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| Harry laughing with his friend who comes to play with us every week |
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| Laughing with his friend's lion |
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| Reminding me that life is not always a laughing matter... |
Thursday, December 9, 2010
As Promised :)
On Being a Professional Reader
It's not what I want to be.
Obviously it's not that I don't want to read--if I didn't like reading, I would have gotten nowhere near this program, nor would I have been an English major in the first place. But going into the field of "literary criticism," which is what you're doing when you get a PhD in English, is learning to read certain ways. Then you write about that reading in certain ways. And then you go to conferences and talk about that writing about that reading in a certain way. And you expect others to respond to you talking and writing about that reading in certain ways. And then you teach the rising generation how to read certain ways and then write about their reading in certain ways. And yes, the field is replete with arguments over what Reading even Is or Does or Should Be--but nowadays you wouldn't use caps, because Absolute Assertions Are Wrong (ding!)--and theories about different ways of reading. But come on, guys. All the formulations of different readings are formulated the same way, because everyone's thought themselves into a pretty closed system which, if it doesn't Really Speak to You or starts to just make you Tired, you should probably quietly slip out of by the side door. (Or maybe just walk, or maybe even saunter, skip, or bolt, and maybe even go by the front door--the one that used to be flanked by big stone lions that are being replaced by sculptures in a postpostpostmodern style, not a style at all really, but the theory behind them is really cool and says a lot about our generation) because you don't really care who sees you leaving.
This is probably part insecurity; I listen to the students around me in class and how well and easily they engage with ridiculously obtuse material (and can throw out words like "obtuse" without having to wonder if they've chosen the right word--well, ok, maybe "obtuse" isn't a good example, since Harry uses "obtuse," but you see my point), and I'm jealous of their ability to digest long and obscure theoretical-philosophical tracts. It's not something I'm good at. But then maybe I could do it if I worked harder. But then I'd have to put in that time and effort when I really don't care that I can't offhandedly produce and discuss points from all 18 books of ethical theory that we've read this semester.
It's just not my thing.
The field was fun when I was an undergrad, when things were pre-professional. Now, however, I find myself consuming all this literature and criticism only to produce pieces of writing that are utterly uninspired--because that's what I am. I want to create something. I want to write. And I don't want to be stuck with the pressure of reading like a professional. I want to read just because I want to read, and I want to read like a writer. I want to be someone who makes.
No, this is not me announcing that I'm dropping out of the program. This is just me, after yet another class to which I contributed nothing, putting into writing the fact that this is simply not what I'm going to do with the rest of my life.
There are things I can do so much better.
...and I'll post a cute picture of Harry later tonight to make up for all this serious stuff. :)
Obviously it's not that I don't want to read--if I didn't like reading, I would have gotten nowhere near this program, nor would I have been an English major in the first place. But going into the field of "literary criticism," which is what you're doing when you get a PhD in English, is learning to read certain ways. Then you write about that reading in certain ways. And then you go to conferences and talk about that writing about that reading in a certain way. And you expect others to respond to you talking and writing about that reading in certain ways. And then you teach the rising generation how to read certain ways and then write about their reading in certain ways. And yes, the field is replete with arguments over what Reading even Is or Does or Should Be--but nowadays you wouldn't use caps, because Absolute Assertions Are Wrong (ding!)--and theories about different ways of reading. But come on, guys. All the formulations of different readings are formulated the same way, because everyone's thought themselves into a pretty closed system which, if it doesn't Really Speak to You or starts to just make you Tired, you should probably quietly slip out of by the side door. (Or maybe just walk, or maybe even saunter, skip, or bolt, and maybe even go by the front door--the one that used to be flanked by big stone lions that are being replaced by sculptures in a postpostpostmodern style, not a style at all really, but the theory behind them is really cool and says a lot about our generation) because you don't really care who sees you leaving.
This is probably part insecurity; I listen to the students around me in class and how well and easily they engage with ridiculously obtuse material (and can throw out words like "obtuse" without having to wonder if they've chosen the right word--well, ok, maybe "obtuse" isn't a good example, since Harry uses "obtuse," but you see my point), and I'm jealous of their ability to digest long and obscure theoretical-philosophical tracts. It's not something I'm good at. But then maybe I could do it if I worked harder. But then I'd have to put in that time and effort when I really don't care that I can't offhandedly produce and discuss points from all 18 books of ethical theory that we've read this semester.
It's just not my thing.
The field was fun when I was an undergrad, when things were pre-professional. Now, however, I find myself consuming all this literature and criticism only to produce pieces of writing that are utterly uninspired--because that's what I am. I want to create something. I want to write. And I don't want to be stuck with the pressure of reading like a professional. I want to read just because I want to read, and I want to read like a writer. I want to be someone who makes.
No, this is not me announcing that I'm dropping out of the program. This is just me, after yet another class to which I contributed nothing, putting into writing the fact that this is simply not what I'm going to do with the rest of my life.
There are things I can do so much better.
...and I'll post a cute picture of Harry later tonight to make up for all this serious stuff. :)
Monday, December 6, 2010
Perfect
...is exactly how I think he looks in these pictures, taken a couple weeks ago. Excuse me while I swoon with glowing motherly affection. :)
Cookbook As Novel
Sometimes I feel like a genius. Sometimes I'm working on a paper, leaning back in my chair, staring at the wall with a pen fluttering between my fingers as I try to figure out what to say and suddenly BAM. I feel like I've discovered the quadratic formula. Sheer academic awesomeness. Sometimes it's more along the lines of a grin and an "Oh but I am a clever one" and before I happily proceed to produce something that, if not made of awesome, is at least smart and sharp and entertaining.
And then sometimes I go an entire semester without feeling very clever at all. Welcome, my friends, to Fall 2010. Today I had an approximate deadline of 4 pm (less than an hour ago) to post a review/synthesis question for the research seminar I'm taking entitled "The Novel and the New Ethics." I was completely stumped. No idea what to do. I babysat until 12:30, and then my time was taken up with Harry. 3:00 suddenly appeared and he was getting needy and I was getting tired and was still utterly clueless. The minutes ticked past 4 and I still just wasn't getting it. Cory called to say he was coming home to rescue me; he got home (with chocolate-covered s'more candy things, yum) and took Henry off to collect a package from the post office, and I grabbed my class notebook in an attempt to maybe find SOMETHING I'd written in a margin that might help.
Then I found it.
And then, at 4:41, at the bottom of a list of posts with "ethics" in most of the titles and bodies written in standard, interesting, academic-style prose, there appeared this, which I would put into the clever-grin category because that's exactly what it produced:
Cookbook as Novel
(...because I've been changing diapers all day, my brain is slightly fried, and I think this would be fun.)
On our first day of class (and again since), it was suggested that an interesting discussion would arise from tossing a cookbook on the table, calling it a novel, and asking what everyone thought.
So here's my question: If we use our powers of attempted sympathy to imaginatively slip into the skins of a couple theorists we've read, how would they feel if they were sitting at that table? Would they be ok with calling a cookbook a novel? What ethical issues might arise? Would they have issues, for example, with its overwhelmingly prescriptive nature? With its apparent lack of narrative (or are "cookies" the proper telos to the progress of the text?)? Would they scoff its underdeveloped characters? With its metatexuality? With its hyperawareness of its readers, with what it assumes they do or don't know? and so on.
...yes, I realize this probably isn't interesting to anyone, but hey. I'm proud and vain and wanted to share. :)
And then sometimes I go an entire semester without feeling very clever at all. Welcome, my friends, to Fall 2010. Today I had an approximate deadline of 4 pm (less than an hour ago) to post a review/synthesis question for the research seminar I'm taking entitled "The Novel and the New Ethics." I was completely stumped. No idea what to do. I babysat until 12:30, and then my time was taken up with Harry. 3:00 suddenly appeared and he was getting needy and I was getting tired and was still utterly clueless. The minutes ticked past 4 and I still just wasn't getting it. Cory called to say he was coming home to rescue me; he got home (with chocolate-covered s'more candy things, yum) and took Henry off to collect a package from the post office, and I grabbed my class notebook in an attempt to maybe find SOMETHING I'd written in a margin that might help.
Then I found it.
And then, at 4:41, at the bottom of a list of posts with "ethics" in most of the titles and bodies written in standard, interesting, academic-style prose, there appeared this, which I would put into the clever-grin category because that's exactly what it produced:
Cookbook as Novel
(...because I've been changing diapers all day, my brain is slightly fried, and I think this would be fun.)
On our first day of class (and again since), it was suggested that an interesting discussion would arise from tossing a cookbook on the table, calling it a novel, and asking what everyone thought.
So here's my question: If we use our powers of attempted sympathy to imaginatively slip into the skins of a couple theorists we've read, how would they feel if they were sitting at that table? Would they be ok with calling a cookbook a novel? What ethical issues might arise? Would they have issues, for example, with its overwhelmingly prescriptive nature? With its apparent lack of narrative (or are "cookies" the proper telos to the progress of the text?)? Would they scoff its underdeveloped characters? With its metatexuality? With its hyperawareness of its readers, with what it assumes they do or don't know? and so on.
...yes, I realize this probably isn't interesting to anyone, but hey. I'm proud and vain and wanted to share. :)
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