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).

A Modest Proposal

In my 18th Century Character and Culture class this semester, we have been reading Jonathan Swift. We read, of course, his essay, "A Modest Proposal" which offers up a solution (completely satirical, of course) to the poverty problem in England in the 18th Century. Swift proposes that the children of the poor be served up as food for the rich. The skins of the babies could be used to make fine gloves and boots, and freeing up the amount of children that the poor have to care for would enable the mothers to find work.

It is, of course, satire, but many readers thought Swift was serious. A piece that was written in the darkest of humors that was meant to express the rage Swift felt at the plight of the poor was grossly misinterpreted.

Dr. Givan required that we write a modest proposal of our own, addressing a social issue. Mine follows below. In order to avert the mistaken interpretation that I am serious, let me just remind my readers that I am planning to enter a the hallowed halls of Academia myself. I would also like to say I harbor the utmost respect for my professors, many of whom are past the retirement age suggested in the following text. I would not have them retire for many years to come.

Yet, I wouldn't mind having their jobs when I finish my PhD program in the next five years or so.

A Modest Proposal Regarding the State of Academia

It has come to pass over the course of the past several years, that, with the increase in attendance at the institutions of higher learning, and the increased interest in the study of the literature of the English language (and other literatures and languages besides) that there are more individuals possessing the title of "Doctor" entering the field than are retiring each year. The sad result of this major success in the recruitment departments of liberal arts programs everywhere, is that there are more doctors of English being produced than all the universities and junior colleges in the country could house.

There is a surplus, a plethora, of ambitious individuals hoping to better the world by receiving a tenure track position at one of the hallowed halls of education. These well-informed individuals are desperate for a place that will allow them to theorize over and interpret not only texts that have been analyzed beyond recognition, but also to criticize and debate the theories and interpretations of said texts. Yet because of the plethora of eager individuals who are filled with the knowledge of their own self-importance, it is difficult to find a place for them to carry out this work of theorization and dissection of texts.

This very important work must be allowed to continue yet these new Doctors of English have nowhere to go. There is simply no room for them in the hallowed halls of education. Why is this? Because the very same professors that educated our new Doctors are so enrapt in the profession of analyzing texts and teaching texts that they do not realize they have reached their expiration date and they continue to teach long after it is decent or polite to do so.

As a result, the new, young, vibrant Doctors of English are forced instead into adjunct positions, teaching endless sections of Freshman Composition, becoming embittered as they grade draft after draft and finally coming to loathe the near perfect world of Academia in their resentment at not being granted an office with (for the lucky ones) a window and a placard bearing their name and titles, and wall space on which to hang the documentation demonstrating their erudite state.

In order to prevent the embitterment of these noble young Doctors of Language and Literature, it would be prudent to ensure that the old and failing members of this group are appropriately cared for once they reach the age of fifty. If the average person finishes her PhD between the ages of twenty-five and thirty, the retirement age of fifty would allow a solid twenty to twenty-five years of teaching and study. At this point, the possessors of the title "doctor" will be relocated to a new home, a facility where, under the supervision of others, they will be allowed to continue their academic studies and debates and remain completely engrossed in their field specializations. The majority of the retired professors will not even note the difference in their location, as they very rarely look up from their books long enough to notice what is going on in the world around them.

It would be prudent to ensure that the facilities that will be built for these aged intellectuals has a sufficient distribution of rooms that possess windows, and rooms that don't. The faculty that spent the majority of their years in windowless offices and archives may experience agoraphobia if they suddenly have an outside view. Likewise, those who became accustomed to the slight distractions of viewing the outside world could become melancholy should they be deprived their only experience of Nature. The relocated Academy will be allowed to possess its books, with the majority of the personal collections to be allocated for the facility library. It is highly important that the Academians be allowed the experience of the amenities they were used to at the Universities, otherwise the relocation will be more obvious to them. Ensure that a poorly functioning microfilm and microfiche reader is available, and that, on various days, the equipment malfunctions. It is imperative for their mental abilities that they be challenged with practical problems from time to time, not just those dealing with the issues of dissecting texts.

In this fashion, the aged doctors can still maintain the feelings of importance that they acquired during their years of carving texts to be served up for the edification of students, and only of interest to other scholars, while not interfering with the ability of the young to carve the same texts to be served up for further edification of new students and other scholars.

I feel that it is imperative that this relocation program be put into practice immediately, beginning gradually at first to ensure a balance between experienced and new faculty members in the universities. It is important, however, that it be in place in full force in the next five to six years, to ensure that students beginning their doctoral programs in the near future will have the benefit of immediate employment upon completion of their dissertations.

Swiftly Going Mad

I have been reading, this past week, Jonathan Swift's Gulliver's Travels. I thoroughly enjoy a good satire, and Swift certainly writes some of the best.

It becomes increasingly difficult, however, to tell what it is that Swift satirizes as the reader

progresses through the pages.

There are moments when he ridicules the other peoples he visits so thoroughly, that it is entirely too easy to forget that he is using humor, and so must not be taken in an over serious fashion.

For example, many of his descriptions of women, which some of my classmates choose to see as proof positive of Swift's misogyny (at worst) or his dismissal of women (at best) are, in my reading of the text, representative of the cultural concepts and ideologies regarding women. Swift merely portrays the flaws of vanity and silliness that exist in some women, and that are assumed by 18th Century society as a whole to be inherent truths, and exaggerates these ideas.

I find it amusing when the mistake of equating the voice of the narrator with the voice of the author is consistently made by "experienced" English majors and wonder if they even remember that the narrator is not named Swift, but Gulliver.

The Travels become even more complicated to sort through with Part 4, the section that recounts Gulliver's stay with the Houyhnhnms, and his unpleasant experiences with the grotesque and entirely too human Yahoos.

Dr. Givan asked us to note what is not perfect about the Houyhnhnms, particularly because this is the book that is often interpreted as possessing Swift's idea of the Ideal culture. The main mistake, again, is forgetting that the text is a satire, and Swift is not likely to present an Ideal when he has spent the entire text creating imaginary worlds for the purpose of pointing out flaws.

It is my perception, and also a conclusion that the class reached together, that the Houyhnhnms represent the cold reason of the 18th century. Peace and prosperity resulted in the complete reliance on reason, but empathy and basic compassion were severely lacking. In essence, the Houyhnhnms represented loss of humanity in favor of reason. The 18th century's obsessions with reason and science are portrayed at their most extreme in the Houyhnhnms. The lack of war and barbarism is appealing, but at what cost? Feeling no love for spouses or children, feeling no real emotion whatsoever.

Humanity may be flawed and stupid and make mistakes as a result of our emotions, but the human capacity for love is what makes us human. The cold reason of the Houyhnhnms was not Swift's ideal, but perhaps his version of hell instead.

Gaiman + Christmas = Deliciously Dark Humor

I had my students read this story today for an exercise in suspending judgment and analyzing.

They were disturbed when I said I find the story to be delightful and hilarious. They would probably be even more disturbed to know how much I enjoyed the looks of horror forming on their own faces as they read.

Nicholas Was...

older than sin, and his beard could grow no whiter. He wanted to die.

The dwarfish natives of the Arctic caverns did not speak his language, but conversed in their own, twittering tongue, conducted incomprehensible rituals, when they were not actually working in the factories.

Once every year they forced him, sobbing and protesting, into Endless Night. During the journey he would stand near every child in the world, leave one of the dwarves' invisible gifts by its bedside. The children slept, frozen into time.

He envied Prometheus and Loki, Sisyphus and Judas. His punishment was harsher.

Ho.

Ho.

Ho.