photos on their own websites (built from scratch, of course).
Or so I thought.
Like last year, I’m teaching a composition class wherein I ask my students to create their own blog in order to write for a broad public audience. And as this sequence of assignments approached, I had some serious qualms about asking my students to blog. I worried that (certainly already having blogs of their own) they might not find anything of use in this process, that they might resent having to cover old ground.
Turns out, as a class, they have relatively little experience with blogs. Really, almost none. So much for my stupid assumption.
At first I was elated. I find blogging such an interesting writing exercise and I like the way it forces me to rethink composition (and rhetoric) as systems of communication. But now, after reading some of their responses to blogs they found for class, I have a new fear:
Is it ethical for me to ask my students to publish their writing on the internet?
Many of them wrote about stalkers, privacy issues, disclosing their identities, the consequences of blogging on their future careers, etc., etc., etc.
In my mind, I see a continuum of safe to risky blogging techniques, and I’ve been trying to highlight the different strategies bloggers use to attract and/or repel particular audiences (to say nothing of practical advice about how to keep one’s identity shielded.) But I’m now wondering about the ethics of asking a student to publish online as part of a grade. Something to consider…
**Last year, after admitting that I still loved the Beastie Boys, a student laughed at me and stated with disdain, “they’re so old.”
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
the tipping point
As anyone who reads this blog knows, I’m writing a dissertation. Most of my posts on that subject have been laments concerning my ineptitude and frustration, and my failure to post more often than not stems from that same ineptitude. (When writer’s block strikes, no genre is safe from its hamperings.) January and February were especially trying in that regard. At one point I almost posted some pictures of my hand-written drafts, many of which included more strikethroughs, scribblings, and half-finished sentences than readable prose. Depressing, to say the least.
Anyway, during this time, my advisor continued to encourage me, regaling me with tales of “the tipping point,” a mysterious moment in time wherein I would suddenly begin to tilt toward completion, wherein inertia would take over and the draft would begin writing itself. Naturally cynical, I doubted that I’d ever reach such a point, but secretly I hoped it would happen.
For the past few weeks, I’ve been drafting chapter three. I noticed that the writing was feeling easier, more fluid, more focused, but I didn’t give it much thought. Like anyone on a streak, I felt superstitious—I tried not to break my routine and I worried about hubris and angry gods. But I kept at it. (Note: I’m a little concerned as I type this post, but I’m hoping a small sacrifice will show my humility and reverence… .)
I finished the draft (due last Wednesday for a “works-in-progress” talk) and I began drafting summaries of my earlier chapters to help my readers understand where this chapter fit into the whole. And, seriously now, all of a sudden it was clear. I could see my whole project and how it might look upon completion. I even discovered what I had been trying to say in my first two chapters and began making notes for revision. Ah! The joys of the tipping point!
In retrospect, I should have known. My earlier metaphors hint at such moments—the peanut butter from the jar, the plane lifting off—but I figured that it would be different for such a big project. And, truth be told, as a writing teacher, I suppose I should have a little faith in the process I teach. I tell my students all the time to keep writing, that drafting is a way to learn what it is you want to say, that writing takes diligence and practice, that we all have difficult moments in our efforts to share our ideas.
Needless to say, I felt compelled to post, not only to share my progress and my thoughts but also to create a record of this moment. I know for a fact that I’ll encounter writer’s block again and again, and that there will be future writing projects begun without a good sense of purpose and focus. But this post will (hopefully) remind me to trust myself and the process.
I have lots more work to do—I still have another big chapter and an afterword to draft before I begin the work of deep revision—but I’m tilting forward and I can see the end, however distant it may seem from right here.
Anyway, during this time, my advisor continued to encourage me, regaling me with tales of “the tipping point,” a mysterious moment in time wherein I would suddenly begin to tilt toward completion, wherein inertia would take over and the draft would begin writing itself. Naturally cynical, I doubted that I’d ever reach such a point, but secretly I hoped it would happen.
For the past few weeks, I’ve been drafting chapter three. I noticed that the writing was feeling easier, more fluid, more focused, but I didn’t give it much thought. Like anyone on a streak, I felt superstitious—I tried not to break my routine and I worried about hubris and angry gods. But I kept at it. (Note: I’m a little concerned as I type this post, but I’m hoping a small sacrifice will show my humility and reverence… .)
I finished the draft (due last Wednesday for a “works-in-progress” talk) and I began drafting summaries of my earlier chapters to help my readers understand where this chapter fit into the whole. And, seriously now, all of a sudden it was clear. I could see my whole project and how it might look upon completion. I even discovered what I had been trying to say in my first two chapters and began making notes for revision. Ah! The joys of the tipping point!
In retrospect, I should have known. My earlier metaphors hint at such moments—the peanut butter from the jar, the plane lifting off—but I figured that it would be different for such a big project. And, truth be told, as a writing teacher, I suppose I should have a little faith in the process I teach. I tell my students all the time to keep writing, that drafting is a way to learn what it is you want to say, that writing takes diligence and practice, that we all have difficult moments in our efforts to share our ideas.
Needless to say, I felt compelled to post, not only to share my progress and my thoughts but also to create a record of this moment. I know for a fact that I’ll encounter writer’s block again and again, and that there will be future writing projects begun without a good sense of purpose and focus. But this post will (hopefully) remind me to trust myself and the process.
I have lots more work to do—I still have another big chapter and an afterword to draft before I begin the work of deep revision—but I’m tilting forward and I can see the end, however distant it may seem from right here.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
baby birds
For the record, I did have notes for the entry I promised. I had filled the blank side of an envelope with musings on the process of reading student papers and, as of Tuesday night, it sat ready on our dining room table. Now, Thursday, I cannot for the life of me locate the envelope. I’ve pillaged all my notes, my various folders, even my “take to school stuff,” which I would never mix with my “extracurricular writing stuff.”
The envelope is nowhere to be found…
I remember that I was feeling very tender when I decided to write again. I was overcome by the very great honor that comes with reading another person’s writing. When another human being trusts you with his or her work (and yes, I would concede to maternal metaphors here, regardless of gender), it’s absolutely an honor. And that honor necessarily brings responsibility.
That’s about all I can recall now. Allowing for my typical response to such musings, I feel confident alluding to any number of the following accompanying tangents: “How can teachers NOT spend a lot of time on student papers?”; “I’m really doing a good job.”; “Will they even read my comments?”; “Wow. I wonder if I’m the first person to see this thought on paper. How should I direct the writing?”
It’s that last thought that always keeps me coming back, that makes me feel as if I have some role in my students’ writing/learning process. I return to the rhetorical, an analysis that forever asks, forever analyzes, forever angles for just the right turn of phrase, forever weighs in on the dialectical adventure that is presenting a version of self…okay, at least for this paper; it’s an autobiography…
Anyway, my students present a sliver of themselves, and I’m to analyze it? What is that?
That’s teaching. And of all the skills I might bring to the analysis of an essay, or an advertisement, or a design, or an autobiography, I’m so glad I have this tenderness. I don’t care if it makes me soft. These are lives here; these are careful, calculated expressions of self.
(Please read that last line with just a hint of Donald Sutherland as English Professor. Just a hint, mind you.)
It’s important to be gentle. It’s also important to teach.
Can rhetoric be tender? Was Aristotle ever tender? What about I. A. Richards? Burke? Charles Darwin?
And as long as I'm asking--who taught them?
It's hard to wield such a weapon effectively yet still show others the "right" ways to use it.
***
So, I think that’s as far as I would have gone. I think that’s probably the point of stasis for me--for that musing, but also in general. If anyone out there has any theories about teaching, I’d be happy to think them through.
***
I like my students this year. I’m only now getting to know them, but I feel better about the class every day. I only hope they like each other. They seem noisy enough before I get there. Perhaps I’ll be late tomorrow. Maybe they need some time without me…
The envelope is nowhere to be found…
I remember that I was feeling very tender when I decided to write again. I was overcome by the very great honor that comes with reading another person’s writing. When another human being trusts you with his or her work (and yes, I would concede to maternal metaphors here, regardless of gender), it’s absolutely an honor. And that honor necessarily brings responsibility.
That’s about all I can recall now. Allowing for my typical response to such musings, I feel confident alluding to any number of the following accompanying tangents: “How can teachers NOT spend a lot of time on student papers?”; “I’m really doing a good job.”; “Will they even read my comments?”; “Wow. I wonder if I’m the first person to see this thought on paper. How should I direct the writing?”
It’s that last thought that always keeps me coming back, that makes me feel as if I have some role in my students’ writing/learning process. I return to the rhetorical, an analysis that forever asks, forever analyzes, forever angles for just the right turn of phrase, forever weighs in on the dialectical adventure that is presenting a version of self…okay, at least for this paper; it’s an autobiography…
Anyway, my students present a sliver of themselves, and I’m to analyze it? What is that?
That’s teaching. And of all the skills I might bring to the analysis of an essay, or an advertisement, or a design, or an autobiography, I’m so glad I have this tenderness. I don’t care if it makes me soft. These are lives here; these are careful, calculated expressions of self.
(Please read that last line with just a hint of Donald Sutherland as English Professor. Just a hint, mind you.)
It’s important to be gentle. It’s also important to teach.
Can rhetoric be tender? Was Aristotle ever tender? What about I. A. Richards? Burke? Charles Darwin?
And as long as I'm asking--who taught them?
It's hard to wield such a weapon effectively yet still show others the "right" ways to use it.
***
So, I think that’s as far as I would have gone. I think that’s probably the point of stasis for me--for that musing, but also in general. If anyone out there has any theories about teaching, I’d be happy to think them through.
***
I like my students this year. I’m only now getting to know them, but I feel better about the class every day. I only hope they like each other. They seem noisy enough before I get there. Perhaps I’ll be late tomorrow. Maybe they need some time without me…
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
february is the new january
I started writing again today, (funny how I continue to simply stop writing, as if nothing really depends on it) and now here I sit. I had to log in again it'd been so much time since I'd posted. Unlike my other writing (engagements, shall we say?), nothing whatsoever depends on me posting to this blog.
And in the spirit of full disclosure, I've felt like a slacker. I don't necessarily think that everyone is reading, but the prospect of letting anyone down is not one I savor.
So, I'll write again tomorrow, about teaching and writing, even.
In the meantime, it snowed like all get out here today. I am elated!
And in the spirit of full disclosure, I've felt like a slacker. I don't necessarily think that everyone is reading, but the prospect of letting anyone down is not one I savor.
So, I'll write again tomorrow, about teaching and writing, even.
In the meantime, it snowed like all get out here today. I am elated!
Sunday, January 07, 2007
intersections
My friend Shannon gave me Debbie Stoller's Stitch and Bitch 2007 desk calendar.
Reasons for its exceptionality as a gift, Exhibit A:
The page for Saturday, Jan. 6 and Sunday, Jan. 7 reads:
"Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work"--Aristotle.
I'm treating the connections between knitting, writing, and rhetoric (three of my favorite things) as a good omen for this year. And the idea that I might take pleasure in all the work I'm doing seems especially important as I move forward into the later chapters of my dissertation (and, sigh, the deep revisions that will inevitably follow).
Reasons for its exceptionality as a gift, Exhibit A:
The page for Saturday, Jan. 6 and Sunday, Jan. 7 reads:
"Pleasure in the job puts perfection in the work"--Aristotle.
I'm treating the connections between knitting, writing, and rhetoric (three of my favorite things) as a good omen for this year. And the idea that I might take pleasure in all the work I'm doing seems especially important as I move forward into the later chapters of my dissertation (and, sigh, the deep revisions that will inevitably follow).
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
all right. i give up.
Before I begin, I need to point out that today's date is January 3rd, and I live in Ohio.
During November and December, I'd been noticing, not without some alarm, that formerly mulched-over gardens and flower beds had been sprouting little green nubs. The weather has been unseasonably warm this year, and though I worried a little to myself about the future of said nubs I figured a good freeze would stop them in their tracks before they sustained too much damage.
Over the past week or two, these nubs have grown: the white-green leaves of irises have begun emerging in long strips from their gray-brown roots, the dark shoots of snowdrops and crocuses have now extended inches above the ground, and the future leaves of daffodils are also on the rise. I worried a little more, and then decided that these early flowers might suffer but that spring would not be entirely lost when "real winter" arrives.
On my way home from the library today I saw this:
(Sorry for the crappy photo--I used my phone.)
I know that the current administration doesn't give a fig for my opinion on global warming (they don't believe the science, why would they believe me?) but I'm beyond worry now. Where are my seasons? Where is the snow? Why is this (admittedly lovely) flowering bush flowering in January???
During November and December, I'd been noticing, not without some alarm, that formerly mulched-over gardens and flower beds had been sprouting little green nubs. The weather has been unseasonably warm this year, and though I worried a little to myself about the future of said nubs I figured a good freeze would stop them in their tracks before they sustained too much damage.
Over the past week or two, these nubs have grown: the white-green leaves of irises have begun emerging in long strips from their gray-brown roots, the dark shoots of snowdrops and crocuses have now extended inches above the ground, and the future leaves of daffodils are also on the rise. I worried a little more, and then decided that these early flowers might suffer but that spring would not be entirely lost when "real winter" arrives.
On my way home from the library today I saw this:
(Sorry for the crappy photo--I used my phone.)
I know that the current administration doesn't give a fig for my opinion on global warming (they don't believe the science, why would they believe me?) but I'm beyond worry now. Where are my seasons? Where is the snow? Why is this (admittedly lovely) flowering bush flowering in January???
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