I felt like writing a blog when I should be sleeping, so here it is: Have you ever "tasted" a word? It drives my boyfriend crazy when I say that. Every now and then he'll hear me muttering something to myself and ask me what I said.
"Oh, nothing," I tell him. "Just tasting a word."
Annoys the heck out of him. I've been told by others that they can probably understand his annoyance. He thinks I say things like this on purpose to annoy him, but I swear it isn't true (in this case at least). You really can taste words--or, perhaps, feel the sound of them. (Is there a sense I haven't covered yet?)
I like lots of words, but tonight the word "political" popped into my head. Think about it. Not the meaning, just the word. Just the sound of it. Say it out loud: Political.
Now say it like Ally McBeal would say it. Pol-i-tical. Add in a lip curl and accentuate the second syllable.
It just got a little bit evil, didn't it?
I think that ending "L" is the reason I like it so much . . . or the whole "-litical," said quickly. I don't know. There is something about "L"s.
Oh, right--did I mention I've been watching Ally McBeal lately? Sorry. This is what you get for four in the morning.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Sappho
I've been reading Sappho.
I've wanted to for a long time now--or maybe not that long a time, maybe it's only been a few weeks or a month or something, but with my impatience these days it seems like forever. I've wanted to read her ever since my brother remembered who he'd been thinking of, that's how long I've been wanting to read Sappho.
My brother and I go to bookstores and bookstore cafes a lot; we both love coffee, and we both love books. Well, actually, he loves coffee and tea and all that stuff, and I just love the coffee and tea lattes, and sometimes just plain tea. And also he tends toward modern adult literature much of the time, and I tend toward children's literature, especially fantasy. But we meet a lot on the classics (in that, we've both read some of them and want to read more) and we're always open for general discussion on any kind of books or literature, any kind at all. SO, to wrap this story up, one time in Barnes & Noble he was trying to recall an ancient female poet. I told him I didn't know (yes, it's true, I didn't know), and the matter dropped with a few shrugs of the shoulders. But a week or so later we were in Borders, and he happened to mention that, oh yeah, he remembered who that poet was he'd been trying to think of--Sappho. And we looked for a copy of her poems, since we were right in a bookstore after all, but couldn't find one.
And that is when I decided I wanted to read Sappho.
I looked her up online shortly thereafter. I'm ashamed to say that I didn't know much about her. Okay, fine, all I pretty much knew was that her name sounded familiar. I'm not sure if I even knew she was a poet, or a woman, of if she was real (you know, she could have been some Greek mythological figure or something). Yeah. I disgust me, too. But at least one of the reasons I didn't know much about her (besides the fact that my literary education is a bit shoddy) is that no one knows much about Sappho. Apparently we only know a few brief facts about her, and the rest is highly debatable. She was born around 630 B.C.E., she was from the island of Lesbos, and she was most likely bi-sexual. She might have been married. She might have had a daughter. And her poetry was loved and celebrated by many, but despised by religious figures, and so most of her work has not survived. It has been burned to cinders by Crusaders and torn into strips for mummy wrappings; it has been allowed to deteriorate until we have nothing left but two seeimingly intact poems amidst mostly fragments of verse that have a strange and alluring beauty all their own.
I think I might love Sappho.
I looked for her in Half Price Books recently and bought a copy of Sweetbitter Love: Poems of Sappho, translated by Willis Barnstone--who drives me up a wall. Barnstone, not Sappho. I know, this is the person who barely knew Sappho existed a few months ago, criticizing one of her translators. But his introduction is just so pompous and wordy and "Look at me, look at what metaphors I can create!" and--
No. No. I will not go off on a rant about translators. This is about Sappho.
Ahem.
So I am about halfway through the book, and here are some of my favorite lines/verses so far, from her untitled poems and fragments:
Icy water babbles through apple branches
and roses leave shadow on the ground
and bright shaking leaves pour down
profound sleep.
* * *
Flaming summer
charms the earth with its own fluting,
and under leaves
the cicada scrapes its tiny wings together
and incessantly
pours out full shrill song
* * *
Love shook my heart like wind
on a mountain punishing oak trees.
* * *
and how there was no
holy shrine
where we were absent,
no grove
no dance
no sound
* * *
A deed
your lovely face
if not, winter
and no pain
* * *
Now she shines among Lydian women
as after sunset
the rosy-fingered moon
surpasses all the stars, and her light reaches
equally across the salt sea
and over meadows steeped in flowers.
* * *
Sigh. Beautiful. And then I wrote this, poor poem as it is, about Sappho's line fragment "if not, winter." Seems a shame to put it in a post with snippets of Sappho, but--oh well. Here it is--
For Sappho
If not, winter
if not—
and though
it speaks it seems
of sorrow
it sounds
like bells
If not—
if not,
winter
it seems
will come down
in fallen flight,
roses close
on needled green
snow will awaken
the night
Fire
will not touch it
April
will not take it
it will
cool
it will
freeze
ice will crust over
your bones
but it’s all right
you’ll breathe
frost
and exhale
legacy
through your
paling
crystal mouth
* * *
And now, good night.
I've wanted to for a long time now--or maybe not that long a time, maybe it's only been a few weeks or a month or something, but with my impatience these days it seems like forever. I've wanted to read her ever since my brother remembered who he'd been thinking of, that's how long I've been wanting to read Sappho.
My brother and I go to bookstores and bookstore cafes a lot; we both love coffee, and we both love books. Well, actually, he loves coffee and tea and all that stuff, and I just love the coffee and tea lattes, and sometimes just plain tea. And also he tends toward modern adult literature much of the time, and I tend toward children's literature, especially fantasy. But we meet a lot on the classics (in that, we've both read some of them and want to read more) and we're always open for general discussion on any kind of books or literature, any kind at all. SO, to wrap this story up, one time in Barnes & Noble he was trying to recall an ancient female poet. I told him I didn't know (yes, it's true, I didn't know), and the matter dropped with a few shrugs of the shoulders. But a week or so later we were in Borders, and he happened to mention that, oh yeah, he remembered who that poet was he'd been trying to think of--Sappho. And we looked for a copy of her poems, since we were right in a bookstore after all, but couldn't find one.
And that is when I decided I wanted to read Sappho.
I looked her up online shortly thereafter. I'm ashamed to say that I didn't know much about her. Okay, fine, all I pretty much knew was that her name sounded familiar. I'm not sure if I even knew she was a poet, or a woman, of if she was real (you know, she could have been some Greek mythological figure or something). Yeah. I disgust me, too. But at least one of the reasons I didn't know much about her (besides the fact that my literary education is a bit shoddy) is that no one knows much about Sappho. Apparently we only know a few brief facts about her, and the rest is highly debatable. She was born around 630 B.C.E., she was from the island of Lesbos, and she was most likely bi-sexual. She might have been married. She might have had a daughter. And her poetry was loved and celebrated by many, but despised by religious figures, and so most of her work has not survived. It has been burned to cinders by Crusaders and torn into strips for mummy wrappings; it has been allowed to deteriorate until we have nothing left but two seeimingly intact poems amidst mostly fragments of verse that have a strange and alluring beauty all their own.
I think I might love Sappho.
I looked for her in Half Price Books recently and bought a copy of Sweetbitter Love: Poems of Sappho, translated by Willis Barnstone--who drives me up a wall. Barnstone, not Sappho. I know, this is the person who barely knew Sappho existed a few months ago, criticizing one of her translators. But his introduction is just so pompous and wordy and "Look at me, look at what metaphors I can create!" and--
No. No. I will not go off on a rant about translators. This is about Sappho.
Ahem.
So I am about halfway through the book, and here are some of my favorite lines/verses so far, from her untitled poems and fragments:
Icy water babbles through apple branches
and roses leave shadow on the ground
and bright shaking leaves pour down
profound sleep.
* * *
Flaming summer
charms the earth with its own fluting,
and under leaves
the cicada scrapes its tiny wings together
and incessantly
pours out full shrill song
* * *
Love shook my heart like wind
on a mountain punishing oak trees.
* * *
and how there was no
holy shrine
where we were absent,
no grove
no dance
no sound
* * *
A deed
your lovely face
if not, winter
and no pain
* * *
Now she shines among Lydian women
as after sunset
the rosy-fingered moon
surpasses all the stars, and her light reaches
equally across the salt sea
and over meadows steeped in flowers.
* * *
Sigh. Beautiful. And then I wrote this, poor poem as it is, about Sappho's line fragment "if not, winter." Seems a shame to put it in a post with snippets of Sappho, but--oh well. Here it is--
For Sappho
If not, winter
if not—
and though
it speaks it seems
of sorrow
it sounds
like bells
If not—
if not,
winter
it seems
will come down
in fallen flight,
roses close
on needled green
snow will awaken
the night
Fire
will not touch it
April
will not take it
it will
cool
it will
freeze
ice will crust over
your bones
but it’s all right
you’ll breathe
frost
and exhale
legacy
through your
paling
crystal mouth
* * *
And now, good night.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Montgomery and Brontes and Austens
So the title of this blog is a quote, if you haven't figured that out. Yes, my writing does tend to be old-fashioned a lot (kind of unfortunately), but I don't usually go around bandying verbs like "fancy" (or the noun form of "fancy" either, really). The quote is from Emily's Quest by L.M. Montgomery, whom many already know is my favorite author (rivaled only by Tolstoy, my old-time love). Montgomery is best know for her classic, Anne of Green Gables, and don't get me wrong, Anne of Green Gables is a fantastic book. But Emily--Emily Byrd Starr--is a writer, you see, and beyond that, I've always looked at her as an ingeniously drawn character who seems so real that I've wished several times I could meet her. (It will always be a great sorrow for me that I can never meet Montgomery, who died much too early.)
But anyway (before I start digressing like crazy), here is the passage I took my title from:
"I shall carry pictures of you wherever I go, Star," Dean was saying. Star was his old nickname for her--not a pun on her name but because he said she reminded him of a star. "I shall see you sitting in your room by that old lookout window, spinning your pretty cobwebs--pacing up and down in this old garden--wandering in the Yesterday Road--looking out to sea. Whenever I shall recall a bit of Blair Water loveliness I shall see you in it. After all, all other beauty is only a background for a beautiful woman."
"Her pretty cobwebs--" ah, there it was. That was all Emily heard. She did not even realise that he was telling her he thought her a beautiful woman.
"Do you think what I write is nothing but cobwebs, Dean?" she asked chokingly.
Dean looked surprised, doing it very well.
"Star, what else is it? What do you think it is yourself? I'm glad you can amuse yourself by writing. It's a splendid thing to have a little hobby of the kind. And if you can pick up a few shekels by it--well, that's all very well too in this kind of a world. But I'd hate to have you dream of being a Bronte or an Austen--and wake to find you'd wasted your youth on a dream."
"I don't fancy myself a Bronte or an Austen," said Emily. "But you didn't talk like that long ago, Dean. You used to think that I could do something some day."
"We don't bruise the pretty visions of a child," said Dean. "But it's foolish to carry childish dreams over into maturity. Better face facts. You write charming things of their kind, Emily. Be content with that and don't waste your best years yearning for the unattainable or striving to reach some height far beyond your grasp."
But, Dean--how do you stop "yearning"--for anything? If we're Brontes or Austens or nothing but scribbling fools?
It's odd, but, while most fans of the Emily books hate Dean, I don't. I never have. He is good and he is bad, like all of us, and just as selfish and giving by turns.
There--I'm starting to talk old-fashioned again--it happens a lot more when I just get done reading something "old."
Maud (as L. M. Montgomery was called, for her middle name) didn't think she was an Austen or a Bronte either, and she isn't, of course. She's only recently made it into the literary canon, and she has little more than a dusty corner in it now, at best. Besides, she could never get away from being classified as a "children's writer," even though she wrote books aimed at adult audiences as well. Even today, those adult books--A Tangled Web, The Blue Castle, and in my opinion Emily's Quest and several of the later Anne books--can be found only in the children's section, if they can be found in a bookstore at all.
And, sure, much of the prose she wrote was purple--it drips still with flowers and dew and "pretty cobwebs" spun up in old farmhouse garret rooms--but she has created, for me, the best damn characters who have ever "lived." And she has truths in her "children's books" that still ring out for me, and she has been my idol since I was in my early teens for a reason.
If I could have met her, I would have told her that. And quite unabashedly, too.
But anyway (before I start digressing like crazy), here is the passage I took my title from:
"I shall carry pictures of you wherever I go, Star," Dean was saying. Star was his old nickname for her--not a pun on her name but because he said she reminded him of a star. "I shall see you sitting in your room by that old lookout window, spinning your pretty cobwebs--pacing up and down in this old garden--wandering in the Yesterday Road--looking out to sea. Whenever I shall recall a bit of Blair Water loveliness I shall see you in it. After all, all other beauty is only a background for a beautiful woman."
"Her pretty cobwebs--" ah, there it was. That was all Emily heard. She did not even realise that he was telling her he thought her a beautiful woman.
"Do you think what I write is nothing but cobwebs, Dean?" she asked chokingly.
Dean looked surprised, doing it very well.
"Star, what else is it? What do you think it is yourself? I'm glad you can amuse yourself by writing. It's a splendid thing to have a little hobby of the kind. And if you can pick up a few shekels by it--well, that's all very well too in this kind of a world. But I'd hate to have you dream of being a Bronte or an Austen--and wake to find you'd wasted your youth on a dream."
"I don't fancy myself a Bronte or an Austen," said Emily. "But you didn't talk like that long ago, Dean. You used to think that I could do something some day."
"We don't bruise the pretty visions of a child," said Dean. "But it's foolish to carry childish dreams over into maturity. Better face facts. You write charming things of their kind, Emily. Be content with that and don't waste your best years yearning for the unattainable or striving to reach some height far beyond your grasp."
But, Dean--how do you stop "yearning"--for anything? If we're Brontes or Austens or nothing but scribbling fools?
It's odd, but, while most fans of the Emily books hate Dean, I don't. I never have. He is good and he is bad, like all of us, and just as selfish and giving by turns.
There--I'm starting to talk old-fashioned again--it happens a lot more when I just get done reading something "old."
Maud (as L. M. Montgomery was called, for her middle name) didn't think she was an Austen or a Bronte either, and she isn't, of course. She's only recently made it into the literary canon, and she has little more than a dusty corner in it now, at best. Besides, she could never get away from being classified as a "children's writer," even though she wrote books aimed at adult audiences as well. Even today, those adult books--A Tangled Web, The Blue Castle, and in my opinion Emily's Quest and several of the later Anne books--can be found only in the children's section, if they can be found in a bookstore at all.
And, sure, much of the prose she wrote was purple--it drips still with flowers and dew and "pretty cobwebs" spun up in old farmhouse garret rooms--but she has created, for me, the best damn characters who have ever "lived." And she has truths in her "children's books" that still ring out for me, and she has been my idol since I was in my early teens for a reason.
If I could have met her, I would have told her that. And quite unabashedly, too.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Hello, folks! (Admittedly not much of a warning for what follows.)
Well, this blog has been sitting here, empty, for quite some time, and the reason is that I've had no idea what to put in it. I'm still not sure. I've often wondered--can you call yourself a writer if you haven't written anything real in months? In years? For the longest time, I can remember telling people (in those obnoxious introductions you do on the first day of a class, in undergrad orientations, at the start of graduate assistantships) that I'd written a book. And then it finally hit me--yes, I'd written a book, but I'd written it roughly five years ago, when I was seventeen, and it was crap.
Or not really crap, in the sense that it was a good work for a seventeen-year-old to have written, or finished, since I started it at fifteen. It was about 400 solid pages of supernatural romantic suspense (which is how I finally decided to categorize it), and if I'd done any actual research on England and its history and peasant life (though I truly did know the architecture of an Elizabethan mansion inside and out by the time I was finished), it could have been something. Maybe. In a genre-ish, not-going-to-stand-the-test-of-time-or-win-any-awards-or-be-all-that-memorable kind of way. But that would have been enough for me at that point. I wanted to get that acceptance letter. I wanted to see my name in print. I wanted to go into a bookstore all alone, walk down the aisles of the mystery section, and find my book on the shelf. It wasn't as cute as when I was about ten and I said I didn't care about the money, that I just wanted my published book, even if I never got a dime. No, I wanted money when I was seventeen, lots of it. But I wanted it so I would be able to keep writing.
The problem is that I didn't. Keep writing, that is. I went to college, like I was expected to, and hated every second of it. I majored in English, of course, but, while most of my professors were great, I never seemed to get to read anything I wanted to read. Not once, as an English major, was I assigned any Bronte, any Dickens, any Austen or Eliot or Dostoevsky-- Sure, there was a dash of Dickinson's "admiring bog" and a quick glance, thankfully, at some short stories like Tolstoy's "Death of Ivan Ilyich," but not much more.
And I didn't write. I couldn't.
Why?
Then I graduated. I wanted to work in a bookstore, like Barnes & Noble. I didn't. I went to grad school, and I started teaching. And I got to read a few things I wanted (mainly because I got to pick them myself for projects). I also cried a lot that first semester because of all the work and that stupid obsession I have with perfectionism, and I didn't write. I didn't write. Aside from papers, of course. 20-frickin'-page papers.
Then, finally, I took a children's literature class and wrote a "short" fantasy that really should have been a book, about a little crystal fairy horse. I loved that little horse. And he made me want to write again.
Which I did. I wrote and wrote, and hammered out about 160 pages of a middle grade fantasy novel called The Princesses of Rosalea, and I loved it--still do. I toyed with it after that, got advice, and rewrote it, doubling the length. I loved it more, except, of course, for the beginning. If there's one part of a thing I hate writing, it's a beginning, and, no, nothing has ever helped like "Don't worry about writing the perfect 'beginning'--just jump right into a scene" or "Start with action" or "Ask your characters what they'd do." And as for that last one, I mean, seriously? Ask my characters what they'd do? There's nothing more fake, in my opinion, that an attempt like that one at being "real" and "natural."
Of course, the book got rejected--after all, I had to submit my beginnings. (And I do mean beginnings--I've completely rewritten the beginning of this book more times than I can count.) And in the meantime I kept on teaching, post-grad school, as an adjunct composition instructor, with minimal income, with no benefits, and with, well, composition. Ugh. Composition.
But at least I could say I'd written a book again, one that I was proud of. Right? Maybe . . . It's a little over four years now since I wrote that book, even though I'm still tweaking it. And, once again, I can't write anything new. I've managed to crank out twelve pages of another book, but that's it. Twelve pages.
So why can't I write? For the same reasons I've let myself gain weight, I guess, for the same reasons that I don't hesitate to order a hot fudge sundae with whipped cream and nuts even though I'm diabetic, for the same reasons that I find myself putting off washing my face and taking showers until my skin and hair are disgusting and greasy. I know, it's horrible, and gross. But it's what depression does to you. It makes you want to cry for no reason, and for all the reasons you think you've failed so far, and it makes you opt for sleep (or that pointless facebook game) at the last minute instead of writing, even though you want to work on your book, or books, so badly.
I don't hate my life, but it sure feels like I do much of the time. It's because I hate what I do and what I don't do. I hate teaching composition, mainly because I don't even believe in it. Is it good for students to learn how to write? Heck yeah. But the way I'm "teaching it"? I doubt it. I lecture about crap like the "writing process," which they'll never use once they leave my class, and why should they? Yeah, that's right, Elbow, that's right, Murray, who cares about your damn freewriting and your ask-my-students-questions-about-how-they-feel-about-their-piece-of-writing? I think it's all likely a bunch of bullshit. I'm sure it works for a select few. But most--I doubt it.
And why the hell does a student--or anyone--need to know what a post hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy is? (Pronounced, of course, in my best Latin: poste hoke air-go prope-tair hoke.) Are they really going to, someday, in their wondrous careers, pick up an argumentative paper written by, I don't know, some sinister career nemesis, and exclaim, "Post hoc ergo propter hoc! Post hoc ergo propter hoc! Now I've got him! Yes, now I've got him!" (Or her. To be politically correct. And apparently my imaginary career person is British.)
But, seriously, is it going to happen? I once again . . . wait for it . . . doubt it.
And if I, the teacher, doubt it, how can I make my students believe it?
I can't.
And if it all makes me so mind-numbingly depressed, how can I write? What I want to write, that is, and not the handouts I have to have ready for tomorrow?
I can't.
I can't.
I can't.
I need to do something. Now.
Maybe I'll go get a PhD.
Or not really crap, in the sense that it was a good work for a seventeen-year-old to have written, or finished, since I started it at fifteen. It was about 400 solid pages of supernatural romantic suspense (which is how I finally decided to categorize it), and if I'd done any actual research on England and its history and peasant life (though I truly did know the architecture of an Elizabethan mansion inside and out by the time I was finished), it could have been something. Maybe. In a genre-ish, not-going-to-stand-the-test-of-time-or-win-any-awards-or-be-all-that-memorable kind of way. But that would have been enough for me at that point. I wanted to get that acceptance letter. I wanted to see my name in print. I wanted to go into a bookstore all alone, walk down the aisles of the mystery section, and find my book on the shelf. It wasn't as cute as when I was about ten and I said I didn't care about the money, that I just wanted my published book, even if I never got a dime. No, I wanted money when I was seventeen, lots of it. But I wanted it so I would be able to keep writing.
The problem is that I didn't. Keep writing, that is. I went to college, like I was expected to, and hated every second of it. I majored in English, of course, but, while most of my professors were great, I never seemed to get to read anything I wanted to read. Not once, as an English major, was I assigned any Bronte, any Dickens, any Austen or Eliot or Dostoevsky-- Sure, there was a dash of Dickinson's "admiring bog" and a quick glance, thankfully, at some short stories like Tolstoy's "Death of Ivan Ilyich," but not much more.
And I didn't write. I couldn't.
Why?
Then I graduated. I wanted to work in a bookstore, like Barnes & Noble. I didn't. I went to grad school, and I started teaching. And I got to read a few things I wanted (mainly because I got to pick them myself for projects). I also cried a lot that first semester because of all the work and that stupid obsession I have with perfectionism, and I didn't write. I didn't write. Aside from papers, of course. 20-frickin'-page papers.
Then, finally, I took a children's literature class and wrote a "short" fantasy that really should have been a book, about a little crystal fairy horse. I loved that little horse. And he made me want to write again.
Which I did. I wrote and wrote, and hammered out about 160 pages of a middle grade fantasy novel called The Princesses of Rosalea, and I loved it--still do. I toyed with it after that, got advice, and rewrote it, doubling the length. I loved it more, except, of course, for the beginning. If there's one part of a thing I hate writing, it's a beginning, and, no, nothing has ever helped like "Don't worry about writing the perfect 'beginning'--just jump right into a scene" or "Start with action" or "Ask your characters what they'd do." And as for that last one, I mean, seriously? Ask my characters what they'd do? There's nothing more fake, in my opinion, that an attempt like that one at being "real" and "natural."
Of course, the book got rejected--after all, I had to submit my beginnings. (And I do mean beginnings--I've completely rewritten the beginning of this book more times than I can count.) And in the meantime I kept on teaching, post-grad school, as an adjunct composition instructor, with minimal income, with no benefits, and with, well, composition. Ugh. Composition.
But at least I could say I'd written a book again, one that I was proud of. Right? Maybe . . . It's a little over four years now since I wrote that book, even though I'm still tweaking it. And, once again, I can't write anything new. I've managed to crank out twelve pages of another book, but that's it. Twelve pages.
So why can't I write? For the same reasons I've let myself gain weight, I guess, for the same reasons that I don't hesitate to order a hot fudge sundae with whipped cream and nuts even though I'm diabetic, for the same reasons that I find myself putting off washing my face and taking showers until my skin and hair are disgusting and greasy. I know, it's horrible, and gross. But it's what depression does to you. It makes you want to cry for no reason, and for all the reasons you think you've failed so far, and it makes you opt for sleep (or that pointless facebook game) at the last minute instead of writing, even though you want to work on your book, or books, so badly.
I don't hate my life, but it sure feels like I do much of the time. It's because I hate what I do and what I don't do. I hate teaching composition, mainly because I don't even believe in it. Is it good for students to learn how to write? Heck yeah. But the way I'm "teaching it"? I doubt it. I lecture about crap like the "writing process," which they'll never use once they leave my class, and why should they? Yeah, that's right, Elbow, that's right, Murray, who cares about your damn freewriting and your ask-my-students-questions-about-how-they-feel-about-their-piece-of-writing? I think it's all likely a bunch of bullshit. I'm sure it works for a select few. But most--I doubt it.
And why the hell does a student--or anyone--need to know what a post hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy is? (Pronounced, of course, in my best Latin: poste hoke air-go prope-tair hoke.) Are they really going to, someday, in their wondrous careers, pick up an argumentative paper written by, I don't know, some sinister career nemesis, and exclaim, "Post hoc ergo propter hoc! Post hoc ergo propter hoc! Now I've got him! Yes, now I've got him!" (Or her. To be politically correct. And apparently my imaginary career person is British.)
But, seriously, is it going to happen? I once again . . . wait for it . . . doubt it.
And if I, the teacher, doubt it, how can I make my students believe it?
I can't.
And if it all makes me so mind-numbingly depressed, how can I write? What I want to write, that is, and not the handouts I have to have ready for tomorrow?
I can't.
I can't.
I can't.
I need to do something. Now.
Maybe I'll go get a PhD.
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