I love language, but not in the sharpie wielding kind of way. I love it in the way Stephen Fry describes, playing with it for the thrill, the sound-sex of it, to borrow Stephen Fry's phrase. Alliteration and assonance, verbal barbs, or beautiful words that send thrills down my spine or start tears in my eyes. I love reading and hearing words that remind me what the power of words actually can be, and this video reminded me why poetry and prose alike can hold my attention so completely that I forget, for a while, what the line between reality and fiction looks like.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J7E-aoXLZGY&sns=fb

in a haze

I'm a liar. I didn't make more time to blog about what I read. I'm still stuck in the disability to fully process anything I'm reading, for one thing.

I strongly recommend reading William Gibson's Pattern Recognition.

And Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair. It's pure fantasy for English nerds.

That's all I have right now. I'm drained.

The Angst of a PhD Student

I am reading so much right now, I don't know where to start with my blog. I'm quite behind in my entries - I've read many many things since I last posted, and now I have absolutely no idea where to start, in order to catch up.

I'm taking a Composition Pedagogies class (again), and a Travel Writing course. Food for thought in both courses, but I'm still processing.

I will say this: the more I read and the study, the smaller I feel, and, sometimes, the less I actually learn.

I've managed to fall into some type of rhythm for studying and reading now, so hopefully, more blog posts will be forthcoming.

Vampires

It's been quite a while since I've written anything. That doesn't mean I haven't been reading. I read quite a bit over the spring semester, for my last semester as a master's student at UCO. Finishing my thesis, taking Hemingway and Composition Pedagogies, as well as reading a few pages for fun here and there, in order to clear my brain of all the academics, kept me reading far too much for me to have time to write anything on this blog.

And now, when I am writing, instead of reflecting on reading, I'm going to reflect on what I've been viewing, because it directly relates to my writing, which is connected to my reading. So it counts.

I went to see a musical tonight (or rather last night, since it is now the wee hours of the morning) entitled [Title of Show]. It's about a couple of guys writing a musical about a couple of guys writing a musical. As they work, they are faced with the difficulties of writer's block, and later, with the difficulties of maintaining the integrity of their project or giving in to mainstream demands in order to make a profit and make it to Broadway.

The friend I attended this musical with insisted that I go see it with him, while we were having a chat conversation about writing. I'm grateful that he did, because it particularly pertained to me. There's a song that relates self-doubt and despair to vampires, and I can relate. Sometimes I question my own ability to the point that I am drained of the capability of writing anything at all.

It makes me think again of something Ira Glass said, about producing massive amounts of work that isn't really that good, in order to get to the work that is. If I continually doubt myself and block myself from creating anything at all, how will I manage to work through all the mediocre and even down right shitty writing in order to get to something that actually has merit?

I've been attempting to work on a novel I started a couple years ago, and writer's block keeps plaguing me. My intention when I started this novel was to write, simply, a romance novel I could market easily for some quick cash. As the story develops, however, I've realized that it's not going to be marketable as a good old fashioned bodice ripping romance, you know, the kind with Fabio on the cover, holding a fainting woman in a tight corset that looks ready to burst. At first I thought I should keep out the plot tendencies that were making my book more than a silly romance. After all, why was I writing it? To have a marketable book for some quick cash. The thing is, I don't want to write something that's just quick cash, and that I have to publish under a pseudonym so I can look at myself in the mirror every day. I want to write something good. And as I struggle to write something good, I am concerned with what my readers will think, concerned that it really is only bodice ripping romance after all (even though no bodices have yet been ripped, in the literal sense).

A line from the musical, and a line that my friend quoted to me (unbeknownst to me until we were actually watching the musical) said that if any stranger on the street walked up to us and expressed the doubts we harbor in our minds every day, we would think that stranger was crazy, and be offended. Yet we tell them to ourselves daily.

The question I am left with: how do I stop doubting myself long enough to free up my mind to generate mediocre text so that I can later polish it into something shiny? The only answer I've been able to find so far is to tell myself to shut up and just write.

Theories of Composition and Pedagogy, Quest Narrative in Hemingway, Ecocriticism and Hobbits, American Identity, and Medieval Mysticism

So it's been an unforgivably long time since I've blogged. As you can tell from the title, I have many many different pursuits going on with my reading right now. Perhaps that's why I haven't written - I really wouldn't know what to write about.

I'm taking Composition Pedagogies this semester, and it's quite the intriguing, and at times frustrating, course. It is intriguing because the various theoretical approaches and the justification for these approaches encourages and challenges me to examine my own teaching methods. It is frustrating because much of the theory loses touch with actual practice, and much composition theory doesn't seem to concern itself with what goes on outside of the composition classroom. As a professor in training, I worry about the future of my field, and this kind of isolationism threatens the future of my field. I feel like it is imperative that composition studies, as well as studies in literature, find a way to become relevant outside of the classroom, as well as outside of the university. It seems obvious that learning written communication is important, and it is important. In the text-dependent culture we live in (whether the internet or Facebook or writing grant and business proposals or texting) a certain understanding of how language works and how to communicate most effectively in speech or text is necessary. The problem, then, is determining how that communication should be taught, and what type of discourse should be taught.

I have too many thoughts on this to go into now - I'm working on a research paper for my course that will propose a first year composition program. Ambitious, I know, but I have some ideas floating in my brain that I want to attempt to put into practice. I'll write more on my thoughts on composition theory and discourse relevance as I continue to research for my project.

My other reading - I'm taking a Hemingway course right now, and loving every moment of it. Every time I read a new or revisit a familiar Hemingway text, I fall more in love with Papa's prose, and with his investigation of human experience. My paper for that class involves researching quest narratives and religion. Lots of interesting reading going on there as well, and I also have too many thoughts on them to address right now.

Finally, ecocriticism and Hobbits - I'm writing a paper dealing with environmentalism in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings Trilogy and the Silmarillion for a conference in April in Montreal. Needless to say, lots of different thoughts going on there as well, all of which I will revisit once the paper is written and I have successfully (I hope) presented my findings at the conference.

Oh, and I'm occasionally revisiting concepts of narratology, sonnet convention, medieval mysticism, and Renaissance ideology as I continue to work on and revise my thesis.

And, the readings I've assigned my students in my American Identity themed research course. I'm thinking I'll have to take each of these topics for separate blog entries. I'm not sure what kind of convoluted connections I'll make otherwise.

More soon (which is a relative term - more when I have time)

So this is a piece I wrote for my 18th Century Character and Culture class. Dr. Givan asked us to write a satirical piece about the class, or something we read in the class.

We read Jane Austen's Emma, and, as much as I love Austen, there is an element in the novel that I feel is often overlooked by critics, and so I chose to illustrate it in my piece. Mr. Woodhouse's controlling nature has always grated on my nerves, and also demonstrated Austen's skill with creating ironic situations. It is always Emma's controlling nature that is focused on and I find that to be unjust.

So, below is the story that was inspired by my irritation with Mr. Woodhouse and the heavy criticism of Emma's character. Enjoy.

Everything for His Pleasure

Emma Woodhouse[1], try as she might, could not suppress the sigh that escaped her lips as she recalled the words that had set her heart pounding and the blood to her cheeks those ten years ago. Mr. Knightley had caused her so much joy, so much excitement, when he revealed his love to her. His fervor and sincerity had promised a life of great passion.

Yet now, as she sat by the fire, the picture was bleak. Out of love for her father, she had remained at Hartfield, rather than relocate to Donwell Abbey. Mr. Knightley, being the kind man that he was, had been more than amenable to taking up residence with Mr. Woodhouse so that the old gentleman could maintain possession of his beloved daughter, and so resign himself more to the concept of another marriage in the family. The situation had seemed ideal: not only would Emma be first in affection to her dear father, but now Mr. Knightley would be there as well to brighten the long and lonely days at Hartfield.

Or so Emma had imagined.

She sighed again. If there was nothing else she should have learned by the time she reached her twenty-first year when Mr. Knightley first expressed his feelings for her, it was that her fancies were often misconceived and rarely fulfilled.

Her life had continued on much as before. She cared for her father, assuring that his worries were allayed, his nerves soothed, and any thought of rich foods or pleasure on the part of others thoroughly concealed from him. She had the addition of Mr. Knightley to provide variation in the conversation, and he was such a dear and always showed the greatest concern for her father. Too much concern, at times.

Emma forced the frown from her face, composing and smoothing her expression to one of pleasant and bland contentment. No one must guess she was anything other than happy.

In ten years of marriage, Mr. Woodhouse, her dear, dear, father, was in the same condition as upon her wedding day. His discontent at her marriage had been soothed by her decision to remain at Hartfield, but his interference in her life had not paused there.

Emma was now thirty-one years of age. She had been married for ten years and remained as slender and nearly as innocent as her wedding day. Yes, she still had her beauty, but the bloom had faded. She may as well be the spinster Miss Woodhouse that Harriet had feared she would become when her resolution had been never to marry.

Mr. Woodhouse had been positively and firmly against Emma sleeping anywhere other than her own bedroom, where she had always resided. Mr. Woodhouse had also been positively and firmly against Mr. Knightley sleeping anywhere other than the room that was made over especially for him.

Emma and Mr. Knightley, out of their mutual respect for Mr. Woodhouse, remained in their respective bedrooms. Every night of their married life, they parted ways with a chaste kiss at the top of the stairs before retiring to sleep. Every night. Even the wedding night. Sleep. Alone. Nothing but sleep, at night, and alone.

Emma rose from her chair and paced to the window. Mr. Knightley was returning from a lengthy walk; she could see him coming through the park. Her heart quickened slightly. Her father was sleeping.

Over the years, Emma and Mr. Knightley had realized that their sleeping arrangement, though inconvenient, did not have to deprive them of all of the joys of the conjugal state. There were snatched moments when her father was sleeping, brief seconds when he took his walks if he chanced not to ask for company.

She rushed to meet Mr. Knightley in the hallway.

The smile froze on her lips when she realized he was not alone.

With him were Harriet Smith and Jane Fairfax.

Mr. Knightley was smiling in a way she had never quite seen.

Emma greeted them, her mind not quite knowing which way to think. She quickly shut down her fancies, reminding herself firmly that her imagination often led her astray.

They all sat together for tea, had polite conversation about the weather. Emma's eyes darted from face to face, noticing bright eyes and clandestine smiles that were quickly hidden when Emma's eyes fell on Harriet or Jane or Mr. Knightley.

When the ladies made their excuses and went on their way, Emma regarded her husband for several minutes until he lifted his eyes from the fire to meet her gaze.

Before he could speak, she said, shortly, "I should have run away with Frank Churchill."

Mr. Knightley's smile faded from his face, but he said nothing. They looked at the fire together in silence until Mr. Woodhouse woke from his sleep and they were occupied, as usual, with his entertainment and pleasure.

---

[1] Characters loosely based on Jane Austen's Emma

I really love Philip Sidney. Astrophil and Stella is one of the most beautiful sonnet sequences written. It rivals my love for Shakespeare's sonnet sequence, which is saying quite a bit considering that I reread Shakespeare's sonnets every other month, and have a line from one of the sonnets tattooed on my forearm.

I'm rereading Astrophil and Stella for my thesis work, and was struck anew by the beauty of it and so I am sharing the second sonnet in the sequence below. Enjoy.

Not at the first sight, nor with a dribbed shot,

Love gave the wound, which while I breathe will bleed;

But known worth did in mine of time proceed,

Till by degrees it had full conquest got.

I saw and liked; I liked but loved not;

I loved, but straight did not what love decreed;

At length to love's decrees I, forced, agreed,

Yet with repining at so partial lot.

Now even that footstep of lost liberty

Is gone, and now, like slave-born Muscovite,

I call it praise to suffer tyranny;

And now employ the remnant of my wit

To make myself believe that all is well,

While with a feeling skill I paint my hell. (1-14).