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Well, I did not meet my InDWriMo goals for November, barely crossing the 50% mark of my 48 hours of writing/revision goals. Nevertheless, I consider it a successful experiment. I desperately needed some kind of external impetus to get me working on the revisions as, strangely enough, tenure, professional achievement, and closure were not sufficient motivations. I had been in a state of anxiety-stricken avoidance for months. So, any compelling force that could get me to crack the pages of my manuscript and face up to the work ahead is something to be grateful for.
I learned something else during the InDWriMo experience: For months, I had been having strange, terrifying, and visceral fantasies about dangers assailing me or my family. I would wake up in the middle of the night, or during savasana after my yoga practice, or just driving in my car — and find myself imagining murderers or rapists attacking me, killing my loved ones, my pets — just terrible and inexplicable fantasies. I had been trying to remedy this by focusing on the health, safety, well-being, and happiness of my family, practicing gratitude towards all the good parts of my life. But, what brought an end to the fantasies was starting to work on my book revisions. Ever since I started working at the beginning of November, I haven’t had these dark thoughts. It goes to show what a twisted, dysfunctional relationship I have with this book — but the lesson I am taking from this experience is that I needed to face my real fears (not completing the book, not getting tenure, having wasted years on the book, etc.) in order to rid myself of these imaginary fears.
So, thank you, InDWriMo! I hope I won’t have need of you again next year — or, at least, maybe I can do NaNoWriMo instead since my ac. book will be all wrapped up. (Positive thoughts. Positive thoughts.)
Now, if I can just keep up the momentum …
The cold, piercing terror that strikes at unexpected moments — as you are walking the dog, folding laundry, laughing with friends over drinks, sleeping soundly in the middle of the night — that you’ve been discovered. That someone has figured out your Top Secret identity. One of your colleagues. One of your students. The ex boy- or girlfriend who dumped you in high school. Someone has found your blog and is reading it and snickering over the pathetic mess of your life. And, even though you thought your blog was a harmless bit of fun, it’s actually about to (in some undefined way) bring about the downfall of your career, your relationships, the respect of your friends and family, your pride.
Blog panic?
Here’s the problem that I am facing. When I started what is now my book project over a decade ago, I didn’t really know what I was doing. I certainly wasn’t thinking: I am writing a book that needs to have a coherent location in a field of scholarship. I just discovered a topic I was interested in and started working on it.
I started noticing a particular theme in literature, let’s call it: the theme of Short People. I started paying attention to Short People in various works of literature in a certain time period and developed an argument about the representation of Short People and, voila! A dissertation.
Meanwhile, around the same time, a new school of thought was emerging, let’s call it Shortness Studies. So, by the time I finished my dissertation, I needed to be able to situate my study of Short People within Shortness Studies — but Shortness Studies was a fairly new area and it wasn’t that difficult to get a grasp on its main points.
As I continued to tinker away at my study of Short People over the years — sporadically, with various degrees of interest and enthusiasm, and generally distracted by other pressing responsibilities like teaching — I grew rather dissatisfied with my take on Short People. Eventually I noticed that, while I thought I was studying Short People, I was actually studying Short People Who Wear Shoes! Imagine my surprise! But, the introduction of the Shoe Paradigm suddenly gave my book a new and useful framework; I was able to visualize the entire project in a new way.
Unfortunately, I also recognized that there was an entire body of criticism surrounding People Who Wear Shoes. A large, long-standing, rather bulky body of criticism about which I knew nothing. So, in order to finish my book, I gave myself a crash course in People Who Wear Shoes criticism — but, let’s face it, I don’t know that much. I’ve never studied or taught People Who Wear Shoes criticism. I haven’t envisioned myself as working in this field before so none of my book is really oriented towards it.
One of the critiques I received about my introduction is that I treat People Who Wear Shoes criticism rather superficially and I need a more substantial engagement with it. I don’t find this criticism surprising but I am feeling completely defeated by trying to address it.
Because, let’s face it, I don’t give a shit about People Who Wear Shoes criticism. It hasn’t played any role in my thinking over the many years that I’ve been laboring on this project. I am only writing about it now because I need to — so that I can deflect all the critics who would take one look at my project and say, “But, how does it relate to People Who Wear Shoes criticism??”
Not only do I not care about People Who Wear Shoes criticism, I don’t have time to try to learn more about it. It’s completely overwhelming, this massive school of thought that I could spend years getting a hang of.
So what’s an overworked, overwhelmed, depressed scholar supposed to do? I’ve tried being fiercely optimistic and just barrelling ahead. I’ve tried crying into my pillow. I’ve sent myself back to the library to read more People Who Wear Shoes criticism. I’ve thrown People Who Wear Shoes criticism across the room because it is just so freaking dense and useless. I’ve tried writing more generalities — and then erased them. I’ve tried writing more specifics and realized that I don’t know what the hell I’m writing about.
Fair to say: Today I’m feeling stuck and frustrated.
I like a good vampire story as much as the next person. I even like some bad vampire stories. I read Anne Rice back when she was just a fingerless-lace-glove wearing nut — before she became a “life of Jesus” nut. I watched (and continue to watch) Buffy and Angel. I read some of the soft-core crap that passes as the Anita Blake series. I’ve been watching Trueblood on HBO.
Yet, somehow I missed the whole Twilight thing. Until now.
Now, of course, it is impossible to escape the phenomenon that is Twilight. I watched news coverage about tween girls and their moms camping out overnight at the mall to catch a glimpse of the guy who’s starring in the movie. I heard that the first weekend’s showings of Twilight sold out a week in advance. I saw that some of my favorite bloggers are reading or have already read the series. (That’s you, What Now?, Mean Something and Dr. Crazy.)
So, my curiosity was piqued. I bought Twilight on Sunday and finished it today. I could certainly have finished it sooner if it hadn’t been for, well, all that pesky work that requires doin’. I give Stephenie Meyer credit for writing a fun and engaging story. It’s a pretty riveting, stay-up-until-2am kind of a read.
I was also reminded of one of the problems I have with these modern vampire narratives: Why in the world would a well-travelled and cultured vampire who’s witnessed hundreds of years of human history want to hang around with a teen-aged girl? The biggest fantasy presented by these stories is that 16-year-old middle-class white American girls are endlessly fascinating. The authors try to get around this by making the teen-aged girl somehow “special”: Buffy is the slayer. Sookie has psychic powers. Bella’s mind cannot be read by Edward. (I sense that there is more super-duper mystery surrounding this fact that will be revealed in subsequent books but I’ve only read the first one so don’t ruin it for me!) You could argue that the point is that 16 year old middle-class white American girls are capable of being endlessly fascinating — and propose that there’s an uplifting message in these stories: Be strong, brave, and loyal and it doesn’t matter that you’re just an ordinary girl. Unfortunately, I fear that the real message is: Only young, nubile, and virginal girls are interesting and even 300 year old vampires know it. So, you better hope you get “bitten” early on because no one cares about old chicks.
Am I wrong?
I’d like to see a vampire story in which the brooding, mysterious vampire says to himself, “You know, I’d like to have a real conversation with a woman who’s lived long enough to develop a mature perspective on the world, who has thought about things other than who’s going to the prom with whom, who has maybe read some books. We could talk for a while and then I would bite her soft, slightly wrinklely but still quite delicious neck.” I just don’t think the tweens would camp out all night for that guy.
Okay, so it might not be three pages for everyone. For some, it’s five pages or seven pages. But, regardless, every academic book has them: the opening pages upon which so much depends. As part of my InDWriMo labor, I have been trying to revise the introduction to my book. This has involved rewriting the opening pages. I labored endlessly over these pages months ago, the first time around. Now, confronting them again, trying once again to hit the mark, I am even more profoundly struck by how much weight they have to bear.
The opening pages of an academic book do so much: There is usually the Opening Anecdote.* You know what I mean: the perfect little story that somehow sets the stage for everything that follows, somehow manages to capture the entire essence of the project in an easily digestible and engaging way. I have encountered opening anecdotes that were the like spun gold, so perfectly balanced and sparkling with wit and insight. Unfortunately, mine is a bit more leaden. It might come with a fabulous illustration (that remains to be seen). With the illustration, I think it’ll be pretty enchanting. Without it, the flaws of my opening anecdote come to the surface.
Once you get past the O.A. stage, you arrive at the: Brief but Compelling Description of the Project. Could there be anything more arduous? You’ve got to describe the project — but not in too much detail because you are about to go into great detail and redundancy is lame. You’ve got to hit all the major points — but not become so bogged down by specifics that you start making your argument then and there. The hardest part: you’ve got to somehow capture a tone of confidence that says, “hey, I’ve just written an entire book on this subject, don’t start second guessing me now! You’re in good hands so just come along with me on this lovely trip.” That breezy, charming, and knowledgeable tone — that’s what I’m having difficulty conveying.
I think of all the advice I give my students about introductory paragraphs and thesis statements. The whole “tell them what you’re going to tell them” mantra. But, boy it is hard to put into effect under these circumstances: a long, multi-faceted project that came together in a haphazard way over many years — so many years that the author (that’s me) can’t even remember certain parts of the book that were written while there was still a Clinton in the White House. How the hell am I supposed to make that sound like a coherent and interesting book?
It’s times like these that I really despair over the possiblity of finishing these revisions.
* I tried to not open with an Opening Anecdote and was told by 100% of my readers that I needed one. So much for innovation.
November is flying by at a lightning speed and my goal of 45 hours of revision work is starting to look a little insane. As of today, I’ve got 32 hours to go. Um, yeah. The semester is wrapping up, which means an endless hill of grading on my desk. Thanksgiving is coming, which means a trip to grandma’s house. All in all, events not conducive to the writing process.
But next week, starting tomorrow, things are a little different. Next week marks a variation in my usual schedule — a variation that I cannot describe in too much detail for fear of giving away my Top Secret Identity. Let’s just say, I will not be on my usual routine and I have high hopes that the slight change of pace I will be experiencing will be the impetus for a Big Week of InDWriMo productivity. Frankly, if it’s not next week, it ain’t gonna happen.
The good news is that I am really into my revisions. Three weeks ago I couldn’t bear to even think about my book — I was just nauseous with the stress and unhappiness. But, thanks to InDWriMo, I’ve gotten into a groove working on it. It’s too soon to say that InDWriMo saved my book but I will venture to say: progress has been made.
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Updated to add: My blog seems to have been taken over by some evil trolls who are somehow redirecting folks from sites I have linked to, to sites designed to sell stuff. So, apologies to anyone who’s followed a link from here and ended up on some weird site. I can’t figure out how to fix it, ‘cuz I don’t really understand why it’s happening.
I’ve said it before but it bears repeating: student evaluations are evil. They are an unreliable measure of whether a teacher is successful and, at least in my experience, have no practical value to the teacher either. I’ve never read any comment in my evals that made me say, “Gee, I should change my pedagogy to address this reasonable concern.” I have, however, been kept up at night stewing over some cheap, mean-spirited, or selfish complaint — the kind of complaint a disgruntled student scrawls off in a moment of pique and then completely forgets about, never knowing that it gets burned into the teacher’s very soul.
(I feel the need to add, in my defense, that this does not mean that I don’t care whether my classes go well, are successful, my students like me, etc. I care deeply about these things — as recent posts have demonstrated — but I don’t believe evals relay anything useful or helpful in this regards.)
I have always thought that one of the perks of having tenure is not having to read student evals any more because, as we all know, they really don’t matter to the those protected by the golden mantle. I had promised myself that, as soon as I got tenure, I would adopt the strategy of so many of my tenured colleagues and friends: toss those evals into a dark, dank corner and forget all about them. Ha ha!
It would seem I have jumped the gun. This year, as I was working on my yearly review and writing my self-evaluation statements about why I am so superior as a teacher, scholar, and outstanding citizen of my college community (fluff, fluff, fluff), I had an epiphany: Even though I do not yet have tenure, student evals still don’t matter. There is nothing in those evals at this point that is going to make any difference in either how I teach or how I am evaluated by my administration. In my very bones I know that if I have published enough and in the right journals/presses, I will get tenure — no matter what my students have to say about it. I looked on those envelopes full of evaluations with new eyes: they were meaningless to me. I could read them, stress about them, spend hours of my life brooding over what they say … or I could ignore them.
What liberation!
I turned in my yearly review, including the unopened envelops of student evals, with a song in my heart. I’m either on the right track, tenure-wise, or I’m not. I’ll find out soon enough but, in the meanwhile, I refuse to torture myself.
Oh yes, I’m giving myself permission. Go ahead, try it.
The specs. You gotta love a smart, funny girl with huge glasses.
Time to revisit that eternal conundrum: Is there anything actually to be gained from assigning traditional essays, particularly the old literary analysis essay assignment that asks students to produce a close reading of a work of literature?
I’ve been grading this weekend and, in addition to confirming my sense that my students this semester are actually getting dumber as the weeks pass, I’ve been wrestling with my fear that it is my assignments that are making them (seem?) dumber. Maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s the essay itself that’s the problem.
So, seriously, what do we assign essays for? They resemble no other form of writing except academic writing; there is some sort of Linnaean link between the 5 paragraph essay and the books/articles we write now. So, if all of our students are going to be academics, it’s great. Otherwise, what’s the purpose?
Of course, the conventional answer is that our students are practicing the work of developing ideas and constructing arguments — skills that will serve them no matter what career they enter. The ol’ literary analysis essay gives them the opportunity to work on their analytical skills, their writing skills, and their following-directions skills — again, all things that are objectively valuable in the Real World.
But, I’m just not convinced that my students are getting any of these skills out of my assignments. Most of my students aren’t putting any effort into developing a skill set other than plagiarism. I don’t think they read anything anymore, other than the summary of the assigned reading that they find on SparksNotes or Wikipedia. I don’t think they write anything that they haven’t read somewhere online. Sometimes they take the time to rewrite it so I can’t prove it’s plagiarism and sometime it’s as easy as a Google search to locate their source of information. At any rate (trying not to turn this into yet another plagiarism rant), I just don’t think the ol’ essay assignment is having the beneficial effects it is legendary for.
I know many academics who have abandoned the essay in favor of collaborative, performative, service learning or complicated technology assignments. These assignments embrace a different set of values: instead of privileging analytical skills, students learn team-building, communication, creativity, citizenship, or computing. All infinitely valuable accomplishments — and arguably more practical or necessary than being able to construct a good thesis statement.
However, since I have been clinging to the whole “individual analysis of a literary text” thing, I haven’t been able to completely embrace these more radical measures. (Not to mention, holy shit, it is so much work to develop such innovative pedagogies! I bow down to all of you have undertaken such ambitious projects.)
But, I am completely dissatisfied with the results: My students write crummy papers. I don’t feel I have either the class time or the ability to teach them how to write better papers. So, I continue to simply hand out essay assignments, they generally turn in bad papers, and the cycle continues.
Something’s got to change and, since it ain’t gonna be my students, I think it’s gotta be me. I think I need to overhaul my entire pedagogical model, dispense with certain kinds of assignments and get really creative in developing different ones.
Either that, or I may just sink into a mist of despair, muddle my way through all of my classes, and inevitably take my place as the grey, fussy, old lady member of my department. You know, the one who complains but never makes any effort to fix things.
I’m taking advice, folks: what have you done to either resurrect or put to bed entirely the ol’ literary analysis essay assignment?
I am delighted that the news media is preoccupied these days with the question of whether Michelle Obama’s election night dress was a fashion Do or Don’t and with the question of what kind of puppy the Obamas should bring to the White House. Of course these stories are frivolous — but it is so nice to be able to indulge in them. I’ve been living on the edge of my seat for the past few weeks — when I wasn’t “refreshing” Huff Po, I was obsessively watching Rachel Maddow — and feeling like every news cycle brought new perils. Whew. I’m so glad that’s over.
For the record, I don’t think Michelle’s dress was great — that crisscrossy thing on the front made her look wide, which is rarely a positive thing for a woman.
The Obamas should absolutely get a shelter dog, and perferably a mutt of mysterious heritage.
And, Lieberman should be excommunicated from the Democratic Party for disloyalty, stupidity, and general assholeishness.
