Old People: My Future

While being a student taught me what I needed to know about personal responsibility, learning, using common sense, and making contacts, being a teacher has taught me something quite different. The lessons learned have been a direct result of these different perspectives on education and academia, I feel, and although some of the lessons have been painfully deceiving and then in turn painfully revealing, they've been useful.

Four years in academia--five, if you count the year I spent as a supplemental instructor--has shown me a lot about the inner workings of that mysterious class of people I once regarded as celebrities: professors. I love my professors, still love them! Don't mistake what I am saying for an attempt to slander them backhandedly. In some ways, I still think of my professors as something of celebrity status because of the way they carefully and deliberately revealed to us the deepest secrets of the writers and texts that we loved. Because they were a part of the grand scheme that included our beloved literature, they were classed with that literature as infamous. Maybe that was where we went wrong then, I don't know. At any rate, it didn't take me long in the academic circle to realize that I had misunderstood most of what I was seeing from my undergraduate desk, and later, I realized, even more of what had been misrepresented by myself over my own undergraduates' desks.

The longer I spend my time mingling with members of university faculty--full professors or otherwise--the more I am surprised by what I learn. Granted, I am much less surprised now than I once was, when I first made my transition from one to the other side of the one-way mirror of academia.

Over the past five years, I have heard more professors than I want to admit say how much they wish they had done something else with their lives. In part, I dare not criticize them. After all, teaching never was my particular goal in life either. I've heard professors say grimly that we were all there because we loved to read, or that they wished they would have followed this dream or that dream, become independent novelists, whatever. It makes me sad to think of someone living this kind of drudgery (believe me, five years is enough to show me the career for what it is!) and all that time wishing they had done something else. It makes me wonder, why didn't they do something else then...really?

I think a lot of people fail to follow their dreams for one reason or another, but the point is that it is up to each person individually to decide if they can come to terms with giving up their dreams. There has to be a point in life when one looks at the dreams, faded and dust-covered, lying out on the table and admits that it's too late for some of them. As I grow older, I can imagine the sense of tiredness that enables the acceptance, but the younger part of me, the part that fights really hard against difficulties, tells me not to accept acceptance, not without raging epic war.

There are two dreams I don't want to part with, and these dreams used to not play very nicely together, but they're learning to get along. The first places me as a successful screenwriter learning to direct and produce my own films. The second is much more commonplace and yet as appealing. It places me into a small country house, as a wife and a mother (of one, perhaps two), doing mission work, living a happy and simple life. And oddly enough, that dream still gives me a room of my own where I write on the side. Apparently the dreams I have lead unquestionably toward a path of writing, and both lead me likewise to a path away from academia. I believe that my real dream is to support myself on my writing and my own creative work. I see too many people slaving away, unhappily, for a paycheck that is really little more than what they could earn working much more happily on their own.

So, that's what I want. Observation has spoken to me. The examples I've seen have helped me to see my future self, far down this same path, and I don't like her. She really can't play nicely with the other two dreams.

Bad Habits

Writing has become kind of this habit with me. But when do people talk about their "habits" and mean the nice things that they do? The understanding of what a habit is always has a distinctly negative connotation to it. People with bad habits skulk in dark corners of rat-infested alleys to keep people from seeing what they are doing; the goals of people with "bad habits" are to keep their habits secret so that no one tries to take the habit away. This is how I see my writing.

I have a terrible dread of having my writing read by others. I used to think that I could express myself only through writing, but now I realize that while I express myself that way, clearly, I want others to see into me through writing as little as I want them to see into me through my spoken words. I am not particularly interested in using my writing as a means of sharing myself. I want my writing to speak of things beyond me, to showcase lives unrelated to mine, and to share truths that are not of myself.

I hide in corners to scribble furtively on blank pages, and then I stuff the pages into my pocket to destroy them later. No one sees what I write, because I have an unnatural fear that people will read my thoughts and think they know me by them. Or worse, that they will read my thoughts and realize that they never knew me, because then that will be my fault, and that would be even worse.

Bleeding Dreams

I have spent the past 4 years of my life teaching freshman composition, and doing almost entirely that and nothing else! It has been rewarding, interesting, frustrating, and exhausting, sometimes by turns and sometimes all at once. Now is a decision point for me. As I am making the final touches to the master's thesis I wrote with my own blood (that could easily be turned to a literal statement...often it feels that excruciating!) I am faced with the facts of where I am in life and where I want to be. Sure, I love teaching. Really, I do, even on those frustrating days when I feel like I am talking to a brick wall of emotionless faces. There is nothing like that breakthrough that occurs, usually few and far between, sure, but so awesome when it does come. However, I have to consider which dreams brought me to the place where I now stand. I started college at 18 saying that I knew I would always read and write, but I needed to do something to support myself. I changed my mind right away when I realized I needed to become a master of reading and writing in order to support myself as a writer, which was what I really wanted to do. Then at 21 I was recommended to supplemental instruction, and at 22 I got my own classroom. I am 26 now, almost done, sharing my love for reading and writing with tons of people every day. That's the dream, right? Well, almost. I read almost constantly. I teach how to write, what to write, how to read in order to write better, and I talk about reading and writing to 100 or more people every day. Also, I read their papers, read their lessons with them, and read a novel a week (except right now the novel I am reading is 2,000 pages long, so it's taking at least 2 weeks) but when do I follow my dreams? When do I write for me? And the thesis I wrote in blood isn't for me; it's writing, yes, it benefits me in the future, yes, yes and still yes. But dreams. They will probably nag at me forever, and if I don't complete them, the regret will take the place of the dreams themselves in torturing me in my sleep. I've been talking about this forever and doing nothing about it, but then what could I do while bleeding out over the pages of a giant document that could seal my fate for the future. I have to take the path slowly and wisely, but I wonder if now is the time to begin considering which fork in the road to take. I think I am certain of where my interest lies...where it has always lain...where it always will...okay, I am not trying to write "lie" in every tense possible...I get silly when I think too much.

Dead Lines. Or deadlines...

It looks like my thesis won't be finished in time for that new, much sooner deadline that the school only recently informed me about. I guess that's all right with me because I'm just not ready. It is frustrating because I am ready to start my life and I feel like life keeps on keeping me back.

But, in order to make that claim, I guess I have to ignore some of the huge advantages I have had. Even though I complain about money, I have a lot more teaching experience, and subsequently a lot more paying work, than a lot of other people in the same position that I am in. Also, I will take 4 full years to finish graduate school, but I spent a year in the middle pursuing scriptwriting in the communications department. It was definitely worth it to me to take time out to have some new experiences! I would like to explore more in that field too, so it didn't hurt me but rather helped me to see more of my dreams.

Overall, I am happy with the experiences that I've had as a grad student. I'm disappointed that my "graduate experience" is not ending as soon as I'd hoped, but I'd rather be good and ready before making my presentation. ...And I'm not good and ready yet. I am determined to be ready very soon though. Keep me accountable!

Writing Strain

It's been a while since I've posted anything to my blog, so now that the semester has begun, my posts will begin in a flood. I am so much more inclined toward writing and creativity as the semester goes because writing suddenly becomes my sole professional activity. I am writing, I am teaching writing, I am reading writing, I am revising writing, I am grading writing, I am defending writing, so I might as well also write for fun. Why bother doing anything else for fun when I am already using that part of my brain pretty actively?

My writing schedule is pretty strained at the moment. The thesis is taking up 90% of my writing time. It's going well. Well, it's going alright. Well, it's sort of going. I am not super optimistic, but I am pretty sure that it's going to be done. I am excited--in a way--to actually be at the point of writing a thesis since I am currently starting my 8th year as a college student. I have been geared toward this huge writing project for my entire life, it seems, and now that it's finally in process, it's ridiculous that I should be allowing a desperate writer's block to interfere (although sometimes that can't be helped).

But here I am poking my head out of my thesis writing mess just to say hi, and let everyone know that I am still alive in here!

My Claim to Fame

It's funny how I still operate in "semesters" while so many of my counterparts just operate in endless years counting down to their 2 weeks' vacation. (And that's another issue which I shall address at another time!) I am happy with my semesters, with my 17 weeks of life and then switch. I have never been a huge fan of "change" and yet my dislike for sameness is almost greater. I can't stand the frustration of a life devoid of uniqueness and adventure stretches before me like a straight road (the dreaded straight road so lamented by the books of my childhood! L.M. Montgomery taught me to appreciate the new adventures life calls for periodically.)

There is nothing more nerve-wracking and yet strangely exciting about walking into a new classroom to meet a new group of students. They are all unique, fresh minds that I have yet to impart knowledge to. I look at their faces--some of them bored and indifferent, some of them nervous with previous English experiences echoed in their expressions, everyone different--and I wonder whose lives I will touch, whose thoughts I will impress, whose minds will I change? The odds are that few will be changed by me, that some will even fail the class and never look back, or pass the class and never look back! But for the off chance that even one person might be interested in what I have to say and might walk away with a lesson that they will keep for ever...for that, it becomes worth it to me.

I remember parts of my college career, especially parts that are long gone and teachers that I only had once or twice. I remember one sentence, one piece of advice, one bit of encouragement, one day, out of how many hours spent doing work for that course and sitting in that classroom? But the key is that I DO remember. I remember when Patrick Reichard said, "Who are you quoting?" and I realized that quotation marks were a stylistic choice in speech and a rhetorical indiscretion in writing. I remember when John Flannigan said I should write something that matters to me, not something that shows off that I can write, when we were talking about the assigned essay prompts for my application to the University of Chicago (which I never submitted because of that conversation). I remember when Lizbeth Bryant said, "Unpack this statement," and I pondered over her meaning for days. Once I understood what it meant to "unpack" a statement, it's become a critical aspect of my own writing process. I am unpacking things all the time now, and I understand exactly why it's important. And there are many more...

So, even if someone remembers one thing, it is how my instruction may help me live on in the minds of my students. It will be my claim to fame for the future, even if I leave no other footprints behind.

The Thirteenth Tale

"...silence is not a natural environment for stories. They need words. Without them, they grow pale, sicken, and die. And then they haunt you."

--The Thirteenth Tale

Writing is an important part of my life, whether I am physically constructing a piece of writing or not. I have recently finished reading a gloriously well-written novel from 2006. I was surprised by it as it is rather new for my taste, generally speaking. I was impressed by the subtle ability of the author to string words together, to paint a picture of characters worthy of my notice, to draw me irrevocably into a story that plays itself before my eyes like a delightful film I can't seem to turn away from. A story of this power serves only to remind me of the deep, burning desire inside of myself: the desire to create life out of ink on a page. Reading books--well, reading a well-crafted book--almost makes me wonder if, by some chance, film really is not my niche, not my calling, just a cop-out after all...

The book in question is The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield. Some moments of the book inspire me delightfully, setting my heart into a flurry of anticipation, not only for the characters, but for writing itself, for books, for storytelling, for my own future. The inspiration offers me renewal. While reading, I become reunited again with that elusive yet vital part of my being: my writer.

"A good story is always more dazzling than a broken piece of truth."

--The Thirteenth Tale