I'm sitting at Starbucks, across from my decaf-drinking, novel-writing hubby, and I've finally (after saying for weeks and weeks that I was gonna get to this) begun revising the paper from my contemporary lit. class this past fall. Hence the title. Or at least, it's partially responsible for the title.
This paper doesn't require a lot (and the little things it needed I did early in May), but it does require the thing that usually trips me up with papers: more. That is, it needs to be longer. Well, actually, first it needs to get shorter and then it needs to get longer. Shorter, b/c the teacher who has encouraged me to revise this paper vetoed the last 5 pages before the conclusion; she thinks they are part of a separate paper (which I will not be writing) and can be condensed into 2 paragraphs. So that's just great.
Not sure at the current moment exactly how this paper is going to get shorter-but-longer, but I'm feeling refreshed after a month of absolutely no reading (well, 3 pages of Olive Kitteridge - was bored with it - and 20 of A Visit from the Goon Squad - which I've thoroughly enjoyed thus far) beyond magazines, blogs, and the ocassional glance at the German textbook and not an ounce of writing beyond this blog (and I've been enjoyably lax even with that).
Other "better late than never"s are just some belated reports regarding the past semester.
1. The torturous theory paper turned out swimmingly. I got a 95% on it, which was delightful given that I didn't spend nearly as much time and effort as I might have had I, well, had the time to do so and been at all interested in writing the paper. And I didn't put nearly as much into it as I did into my modernist poetry paper.
2. Speaking of the modernist paper: A+! That's my first ever A+ on a paper in grad school! (Well, I technically got an A+ on my first theory paper of the semester, but he assigns points, not letter grades, so it doesn't feel nearly as thrilling.) I don't even know how many grad profs use A+s.
My modernist prof, who may end up being my dissertation director, had only lovely things to say about the paper, which was a total b to write, given the fact that I am anything but a theory guru and I had to teach myself some hard-*ss feminist theory to pull this paper off. (This might not mean anything to anyone but me, but nonethless: Luce Irigaray is NOT user-friendly, and theories of the male gaze ain't no picnic either.)
*She did, however, correct three minor typos (one on the first page), for which I blame Bradley, who is my proofreader. Apparently, he and I need to have a performance review. And pronto.
3. I got an awesome teaching schedule for the fall. In fact, the prof who does the scheduling gave me exactly what I asked for, day and time both! The same thing happened for this past spring, and I was really leery I would get screwed this time around to even out that good fortune (and he seems rather unpredictable with scheduling). Who says I'm a pessimist?! My teaching schedule has a major impact on my functioning and happiness during any given semester, especially since the morning commute into the city is so hateful. But no morning commute for me during Fall 2011. Yea!
Now, better late than never, I'm going to post this post. :)
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
The Friday 4: Books I'm Embarrassed to Have Not Read
You might think that I like to read given that I have a master of fine arts degree in creative writing; am a PhD student studying contemporary American literature; have three large bookshelves full of books and many other stacks of books that won't fit; and teach courses focused on writing and reading. You would, however, be wrong.
Graduate school officially killed my love of reading. I can't say when this happened - year 2? 4? - and I hope in my heart of hearts that the damage is not irreparable, but I wouldn't place any bets at this point. These days, the most I like to read is Martha Stewart's amazing website (crafts, decor, and wonderful things galore!) and Shape magazine. Anything more involved than that, well, thanks but no thanks.
Even so, I fake a love for reading when necessary (like, at school), playing the role of the avid, interested reader at least semi-convincingly when it counts. There are, though, more than a few gaping holes in my reading that I just don't know if you can fake your way around. These books are so frequently referenced and so commonly known by others - whether students of literature or not - that I really should just break down and, well, read them. But I don't wanna . . . .
4. Catch-22 by Joseph Heller (1961)
I love using the phrase that originates with this novel's name, but I couldn't tell you a darn thing about the contents of this book. I feel like everyone I know who read this read it in high school - along with #2 below - and it seems that we're about a decade or so past that point. Brad loves this book and highly recommends it, though. (He's read all the books on this list except #1 - what a show off.)
3. 1984 by George Orwell (1948)
Let me tell you, it's harder than you may think to pretend you've read a book (a classic, no less) when not one, but two of your students are writing a paper on it. I recommend Wikipedia, backed up by reputable websites. Maybe go to the third or fourth page of Google results so that when you talk about the book you're not using the same exact language your students are likely to see when they, invariably, search for their so-called "favorite" book online so they can figure out something to say as well.
I do give a thumbs-up to Orwell's essay "Shooting an Elephant," which is a thought-provoking read. I taught it in two creative writing classes a few years ago, though, and it definitely wasn't a class favorite.
2. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger (1951)
I know a few things about this topic. I know, for example, that Salinger was a recluse. I know, also, that my mother used to teach this book to high schoolers (along with To Kill a Mockingbird, another one that I, unsurprisingly, haven't read) - at least I'm pretty sure she did.
That about covers what I've got to offer. I don't know if I heard one word about this novel in high school, which is apparently when you've got to read this thing for it to be the most unbelievable book blah blah etc. etc. But I can't tell you the number of times people have mentioned this book in my presence since then.
1. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad (1902)
Last fall, we studied Heart of Darkness in my modernism class. Did you not read said novella then, dear student? you ask. No: I listened to it on cd. Two months in advance. And I didn't remember a damn bit more than the plot when the time came for class discussion. You can imagine how actively I participated that night.
Thematically and structurally, it's a cool book. But otherwise, let's just say it's not my cup o' joe. I mean tea. No, I actually mean joe. Unfortunately, I feel like this book more than all others that I've read and haven't read is on the tongues of professors and other students, no matter their interests. I mean, at least I know the basics, right? Doesn't that count for something?
(Note: I have seen Apocalypse Now - Francis Ford Coppola's 1979 film based on Heart of Darkness - and I didn't hate it, but I didn't love it. Then again, I almost categorically dislike any movie made before 1985, so not hating it is kind of a compliment. Plus, Robert Duvall as Lt. Col. Bill Kilgore could not be any awesomer.)
Graduate school officially killed my love of reading. I can't say when this happened - year 2? 4? - and I hope in my heart of hearts that the damage is not irreparable, but I wouldn't place any bets at this point. These days, the most I like to read is Martha Stewart's amazing website (crafts, decor, and wonderful things galore!) and Shape magazine. Anything more involved than that, well, thanks but no thanks.
Even so, I fake a love for reading when necessary (like, at school), playing the role of the avid, interested reader at least semi-convincingly when it counts. There are, though, more than a few gaping holes in my reading that I just don't know if you can fake your way around. These books are so frequently referenced and so commonly known by others - whether students of literature or not - that I really should just break down and, well, read them. But I don't wanna . . . .
4. Catch-22 by Joseph Heller (1961)
3. 1984 by George Orwell (1948)
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| Doesn't he look like Sean Penn?! |
I do give a thumbs-up to Orwell's essay "Shooting an Elephant," which is a thought-provoking read. I taught it in two creative writing classes a few years ago, though, and it definitely wasn't a class favorite.
2. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger (1951)
That about covers what I've got to offer. I don't know if I heard one word about this novel in high school, which is apparently when you've got to read this thing for it to be the most unbelievable book blah blah etc. etc. But I can't tell you the number of times people have mentioned this book in my presence since then.
1. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad (1902)
Last fall, we studied Heart of Darkness in my modernism class. Did you not read said novella then, dear student? you ask. No: I listened to it on cd. Two months in advance. And I didn't remember a damn bit more than the plot when the time came for class discussion. You can imagine how actively I participated that night.
Thematically and structurally, it's a cool book. But otherwise, let's just say it's not my cup o' joe. I mean tea. No, I actually mean joe. Unfortunately, I feel like this book more than all others that I've read and haven't read is on the tongues of professors and other students, no matter their interests. I mean, at least I know the basics, right? Doesn't that count for something?
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| A young Robert Duvall! He rocks! |
(Note: I have seen Apocalypse Now - Francis Ford Coppola's 1979 film based on Heart of Darkness - and I didn't hate it, but I didn't love it. Then again, I almost categorically dislike any movie made before 1985, so not hating it is kind of a compliment. Plus, Robert Duvall as Lt. Col. Bill Kilgore could not be any awesomer.)
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Why I will never be a poet; or, When in Doubt, Blame Your Childhood
For those who don't know, I stink at writing poetry.
To read my fiction, you might reasonably think I would be an all right poet. My fiction is all language, images, rhythm, sound. Further, I haven't the vaguest sense of plot, so lyric poetry really sounds like it would be my kinda thang.
Au contraire, my friend, au contraire. I am a debacle with the poetic form. Even narrative poetry. And I've decided to locate my failure in childhood.
You see, my crowning poetry achievement came in the 4th grade. A poem I wrote about rain (what else do 4th graders write poetry about?) was chosen - among who knows how many others - to be displayed at the Carnegie Library (or Museum?) in Oakland. I wish I had more details about the whys and wherefores of their displaying elementary school students' poetry, but I do not. Why? you ask. B/c my family didn't take me to see the display.
Imagine what a success I might be today if only I'd had the opportunity to glimpse my poem set upon a public pedestal, if I'd felt that thrill and pride. Imagine what inspiration I might have taken from my success and how that would have motivated me to write, write, write. I could've been winning a damn Pulitzer as we speak, for all you know. (Not impossible - at 29, Annie Dillard won in nonfiction for Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. But she's supposed to be a mean person. Which matters.)
Instead, my most worthy achievements in poetry are sad, sad things. Once upon a time (during the last year of my MFA), I won honorable mention in a university-wide competition (read: small and insignificant) for a 7-line poem about Rasputin. (It was at least sophisticated enough to allude to WCW's "The Red Wheelbarrow"!) I think that brought me a whopping $50. Last year, I won second place ($100 this time) in a city-wide poetry competition for people under 30 (or something). But that was a small, small city (not Pittsburgh).
Alas, I shall have to blame my parents for my failure as a poet. Perhaps it was their busy schedules, or maybe a general cluelessness about the central importance of that event in my burgeoning identity as a writer.
Rest assured that, now that I've remembered this little situation, I will remind my mother of it tomorrow at church and attempt to induce much guilt.
To read my fiction, you might reasonably think I would be an all right poet. My fiction is all language, images, rhythm, sound. Further, I haven't the vaguest sense of plot, so lyric poetry really sounds like it would be my kinda thang.
Au contraire, my friend, au contraire. I am a debacle with the poetic form. Even narrative poetry. And I've decided to locate my failure in childhood.
You see, my crowning poetry achievement came in the 4th grade. A poem I wrote about rain (what else do 4th graders write poetry about?) was chosen - among who knows how many others - to be displayed at the Carnegie Library (or Museum?) in Oakland. I wish I had more details about the whys and wherefores of their displaying elementary school students' poetry, but I do not. Why? you ask. B/c my family didn't take me to see the display.
Imagine what a success I might be today if only I'd had the opportunity to glimpse my poem set upon a public pedestal, if I'd felt that thrill and pride. Imagine what inspiration I might have taken from my success and how that would have motivated me to write, write, write. I could've been winning a damn Pulitzer as we speak, for all you know. (Not impossible - at 29, Annie Dillard won in nonfiction for Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. But she's supposed to be a mean person. Which matters.)
Instead, my most worthy achievements in poetry are sad, sad things. Once upon a time (during the last year of my MFA), I won honorable mention in a university-wide competition (read: small and insignificant) for a 7-line poem about Rasputin. (It was at least sophisticated enough to allude to WCW's "The Red Wheelbarrow"!) I think that brought me a whopping $50. Last year, I won second place ($100 this time) in a city-wide poetry competition for people under 30 (or something). But that was a small, small city (not Pittsburgh).
Alas, I shall have to blame my parents for my failure as a poet. Perhaps it was their busy schedules, or maybe a general cluelessness about the central importance of that event in my burgeoning identity as a writer.
Rest assured that, now that I've remembered this little situation, I will remind my mother of it tomorrow at church and attempt to induce much guilt.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
In the Trenches
My students loved O'Brien's book even more than I hoped they would. And it makes sense: I was their age when I was first introduced to his work, and over the years he has come to be possibly my favorite author (though there's a strong case for the award going to Hemingway).
While for me and certainly those generations older than me (read: those who were alive during the Vietnam War or its immediate aftermath), the potential stickiness of the topic is obvious. But these students are too young to have any investment in Vietnam and, to a large extent, anything more than the most superficial knowedge about Vietnam. And so, while the book's stance (anti-Vietnam Wat, though decidedly not anti-American soldier) is surely contentious to me or you, none of them seemed to interpret this as a political issue and, therefore, none took umbrage with it.
Michael Cunningham's 1999 Pulitzer Prize-winning The Hours (which was the original working-title of Virginia Woolf's 1923 novel Mrs. Dalloway), however, is a littttttttle bit of a different story.
Some of you may have seen the (very gripping) movie with Meryl Streep (love her!), Nicole Kidman, and Julianne Moore (who I could totally do without). It came out when I was a junior in college, so, 2003 or 2004. If you have seen it, jog your memory a bit. Yep, there you go - now you know why I'm anxious to see how teaching this book will go over with a group of freshman. Two of whom are in seminary. Many of whom have probably never interacted with a person they knew to be gay.
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| Nicole Kidman as Virginia Woolf |
Yesterday, after they finished their peer workshop on their papers, I put a few of the book's "thematic concerns" on the board for them to consider as they read. My list looked something like this:
Gender - questioning the traditional definitions and roles; questioning the relations b/t genders
Sexuality - homosexuality, heterosexuality, bisexuality
Mental illness/"madness" - how is it represented in society? in fiction? what are the effects of its being stigmatized?
Performing "roles" - what does it mean to be a "wife," "mother," etc.
There were not a few wide eyes when I mentioned "homosexuality." I was impressed, however, that when I asked for the difference b/t sex and gender (which, interestingly, we also talked about in my theory class later in the day), someone actually had an accurate answer. That, if nothing else, seemed promising.
After a book focusing on all male characters, I'm glad to throw some female in the mix, but this experience might end up being one minefield after another. However, if I don't expose them to these issues, who will? I guess we'll see how this goes . . . .
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Taking a quick break to ponder a career change
Okay, not really. But, I am taking a momentary break from writing a paper (not fun) to muse about how I would have loved to be a historian. For the paper I'm currently working on, I've been reading chunks of the National Book Award-nominated Land of Desire by William Leach. It's about the rise of consumerism and the department store in America, and it's the sh*t! Well-written, engaging, super smart, and without the slightest hint of judgement on its part, the book's even managed to make me feel shallow, materialistic, and ashamed of my love of stuff. This is economic, social, and cultural history at its best, if you ask me. And I'd rather read this than a book of literary criticism any day.
The problem with the become-a-brilliant-historian plan, however, was the usual problem: I couldn't imagine ever coming up with an idea to write a dissertation about. (Yes, as a 21- and 22-year-old undergraduate, I was already thinking things like that). So that got checked off the list with psychologist and all those other things that required original ideas I'd never have.
Plus, there was this bizarre instance my junior year:
(Me: me; Professor H: history professor who taught my junior seminar and from whom I earned an A and wrote a long-arse paper on Patton, Montgomery, and WWII).
Me: Would you be willing to write me a rec. letter for law school?
Professor H: Sure, I'd be glad to. Your paper was really good, by the way. Law school sounds like a great idea. The market for history jobs in the university is so bad right now, I don't really recommend that people go to grad school for history unless they're really really the top of bunch.
Me: Right, cool.
Professor H: Yeah, like Jackie, she's got a great idea about WWII and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.
I mean, was it really necessary to shoot me down when I hadn't even suggested any interest in pursuing graduate studies in history? Was I really that bad!?
(I would like to note that I took two graduate courses during my MFA program, and the teacher of one of those classes - from whom I earned my only A- during my three-year program, grrrrr - recently published an essay in an OXFORD collection in which he credits my paper for his class with providing some of the ideas he "adapted" for his paper. Isn't it lovely that he cited me by name only after noting that I had been a graduate student in his class? That is, only after basically trying to say he was responsible for me having had the ideas in the first place!)
The problem with the become-a-brilliant-historian plan, however, was the usual problem: I couldn't imagine ever coming up with an idea to write a dissertation about. (Yes, as a 21- and 22-year-old undergraduate, I was already thinking things like that). So that got checked off the list with psychologist and all those other things that required original ideas I'd never have.
Plus, there was this bizarre instance my junior year:
(Me: me; Professor H: history professor who taught my junior seminar and from whom I earned an A and wrote a long-arse paper on Patton, Montgomery, and WWII).
Me: Would you be willing to write me a rec. letter for law school?
Professor H: Sure, I'd be glad to. Your paper was really good, by the way. Law school sounds like a great idea. The market for history jobs in the university is so bad right now, I don't really recommend that people go to grad school for history unless they're really really the top of bunch.
Me: Right, cool.
Professor H: Yeah, like Jackie, she's got a great idea about WWII and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.
I mean, was it really necessary to shoot me down when I hadn't even suggested any interest in pursuing graduate studies in history? Was I really that bad!?
(I would like to note that I took two graduate courses during my MFA program, and the teacher of one of those classes - from whom I earned my only A- during my three-year program, grrrrr - recently published an essay in an OXFORD collection in which he credits my paper for his class with providing some of the ideas he "adapted" for his paper. Isn't it lovely that he cited me by name only after noting that I had been a graduate student in his class? That is, only after basically trying to say he was responsible for me having had the ideas in the first place!)
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