A little more navel gazing...

Life has been full and oddly overwhelming lately. I'm not busy in the normal sense of the word, but I'm keeping myself busy and keeping my mind full (ha! mindful. I'm such a dork) with teaching ideas, poetry ideas, who-the-hell-am-I-and-what-the-hell-am-I-doing ideas. I don't have internet or cable at home, so I've been reading fiction in the quite hours when I'd normally zone out in front of a flickering screen. I read A Million Little Pieces* in one day. Then The House of Sand and Fog, and now I'm half-way through Pigs in Heaven. This is easily the most non-critical prose I've read since I took a class on creative non-fiction during my MFA.

(*Regardless of the Oprah debacle, it's questionable how much of Frey's "memoir" is memoir, especially in light of the tidbit I heard somewhere that Frey pitched it as a novel, but memoir was so hip at the time that his publisher convinced him otherwise... anyway, this is unsubstantiated rumor, but I'm still thinking the book is a novel.)

I'm excited and terrified to teach Intro to Poetry Writing this semester, and have been spending a tremendous amount of time compiling the course packet which essentially is a mini-anthology of the poems that helped me figure out how to be a poet. Of course, I'm still figuring that out, so the thing never feels done and I'm convinced that once I drop it off for copies, I'm going to realize that I left out the most important poems. I guess that's why there are xerox machines, right? I couldn't bring myself to use a textbook or stock anthology because this is the first time I get to teach what I love, and I wanted as much control over it as possible. Now I'm thinking: what the heck do I know about poetry? and just hoping that my excitement for it will cover up the gaps in what I don't know. I'm hoping to post a more substantial something on transitioning from comp instructor to teacher-of-what-I-love sometime soon, but not today.

As for my solipsism: I'm busy putting Humpty-Dumpty back together again after what I can only describe as the most difficult year of my life. Who would have thought that moving to a new city could completely decimate a person's self-ness? Okay, maybe decimate is the wrong word. Maybe scramble. Maybe perforate. Maybe shred.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day I got in the car filled with all my stuff and drove six hours to this big, crowded, scary place and started trying to make it fit. Today, I can say it sort-of, almost does. But the me who sorta-kinda fits here today isn't the me who showed up 364 days ago and that's what I'm trying to understand. I did some massively stupid, self-destructive things while ostensibly trying to survive, and I'd like to be able to explain, someday, to myself and the people those actions affected, why I acted the way I did. Right now, I can't even come close, except to say I was sad and lonely. But that doesn't feel like an answer.

More importantly--or at least of more immediate importance--are the questions I have about my work and my place at UIC. I'm still having trouble finding a poetic community here, probably because there are not a lot of poets in the program to begin with, and the ones I know are primarily working on dissertations and not taking workshops with me. I'm also struggling to see my exam committee, and the dissertation committee that follows it, coming together. I'm not sure what my lists are going to be and I'm not sure who I'd like to work with. Unfortunately, I do know who I don't want to work with and I don't like that feeling. I'm hoping that I can slap a quick coat of paint over the mistakes I made last year academically and be more productive and positive this year.

Aaaah....I could go on and on about this, but I have many more things to take care of in my tiny little window of internet time today.

Good luck charm?

Yesterday, a bird pooped on me.

I was sitting outside trying to calm down before class--I was fired up about the lousy feedback I got on that paper last week and anxious about going before the firing squad with the next one--and had just started to cry a little (Press pause for a minute here. I think people who don't cry a lot just don't get this. It's like turning a valve to let some pressure out, that's all. It's not always bc we're sad. Got it?) Okay, so I'd just started to cry a little, and splat! there's bird crap on my brand new jacket.

Bird crap will snap you out of a funk pretty quick if you have any sense of humor at all. And I guess mine is still in tact, because I giggled, got up, went inside to clean it off, and went on with my day.

My presentation was only a little bit painful, and now it's over. But I'm still a little raw about it. And not looking forward to writing my seminar paper for this course if it's going to get the same kind of critique. I'm learning, right? I'll be better next semester.

This reminds me of something I was talking to a friend about while waiting for the train last night. As Ph.D. students, we're in this strange position where some profs treat us like colleagues and others treat us like students. And then there are some who treat us like students but expect us to operate on the same level as colleagues. Eh, this is all getting kind of convoluted, but here's what I'm trying to get at: I'm not as well read as my profs, I'm not as experienced as a teacher, and I've never done a panel presentation where people asked questions to try to implode my argument--and I'd like for someone to teach me, or at least let me know what the expectations are before I'm in water above my head and just barely floating.

I admit, a big part of this is my fault--I don't ask for help until I'm in trouble. But part of that is that I'm usually good at school stuff and don't need help. After I screw up, well, then I know to ask for help, but up until that point, I think I can get by the way I always do.

I'm trying to turn this into a learning experience instead of what it feels like right now: that I've been slapped on the wrist and and sent to the corner to think about what I've done. I know it's not that personal, but it just feels shitty. So...how do I make that productive? How do I laugh at the bird poop on my jacket and then get to work on my next paper?

Spring Semester Eve

John is on a plane back to Cleveland, I've finished some proofing on Barn Owl Review #2 and there's nothing more I can put between myself and day one of Spring 09.

I don't have butterflies in my stomach...they're buzzards.

I'm not ready to teach tomorrow. I don't have a solid class plan, I don't have copies, and (more importantly) I don't know what I'm going to wear. I can't wear power heels because there's a foot of snow on the ground, and I don't think my ugly-ass hiking boots (the only water proof shoes I own) are going to inspire anyone. But seriously. The copies are my biggest worry. Do I go to staples and pay, or do I try to wake up early enough to get to school an hour or so before class starts so that I can get my copy code and do them for free? And why, oh why, do I have to do my own copies? At UA, you just fill out a little form and the student assistants do it for you. I like it a lot better that way. (Item #817 on the list of things I like better about UA.)

Okay, so I procrastinated. But does that really surprise you? I always wait until the last minute, and with John visiting for the last week, I wasn't about to spend all my time in University Hall putting the finishing touches on my syllabus and handouts. So I'm down to the wire. It'll get done and this time tomorrow I'll be one down, 44 to go.

*

Since the beginning of my grad student career, I've been meaning to start an annotated bibliography. A prof suggested it once, and it seemed like something only the most anal retentive people would actually do, but now it seems almost essential to keeping everything straight. I haven't even started putting together my exam committee yet, but I'm fairly sure of the topics I'll choose (contemporary poetry, working class lit, etc., etc.), so it couldn't hurt. Anyway, the point is I am going to try to start my annotated bib this semester, and I'm going to use this blog to keep myself honest. So, starting Tuesday, I'll be posting a list of what I'm reading, with short summaries/reviews each week. You have my permission to poke, prod, and torment me if I miss any of the next 15 weeks.

*

Well, I've officially procrastinated longer than I planned. Sigh. Back to the plans...

burst

I had a little spurt of productivity this morning, knocked out 3 more pages of my Ashbery re-write, and now my motivation is gone. I'm around 13.5 pages and need at least twenty. It's due Friday, but I was really hoping to be done before that.

Did I really say writing papers was one of my favorite parts of academia? Yes, I'm over-caffeinated and wearing grungy sweats, but that's about the only part that rings true right now. When's the adrenaline rush going to kick in?

I feel a long post about being a writer/poet coming on...a retrospective post about the last six-seven months and how life has gotten in the way of what I love to do...I'm sure it will be inspiring and motivating. Or whiny and self-deprecating. Either way, it will have to wait until I'm done arm-wrestling with John Ashbery.

How Long?

I've been toiling over my Ashbery paper since Thursday and I have 3.5 pages typed and several pages of disjointed notes to show for it. Today is the last day, and I'm giving myself a 10 pm deadline. We all know I procrastinate, but I will hate my life if I have to pull an all nighter. Tomorrow I have to be on campus 9am to 6pm, which isn't the longest academic day I've ever had by far, but it would be the longest academic day after an all-nighter. So, 10 pm deadline. I'm giving myself, more or less, 2 hours per page. That should be more than enough, right?

That's where you come in, readers. I'm curious how much time you spend working on your critical writing. I can easily spend 8-10 hours on a 3-5 page paper, but I also know that when pushed, I can write a decent (not my best work) 3-5 page paper in about an hour and a half (assuming I know/understand/like my topic). But when we get to 10 or more pages, I feel like it will take days. For those ugly, unavoidable 20-25 pagers, I need at least a weekend of uninterrupted cramming. Doesn't matter how much research I do ahead of time, or even if I manage to write a first draft before the last minute.

How long, folks?

PS - thanks to everyone who has made suggestions (here and elsewhere) about resources. I don't have time to check them out for this paper, but I do have to expand this topic at the end of the semester, so I'll take a look then.

Post-breakdown post

After a nice, long weekend with my family and my bf, I'm back in Chicago and freezing my butt off. But more importantly, I am feeling a lot better about life in general and have realized that I just need regular doses of home in order to manage my new life and circumstances. I'm close enough to Ohio that a weekend trip is manageable, so I don't know why I was exiling myself for the last two months. That won't happen again...especially since I'm going home 8 days from now and again for Thanksgiving. And after Thanksgiving, only 2 weeks left in the semester.

Despite my recent emotional instability, this semester has been flying by. We're more than half-way done and it's time to start writing papers and revising workshop poems, which are two of my favorite tasks. It's weird...writing term papers is kind of agonizing, but it's the kind of agony I enjoy. Over-caffeinating, running high-lighters out of ink, sitting in my un-ergonomic desk chair for so long I can't walk when I get up, showing up to turn in my paper with a bandanna and grungy sweats... I'll hate myself for a couple of days because I procrastinated too long, and then the adrenaline will kick in and that's when I love being an academic the most. Remind me of this a month from now when I'm panicking, okay?

When I'm done here, I'll be starting on the revisions because one is due tomorrow. I love when revisions are required during the semester and not just for the final portfolio--gives me more motivation to do more than 2 drafts, which is necessary most of the time anyway. It'll be interesting to see where these revisions take me. I've written about five/six new drafts this semester and turned in a couple of older, but not polished, poems for workshop, so there's a combination of Stella manuscript-ish stuff and stuff that doesn't fit into a project yet. Maybe, as I'm revising, I'll see that they're all about Stella & co., or maybe I'll start to see a new trajectory developing. Either way, I'm looking forward to envisioning these poems as part of a series. I've found that I don't like writing poems that don't belong to something larger. They feel shapeless and meandering.

Speaking of shapeless and meandering...my blog is definitely suffering, and has been since I went on the road back in May. I certainly haven't stuck to my resolution about doing more po-biz here, and my site meter is showing that people are tired of me whining. Alas, I struggle to find something more thought-provoking to write about because my brain is just tired lately. When I'm emotionally unstable, I don't do much serious thinking, except about me-me-me. Sorry, folks. Hopefully soon. I'm regaining balance.

Manuscript Madness and "Old" Poetry

I've been fiddling with my ms for the last couple of weeks. Changing line breaks and other small details but nothing big. I have about 3 drafts that I think might fit, but they're not done and my revising isn't going very quickly. I've cut out a few poems that I don't think are right. Shuffled the order a bit.

Something tells me I am subconsciously moving very slowly so I miss the last few contests before summer. Something tells me I should make the changes I marked this morning, print the whole thing, and stick it in an envelope. Be done with it--for now. Because otherwise I will constantly tell myself it isn't quite ready until I get to the point where I hate the whole thing. And then my first book will never get published.

Goal: Print and mail by Thursday. No, Friday. Print by Thursday, mail by Friday. That's the goal.

*

When I started grad school, I knew very little about contemporary poetry. I'd read a bit of Plath, a bit of Bishop, but very little newer. Since then, I've been focusing on the last 60 years or so. Now, I seem to have forgotten everything I read as an undergrad.

I don't remember anything about romanticism. I barely remember Dickinson. My new reading project is to refresh my memory on the "old" stuff. Pre-1950. As far back as I can go. Maybe start with Beowulf again and work my way back up. I want to be ready when I start school again in the fall. I don't want to have to pretend I know what people are talking about--I want to actually know it.

There is a Ph.D. in my future and I still feel like I'm faking it. Does it ever get easier? Do brains expand to hold more information? Because sometimes, I feel like I'm saturated. Like if I learn something new, I'll have to forget something I used to know to make space.

The Work

I've been thinking about writing today--the actual work of it--and realizing that as a poet, I don't do much of it. Poems either come quick or a couple lines at a time over days or even weeks. I spend more time revising, and I usually do that in chunks of several poems at a time. In any given week (the last 3 or 4 excluded, since my brain has been on vacation) I probably spend less than 4 hours actually writing. I wonder what would happen if I tried to do it on a more regular basis. I tend to think I would stare at the screen and not get much more done than usual, although my post-Bisbee blitz from last August sort of proves otherwise.

This is a major difference from when I considered myself primarily a fiction writer. When I first sat down to try to write a novel (this was about 6 years ago), I spent every free moment at the computer. I wrote 80 pages in a month--and I was working full time. Now, I never finished that draft, and I doubt I'll ever go back to it since the writer I was at 21 is not the writer I am today, but it shows me that I can produce pages, words, pretty quickly if I put my mind to it.

I wrote the outline for a memoir this past semester for my Non-Fiction class, and I've been thinking about fleshing out that outline. But I don't know if I want to commit myself to that kind of project. I could easily spend 6-8 hours a day hacking away at it...and then what would happen to all my other projects? I'm all for multi-tasking, juggling, keeping my plate full, but I feel like a prose project would become all-consuming, and aren't I, after all, supposed to be finishing this poetry manuscript I keep freaking out about?

*

I met a friend for beer yesterday and we talked writing and academia...and I freaked out a bit. K has a PhD in something else and is working on her MFA in poetry, so she knows all about the life of the grad student and academic. She's been on the job market. Defended a dissertation. She re-opened my eyes to the un-glamorous side (okay, so academia isn't really glamorous from any side, but she talked nuts-and-bolts) which I had been ignoring while going through the application process. I am so, so glad that I finished my apps before I had this conversation, because if I had had it before, I might have talked myself out of it entirely.

I want this, I do...but sometimes I think about sitting in my office with my books and my poems and forget about the politics, the creepy MLA hotel interviews, the committees, the hoops. I forget about being poor. The conversation yesterday reminded me of these things, and now I'm thinking, "It wouldn't be so bad to go back to HR."

AAARRRRG! Why can't I ever make up my mind and then stick to it? Granted, I'll be back to gung-ho in a week or so, but right now, I'm flailing. Good thing the wheels are already rolling.