tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91006572024-03-07T11:57:48.488-07:00the world's first unmanned flying desk seteditorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.comBlogger750125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-48531797903941073792013-01-10T00:39:00.000-07:002013-01-10T00:39:06.160-07:00midnight thirtyIt's 12:30 in the a.m. and I should be sleeping. Class comes early and it's Con(stitutional) Law. But sometimes I ache for writing. As interesting as law can be, I still don't think of it as "real" writing. This, on the other hand. . . and so a few thoughts. (Very few. There is still Con Law to think on.)<br />
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I was heartbroken after Thanksgiving, and I have this blog to prove it. I was bracing myself for the same feelings after Christmas and New Years and instead. . . I'm fine. Not fine fine, but fine. And happy. I spent a lot of time with my youngest sister. M is 12 years younger than me, which means she was 6 when I went to college. I missed out on a lot of her growing up, but in recent years we've been thrown together due to our mutual singleness. That was especially true this Christmas, when it was just the two of us and the parents on Christmas morning. M is 18 and beautiful and brilliant and talented and good. So good. It's kind of ridiculous. And I realized that if I weren't single, I wouldn't have this time with her, to get to know her as an adult (or almost adult). If she comes to BYU next year, I will have been at this university with all four of my siblings. It almost makes the 10 years of graduate degrees worth it.<br />
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I have been thinking poetry lately. At the end of last semester, the very end, after the last final, I went to lunch with some guys in my class who I call the Boys Club and others call the Careers (after the Hunger Games). A few of them are my favorite people in my class, and one of these favorite people asked me, as we were eating, if I was going to write over the break. I said I hoped I would. He asked what I would write, and I said poetry without thinking about it. Because that's what I write when I write. And he asked why, with a tone that suggested that I should have abandoned such practices now that I'm in law school writing serious things.<br />
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There is nothing more serious than poetry. Or I should say, poetry when it wants to be serious. I'm not sure what to write about right now, but I hold on to an answer that Kim Johnson gave one of my creative writing students (I had students, I was a teacher, I hope that isn't all past tense) when they asked about writer's block. She said that thinking and collecting is part of the writing process. I know at some point, I'll have to push myself back to the writing and the argument, but part of me knows that right now, I'm collecting. 30 poems before 30 is still my goal. I hope it happens.<br />
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Here is what I keep thinking: I am in awe of the generosity of poets [and writers]. I am so grateful for every book I own, every poem I read, every word I get to experience in a new way. I think of workshops and late nights discussing everything and I think about how much we give each other in those moments. Readings where it could have just been the poet and me, even though I had tucked myself back into a dark corner to avoid the drinks precariously set on the dark table. I could just breathe in and the world would fill with words. I miss those days. Even when I read, I miss those days. I want a world where everyone is that generous--I act in that spirit sometimes at the law school and I get looks that telling me I am forgetting myself. I want to tell them that I am finding myself, remembering who I was not very long ago. That I was a writer and maybe I still am.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-13934687499180656142012-11-25T23:23:00.000-07:002012-11-25T23:23:14.857-07:00post-holiday<br />
I've spent the past few days thinking about family. As in: I love my family. And: I want a family of my own. As much fun as it can be being with my siblings and their little families, it can also start to hurt. I was supposed to do this first, or at least with them. I love my nieces and nephews. I love to play with them and hold them and spoil them. I don't even mind being tied up by them (Sam has decided that he's a pirate and someone taught him the word "dungeon"). But at the end of the holiday, they go home with their parents and my siblings go home with their spouses and I go home to a basement bedroom that's filled with everything but people.<br />
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I have stacks of wedding magazines quietly sitting on the bottom shelf of my bookcase. I have pinned an embarrassing number of wedding-related items on two Pinterest boards. I have a (small) trunk full of baby clothes and board books and a few art prints perfect for a child's bedroom.<br />
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I keep these things, the magazines and the baby clothes and the hope that someday I'll get to use them, but I have also been pursuing graduate degrees and full-time jobs. I revel in my me-time and the independence of my schedule and the few hours I take each day to people-detox.<br />
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There is a sense out there (and I point randomly to the world outside my front door) that these worlds are mutually exclusive. That I have to be a wife and a mother or that I have to have an education and a job. And maybe they're right--I have no way of knowing, of measuring what these things require--but the desires certainly are not mutually exclusive. I love learning and I want to do the best I can and I admit that I'm getting excited to have a career, and a successful one at that. At the same time, I want to meet someone and have a home and a family. I know that sacrifices will be required, that you can't have it all at once. But you can, in your lifetime, have it all. I've seen brilliant women balance family and career. I've also seen brilliant men and women sacrifice the "best" career as measured by the world for the "best" career for their family. It's a sacrifice that I've thought a lot about, one that I hope I get to make someday.<br />
editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-55506214776433391292012-10-14T00:23:00.000-06:002012-10-14T00:23:20.166-06:0030 by 30Today I am six months away from turning 30. Or I was yesterday.<div>
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I've been considering 30 for a few months now. Someone told me recently that you're not old until you're, like, 27. So there's that to think about. And then this whole new number, this new decade, that doesn't seem as accessible as 20.</div>
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But, like I said, I have six months to prepare, adjust, admit that I am going to be 30.</div>
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I've seen a few friends tackle a "30 by 30" project. Miss K had the best one, of course. But, like so much of my life of late, I didn't consider this until recently. It's too late to take on 30 new experiences, especially when law school finals are looming. </div>
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So I'm giving myself a different "30 by 30" challenge. 30 new poems by my 30th birthday. I know how to write a poem--I've spent this past decade learning how--but I haven't been writing much lately. I'm hoping this will light a fire under my 29-year-old self. 30 poems in six months. That's the plan. And just to keep me on the straight and narrow, I'll report back here. It's time this blog saw some action again.</div>
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I wrote the first draft of my first poem tonight. 1 down, 29 to go.</div>
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Happy birthday to me.</div>
editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-88278746622898187662012-09-23T18:06:00.000-06:002012-09-23T18:08:04.956-06:00res ipsa loquiturI am treating my (second) legal writing assignment like it's an English paper, which is to say I can't seem to work on it when I know that it's still light outside. Sometime tonight, around 9:00 or maybe 9:45, I will kick myself into high, panicked gear and (hopefully) knock out the (maximum) eight-page memo that is only a first draft, and so less terrifying than it could be. The problem with me and first drafts is that (if it's not a poem, and it's not) I have a difficult time accepting subsequent drafts and I know that my writing professor wants a Final Draft.<br />
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I thought I was making the change from English student to law student nicely. I read my casebooks, I wrote my notes, I answered questions in class. But it's been a month (it's been five weeks) and I cannot shake that feeling that I'm an English major who has wandered into a law class and someone is going to call foul on me.
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The law creates interesting ideas. In Torts, I recited the facts of a case that helped us define not what consent is, but how consent is shown--because you can't confirm the mind, you have to take the objective manifestations of consent. (If I give you a hug, does this mean that I've given you consent for all future hugs?) In Property, we spent (too much?) time parsing adverse possession, and before that the doctrine of <i>ad coelum</i>, which is Latin, which makes us nervous, but which is oddly beautiful: "for whoever owns the soil, it is theirs up to Heaven (and down to Hell)." This, of course, was before airplanes.<br />
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There is nothing remarkable to say about Contracts, except that I understand Contracts, which is remarkable in and of itself.<br />
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I picked up Maureen McLane's <i>My Poets</i> today. I didn't realize it when I bought the book, but I heard her deliver the first chapter as part of a lecture at Northwestern. I found out that I could still read like an English major, and maybe even like a poet. I keep wishing that I'll find myself again writing poetry. I carry words around with me, but I'm not sure what to do with them yet. Maybe read <i>My Poets</i> a little more, and then the parts from Possession and then (in between all my case law) the thin collections that are gathering dust (I have to be careful with Jay Hopler's <i>Green Squall</i> now--the front page is threatening to separate and I won't give it up). But I think this (talking to you again) might be the first short step to reclaiming myself, or refashioning myself, or . . . will someone please tell me what I am trying to do.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-24826566392063557312012-06-16T22:10:00.000-06:002012-06-16T22:10:16.230-06:00Hey Dad, it's Father's Day.Dear Dad,
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We love you.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-3085902645986812082012-03-25T00:31:00.000-06:002012-03-25T00:31:42.640-06:00inIf you hang out on Facebook with me, you already know this. I found out on Tuesday that I got into law school at BYU.<br />
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I had an interview Tuesday with the dean of admissions for BYU's law school. I bought a new navy blue pinstripe pencil skirt in an attempt to look lawerly. I sat on the bench outside his office, braiding and unbraiding my fingers, pulling on the joints to release the tension. A girl walked past and told me that I looked nice. She said it like she knew what was about to happen.<br />
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After a few minutes of waiting, the dean opened his door and ushered me in. He directed me to a couch, where I obediently sat, but on the edge. Throughout the interview I kept sliding back inch by inch, settling in a little more. He asked me about Northwestern, about MHM, about my dad's practice. He asked where I was from and we had that awkward conversation where he knows one person who used to be from Bountiful before I was from Bountiful. And then he asked me where else I had applied to law school.<br />
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I had promised myself that if and when he asked this question, I would be upfront. I only applied to BYU this time around, because I decided to take the LSAT late, and then found out I could apply with less than a month to pull everything together. I told him if I didn't get into BYU this year, I would apply again next year, along with other schools.<br />
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And then he told me I got in.<br />
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I've had exactly one conversation like that before in my life. It was the morning Reg Gibbons called from NU to tell me I had gotten into the MFA program. I had applied last minute in July, was accepted in August, and moved to Chicago in September.<br />
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I didn't tell the dean of admissions that. I thanked him. I may have said "Wow," but I know I thanked him.<br />
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I spent years preparing for a PhD program and months preparing applications. I keep muttering to myself that if I had known law school would be this easy, I would have applied years ago.<br />
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But that's a lie. I can look at my life and honestly say that there wasn't a time before now when I would have considered or been prepared for law school, or for the life that comes after law school. An MA in English lit was a challenge I could tackle without fear of failing, although I came pretty close. An MFA was difficult, but I did it and I'm more proud of that thesis and a few research papers there than anything I've done in my life to date. If I had chosen law school six or seven years ago, it would have been the past of least resistance. Now I can't think of anything more terrifying or difficult or satisfying to do with my future.<br />
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There is the sting and the sadness right now that all of my best laid plans have been abandoned, that getting into law school was so simple when getting into PhD programs were a lesson in working hard for a one-page rejection letter (or worse--the rejection email). But I also know that law school is a blessing, that it will be a new way to think and to write and that I'll come away from it ready to do what I'm supposed to do. When I said I would follow whatever path the Lord had in store for me, I never even thought it would be this one, but I'm ready to walk it.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-17444854905636216142012-03-18T01:15:00.000-06:002012-03-18T01:15:53.109-06:00languageI know that thinking about blogging doesn't count, but sometimes I wish it did. Sometimes I wish I could just think through these things and skip the process of having to write them out before someone else can comment on them. Does anyone else feel this way?<br />
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I've made some interesting decisions. And by "interesting," I mean unexpected. And by "unexpected," I mean what everyone else thought I was going to do 10 years ago is happening now. Could I be more vague? I took the LSAT. I've been working at a law firm in Provo, doing mostly document prep, and realized that I could be a lawyer. So I took the LSAT, but without really intending to apply for law school. The day before the LSAT I decided to check what range of scores BYU is looking for in an applicant, and discovered that I could still apply for law school for the upcoming school year. I fought that a little, but in the end, I applied.<br />
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I'll find out in the next month or so if I'm in, but I'm not terribly concerned, because for the first time I have a back-up plan to grad school (or maybe in this case grad school is the back up). If I don't get in, I'll be annoyed with the amount of time, energy, and money spent testing and applying, then go back to teaching and working for a year, and then try again next year, along with a round of PhD applications.<br />
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I've received a few responses to this new development. The first is "How many degrees do you have again?" The second is "Are you still going to write?" The third is unwavering support. And the fourth is the response I expected, the response I would have given another writer: "Sell out."<br />
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I'm grateful for the unwavering support, although I'm concerned that this is not yet earned. I can prep a petition, but could I really argue in a court? Or work with clients? I'm also a little concerned that some of this support comes from the aforementioned law firm, where they are convinced I want to practice divorce law. I'm not sure I could handle a lifetime of other people's marital problems. I would like my own marital problems (not problems that lead to divorce, but when a client is my age and on her second divorce, I'd like to ask her to slow down and give the rest of us a chance). I do want to practice family law, and I will practice divorce law, but hopefully I'll be able to follow in my father's footsteps for at least a little while and learn how to put families together through adoption law.<br />
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As for the first and second responses, this would be my third graduate degree ("I'm going for a full set") and I'm definitely still going to write, although it won't always be poetry. The secret about lawyers that they don't show you on whatever legal drama your grandma watches is that lawyers spend most of their time writing and researching, which are two things I happen to be very, very (very) good at. But I suspect that my mind is trained to write poetry and I will write poetry. Wallace Stevens and William Carlos Williams and a host of other people wrote poetry while in a job that didn't pronounce them poets. I hope I can follow them.<br />
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And finally, the sell out. I suppose I just answered that to a certain extent, but I realized that I have always accepted the position of the poet in academia--but who says that poetry is the right of the academic? A VIP (very important poet)--at least, one of my VIPs--taught me that art is as evident in the everyday as it is in the academic world, and I think poetry lives in both places. There is a language in the law that I'm fascinated, that I could learn to love, just as I love the language of literature and criticism and everything I've devoted my mind to for the past 10 years. Another VIP taught me that a poem is an argument, and the law is argument. They're not as far apart as we'd like to think. And if I can bring them closer together, at least in my own career, I think I can be happy and make some difference to someone.<br />
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I keep thinking about that Jay Hopler quote I keep on my blog. I heard him say it right before I moved to Chicago, and I've held on to it. "Language has to be beautiful in a way the world cannot be." I still think that's true, but I also wonder if that limits the work language can do. I am honestly approaching this new endeavor as a writer--you can read my essay if you don't believe me. The law requires specific language--we're always discussing what language needs to be incorporated into a document at the office--which makes it all the more intriguing. What if you had to write a poem with a specific word or phrase for it to function as a poem? How would you approach that? How would it change the very definition/essence of what a poem is? Is that why we think the law is a place for the sell outs, the failed poets? What if it's a new challenge, a way to make arguments that confronts the very truths we embrace in poetry?<br />
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Maryn is home from her dance, so my late night rambling is at an end. She had fun and she looks beautiful in her painted t-shirt and red skinny jeans. And I blogged, so tonight must be a success.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-29844291903343420752012-01-02T23:57:00.000-07:002012-01-02T23:57:27.402-07:00in the year twentytwelveThis is my 795th post. Since I started this blog in 2004 I have graduated three times. I have moved five times. Two siblings got married, two nieces and one nephew were born, and both brothers went on missions. I went to London twice. Lived in Provo, Bountiful, Chicago, and Evanston. Worked ten different jobs. Had fifteen roommates. (All numbers subject to my English-major inability to count.) We won't even begin to consider how many movies I've seen, how many books I've read, how many papers I've written, or how many times I've put my song-of-the-day on repeat to become white noise.<br />
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Maybe I should just be looking at the past year instead of the past seven. 2011, you were something else. Or you were just like every other year. I'm not sure yet. I think you have to put considerable distance between a time and yourself before you can start to understand what it meant. All that being said, I'm going to talk about now. 11:30 p.m., January 2, 2012.<br />
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I'm sitting in my new bedroom, which is in Provo. Good old awful Provo. For the first time in three years, I have a dresser. And for the first time in four years, I have roommates. (Real roommates. Not pay-the-rent roommates who live with their boyfriends.) I'm excited and terrified by the idea of living with people who are not family, who don't have to love me even when I'm me. I've spent the night figuring out what will make this room mine--a rug, a bedspread, a lamp. Rows of movies and a few strategically placed cake stands. A family photograph, a map of Chicago. So much of me, but I'm still not sure who is living in this room.<br />
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I want 2012 to be landmark year, but we always say that, don't we? We want this year to be the best year. But what will make it the best? That's what I can't answer just yet. I want to go to my Relief Society answers--which may or may not be what you think they are--but I don't think that's it. I don't think events are what make the year. Maybe it's people.<br />
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Here's the first landmark of the year--and maybe it came before the year officially started, but I don't care. Seth and I were sitting on the bed in "my" room at our family's home, trying to figure out his school schedule and online banking. Mom looked in on us as she passed by the door, and stopped, surprised at the sibling resemblance. All five of us have similar eyes, similar smiles--if you put us in a line up, we're definitely related--but I've never been told I look like Seth or that Seth looks like me. For whatever the reason, that was a connection I needed.<br />
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The next landmark, of course, was playing Mario Kart with Seth and Maryn. But that's a story for another time.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-28166396770344559682011-11-20T22:39:00.000-07:002011-11-20T22:39:16.284-07:00damn you, mr. darcyIs it (the blog) too cute? It might be. But I kind of love it. And I think the cuteness will offset the occasional cursing rather nicely.<br />
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I wonder how many times I've written this post.<br />
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I have a love/hate relationship with Jane Austen and her men. Darcy, Bingley, Edward Ferrars, Colonel Brandon, Edmund, Mr. Knightley, Captain Wentworth, and, of course, Alan Rickman, Hugh Grant, and Colin Firth. These men are not real. I know this, you know this, and we love them anyway.<br />
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I just checked, and the last time Mr. Darcy was referenced on my blog it was 2006. I'm not sure what happened there. Am I regressing? Maybe.<br />
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That <a href="http://editorgirl.blogspot.com/2006/09/she-liked-imaginary-men-best-of-all.html">last post</a> (five years ago?!) was about how I tend to like imaginary men over real men. I have a new theory as of late: I approach all men as if they were imaginary. And by "all men," I mean "available men" or "unattached men" or something like that. The men who I should be considering or hoping that they consider me, they're not real. They're. . . they're Mr. Darcy.<br />
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There is a part of me that is insanely frustrated that this seems to be the eternal conversation on this blog. Or in my life. I spent Friday night (a) swooning over HHS's production of <i>Aida, </i>directed by my genius friend<i>,</i> and (b) apologizing to my (other genius) friend that I was talking about a boy. A boy who is a man who is not Mr. Darcy. <br />
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I wonder if all this is my real frustration. Because I have a long list of them right now. Maybe not that long. I'm tired of being alone, but the aforementioned genius friends have alleviated that to some degree. I kind of love my genius friends. I want more of them. I should just clone them, keep them in my linen closet.<br />
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So more genius friends. The other frustration is the (lack of) writing and sending writing out since I graduated. I know that there is an easy solution there, but I just haven't been able to produce anything I'm happy with since I left Chicago. I miss that more than Mr. Darcy. I want to write and I want people to read my writing and I want to be a writer. I'm not sure I can say I am one right now.<br />
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Oh, the self-doubt. I want to shake it off, go to work tomorrow without anything holding me back. I don't think that's going to happen. But at least I have a cute blog.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-88123805803035483112011-11-06T22:59:00.000-07:002011-11-06T22:59:21.784-07:00blogging and the beastHello world. I haven't blogged in over a month, but I've been thinking a lot about blogging.<br />
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I had a professor who would ask me why I blogged. S/he thought it would take my attention away from my academic and creative writing. I tried to explain that blogging was a different kind of writing, that it's a way of sorting through ideas, that it's fun. The prof didn't get it at first, but a few years ago, s/he started blogging.<br />
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I started blogging in 2004. Seven years ago this month. Go team. I started because Kristen started, and Kristen started because Jeremy started. Nothing like peer pressure. But really it was about a conversation. For a few years, I was part of two groups of writers who all blogged. It was another way for us to create our community. There weren't a lot of other types of blogs out there yet--the only blogs I knew were "writer" blogs.<br />
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Now I follow over a dozen blogs. There are still writer blogs, but there are also art blogs and home blogs and wedding blogs and the all-powerful mommy blogs. It's not the same activity. My own blog went from being part of this small, almost exclusive, community, to a travel blog when I was in London, to a way of letting my family and friends know that I was still alive in Chicago.<br />
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All this just leads me to this (overwhelming) question of what this blog is now. Do I stay here? Do I start a new blog? Do I blog at all? I've toyed over the years with starting separate blogs for my not-so-secret wedding/event obsession. More recently I thought about a writing blog modeled after an exercise we used at NU that was usually successful. Or even a blog to chronicle my thoughts on religion, scripture, etc.<br />
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I'm not the same editorgirl who started this blog seven years ago. This blog is a record of how I've become who I've become. And I love it for that. But I don't know if I belong here anymore.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-76844205128600264812011-09-28T23:48:00.000-06:002011-09-28T23:48:57.033-06:00this is in my head"He looked like an angle mostly because the inside was so dark and it was sunny outside creating a shine behind him, like I would imagine an angle would look like coming out of heaven."<br />
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also<br />
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"The souls of my shoes started to melt." This student also "concurred a beast."<br />
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Listening to Adele again. I know it's not healthy, but at least this time it's "Set Fire to the Rain," which is pretty much the best song I've listened to all day. It might be the only song I've listened to today.<br />
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I was teaching today, with this exercise where students write questions down about the current assignment, but because I've usually already answered these questions ten times, I have the class answer as a "panel" of "experts." It's a good use of a class period, if only because it makes them realize that they know what they're doing--at least in theory. And it went well today. Very well, even. Until I completely lost it when a nice, unassuming student was answering a question. And by lost it, I mean that I laughed. Hysterically. Turned red. No reason, really. Just wild, lovely, manic laughter at the worst time possible.<br />
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At least I didn't swear at the kid.<br />
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I've realized, once again, that I am a lonely person. The problem with being lonely is that you get bored, fast. I actually tried to watch "Extreme Couponing" today, but that might be what brought on the aforementioned hysterical laughter. So I need friends. Angles need not apply.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-67431594763065181122011-09-16T00:01:00.000-06:002011-09-16T00:01:17.038-06:00someone like youI've been listening to Adele. On repeat. Mostly track 11. Which is<a href="http://youtu.be/NAc83CF8Ejk"> this song</a>. <br />
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This cannot be healthy. In addition to messing with my emotional well being, it's preventing me from coming up with a solid lesson plan for tomorrow.<br />
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We're starting the "Problematizing a Significant Event" paper, which is UVU speak for the personal essay. This is the paper I live to teach, where I can bring up every crazy bit of creative writer in me.<br />
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I'm a little worried that the creative writer in me has left the building.<br />
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I love teaching. Want to do it for the rest of my life. But I'm missing the other parts of my life. I'm missing the other people in my life. I forget to turn off the teacher, and find myself on autopilot two hours after classes are over. And don't even get me started on the days I don't teach.<br />
<br />
I'm missing talking about poetry and literature and language. The things I love, the things I want to be teaching. I'm trying to decide if it's worth one more run at PhD programs. Listening to this song makes me think that maybe rejection isn't a bad thing. Maybe it's beautiful. Maybe it's an invitation to try again.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's rejection.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-86012845456441056322011-08-13T23:55:00.000-06:002011-08-13T23:55:27.364-06:00it's a UtahThe view from my parents' front porch is ridiculous--and one of my favorite things in this world. It looks out over the Salt Lake Valley, which is always bright with lights. On either side are the mountains, and in the forefront are trees that break across the skyline. Tonight there was wind and I sat on the front porch steps, watching the trees bend in the wind, watching their silhouettes change the shape of the lights in front of me.<br />
<br />
I wasn't meaning to write a metaphor, but it seems rather appropriate for what I've experienced in the six weeks I've been home. I've jokingly called it a Utah-induced coma--maybe not so jokingly. I love Utah. I love the view from the front porch. I love being home with my family, knowing where I am and who I am in relation to these people who love me even when I'm being me. I'm excited for Seth to come home and Lauren to come visit, and the world will feel complete. But then the wind will blow, and the shapes will change, and I'll need to decide what it is I'm looking at.<br />
<br />
A few important things have happened in the past six weeks. I interviewed for (and was offered a job!) teaching English 1010 at Utah Valley University. I'll be there starting at 8 a.m. Monday, Wednesday, Friday. I am not a morning person, but I am a teacher, and I'll do anything to teach.<br />
<br />
The next thing came out of the blue--or maybe not so out of the blue as it seems. I've been told to throw as many darts as possible, in the hope that one or two might stick. After many many many rejections (I should probably throw one more <i>many </i>in there), I found out that I'm a finalist for the 2011 Ruth Lilly Poetry Fellowship. Which is bigger than any other dart I could have thrown at this point in my career. I'll find out on Sept 1 if I'm one of five winners, but being a finalist is enough for tonight.<br />
<br />
Don't laugh at the last thing, but I went on my first blind date. Maybe you should laugh. Maybe I should laugh. After an email from him, and an email from me that was designed to scare him, he suggested an evening I couldn't say no to. And I'm glad I didn't. It was a slow, comfortable date that led to another date, and maybe to another. Whatever it was, or is, it helped me get over some of my fears and anxiety about dating. At 28, it's about time.<br />
<br />
Which reminds me of a short story, which will bring us full circle to my parents' front porch. A few weeks ago the doorbell rang. I was the only person around, so I slowly pulled myself away from the book I was reading and walked to the front door. I saw a little person looking in through the clouded glass. She backed away as I opened the door, and I saw two little girls, one nervously holding a note in her hands. She looked at me and asked if my husband was home. "My husband doesn't exist," I told her, "but my dad lives here. He's not home right now, but I can give him a message." She solemnly handed me the note and asked me to give it to my dad. I thanked her and started to close the door, but not before I saw her little sister lean over to her and ask, "Why doesn't her husband exist?"editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-38905971234078208252011-06-21T22:12:00.000-06:002011-06-21T22:12:26.924-06:00path(s)<i>O then, my beloved brethren, come unto the Lord, the Holy One. Remember that his paths are righteous. Behold, the way for man is narrow, but it lieth in a straight course before him, and the keeper of the gate is the Holy One of Israel; and he employeth no servant there; and there is none other way save it be by the gate; for he cannot be deceived, for the Lord God is his name. </i>2 Nephi 9:41<br />
<br />
I don't usually write about church, or about scripture, or about spiritual things on this blog. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I don't talk about them very often. But this scripture has been stuck in my head since Sunday. They used it in Gospel Doctrine to talk about the straight and narrow way we must take to come to Christ. It was a good lesson, but there was a phrase that seemed more important to me, at least right now: Remember that his paths are righteous.<br />
<br />
Paths. Plural. Multiple paths. There is only one way, but there are multiple paths. Because God has multiple children, individual children. He's not going to set us all down the same path. He's going to give us our own righteous path.<br />
<br />
I just said good-bye to four of the most important people in my life, people that I didn't know three years ago. They're the four poets I've been in workshop with the most. Three years ago, I was still mad that I wasn't in a PhD program, mad that I was living in Chicago, mad that these poets weren't the poets I had worked with before. And now I can't imagine my life, my writing, without them. Tonight we sat in my apartment, ate pizza, talked, and read poetry. It was a perfect night--even with the humidity and the thunderstorm and the flickering lights and the sirens going past my window. It was a moment when you know that this was the path you were always meant to be on.<br />
<br />
I've said it many times on this blog--I don't know what comes next. But I can see where I've been, and I know that my life has become amazing. I can only hope that this path continues forward.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-30148717561073271422011-06-13T21:15:00.001-06:002011-06-13T23:07:21.365-06:00a story in which I will use an inappropriate word two timesnow that that's out of my system: Anna, this story is for you.<br />
<br />
I read <i>Jane Eyre</i> at least once a year. At least. And every time I brace myself when Rochester shows up, because I know that I'm about to fall hard for the bad-tempered, ill-favored perfect perfect man. (I do the same thing when Benedick opens his mouth in <i>Much Ado.</i> Which reminds me--how did no one tell me that <a href="http://youtu.be/XwOnjheZ7ds">this song</a> was <i>Much Ado</i> in the most perfect way possible?)<br />
<br />
So <i>Jane Eyre.</i> It was the last text of my "Large Romanticism" class. I read it, in the midst of writing my 15 page paper in less than 12 hours.<br />
<br />
We sat in class, and we discussed Jane. We discussed Brocklehurst. We discussed Helen Burns. And then, finally, Rochester. And I'm silently swooning as the class begins the discussion--about how hard it is to like Rochester. Wait. What? And my face. . .<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what my face was doing, but it prompted my professor to direct his attention on me as he said, "Rochester is a badass." Still not sure what my face was doing, but the professor asked, "Don't you agree?"<br />
<br />
"Definitely," I said. And I was prepared to defend myself. But a few women in the class jumped in to discuss how Rochester isn't bad--he takes in Adele, he tries to save Bertha, etc, etc, etc--until I stop them.<br />
<br />
I stop them. "Rochester isn't bad. He's a bad<i>ass.</i>"<br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
And then a few heads nod. My professor looks at me, shakes his head. And then says, "That's all I was trying to say."<br />
<br />
See you next year, Rochester.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-83762355599120570982011-06-13T20:59:00.000-06:002011-06-13T20:59:51.663-06:00this is.I was thinking about calling you, but then I decided I should just write. Fewer interruptions, clearer sentences.<br />
<br />
Maybe not.<br />
<br />
I'm feeling this crazy sense of loss right now. I have 17 days left in Chicago. I graduate on Friday, my parents and sister are visiting this weekend, there's a graduation brunch open house thing being planned. I have things to do, people to see. And I'm trying to pretend that it's not happening.<br />
<br />
I got another rejection in the inbox today--this time for a journal that I've sent poetry to at least three times. And every time the editor makes a comment on how close my work is. Close but no cigar. Today's comment was "Interesting work and approach." (This is addition to "very interested, but not interested enough" sugar coated.) Part of me is so used to rejection. And part of me is so frustrated. And part of me is wondering if I just wasted three years of my life studying poetry.<br />
<br />
Now you'll comment, say that I'm being ridiculous. But I'm not. I could have been working, could have been creating a future. I feel future-less right now. I want to publish, but I don't know what more I can do. And I want to teach, but it seems like every door and window is shut. And there are freelance and consulting opportunities, and I can get excited about those, but they're not enough for a life.<br />
<br />
I've spent three years creating <i>this </i>life, and I'm walking away from it. And I can't explain it. I can't say that I have a plan, and I'm starting to wonder if I even have faith. I have fear. And this nervous sense that I'm not going to be good enough, ever.<br />
<br />
It's this awful feeling, and it's not what I was going to write about. I was going to tell you how wonderful Chicago is, how lucky I am. How lucky I was. What do I do now? Where do I go from here?<br />
<br />
. . . .<br />
<br />
My last assignment to turn in was a cento. A cento is a poem created by using lines from other poems and poets--all the lines of this cento are from Susan Slaviero. It's a little more intense than what I usually write, but it's something--and I need something.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Cento</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Naked, you are all <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hello, holograph.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">Nothing especially miraculous.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is something you might see</div><div class="MsoNormal">—these concrete constellations—</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">to simulate the stain of pomegranate.</div><div class="MsoNormal">to kiss the stump of your pretty neck.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the right kind of shadow, she could be</div><div class="MsoNormal">starlike dents, a row of rivets.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>This Madonna</div><div class="MsoNormal">bribed to cut out her mechanical heart.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is a beautiful horror</div><div class="MsoNormal">when everything bleeds sepia.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-58259234380889857532011-05-29T23:27:00.000-06:002011-05-29T23:27:30.572-06:00are one two threeapparently deb is a life coach.<br />
<br />
this means nothing to you unless you work in the office, and if you work in the office, you shouldn't be reading my blog.<br />
<br />
anyway, deb is a life coach. I found this out when she kept referring to the "other" coaches, and I finally asked what they were coaching. they were coaching life.<br />
<br />
apparently life coaches go on retreats to places with mountains. a lot of people like to bond with me over mountains. there are no mountains in chicago or evanston, but there is a lake, which anyone will tell you is east. and when you point out that you're in a city of skyscapers, etc, they will tell you that the lake is east and if you can't see the lake, you can feel it. feel the lake.<br />
<br />
in utah, you can see the mountains.<br />
<br />
this was supposed to be about deb being a life coach and her brief moment of coaching me when I told her "I don't know" what comes next, "I don't know" why I'm moving back to utah, "I don't know" what I want. except I do know. I just don't know if I can get to it--<br />
<br />
so deb, who I would hire as a life coach if I had any money, but that's the first problem, told me to journal. she said that you have to put those thoughts about what you want out into the universe (she was looking up, and nervous to say God in the workplace, but she kept giving me these looks, and then nodding to the heavens. or the people on the fourth floor).<br />
<br />
I wanted to say "I'm a writer. what do you think I've been doing?" I wanted to say, "uh-huh, sure." I wanted to say "I blog! does that count." except then deb, the life coach, would know that I have a blog and we don't talk about it in the office.<br />
<br />
so I am blogging, which is as close as it gets to journaling. I figure this way I at least know that my universe is listening. and I've (just) decided that I get three wishes to send out there, life coach, journal-style.<br />
<br />
wish one: I want roots. I have my family in utah, but the past three years have shown me that I can live and adapt anywhere. now I want a place that is my place. I want to paint walls and hang pictures and secretly wish that <a href="http://www.hgtv.com/hgtv-secrets-from-a-stylist2/videos/index.html">emily henderson</a> was going to come over to conduct a style diagnostic. (careful about that link--it's addicting.)<br />
<br />
wish two: I want a job. I would like it to be teaching or writing, but I was putting together my chapbook and thinking I could do document design and editing and be pretty happy with life. I'm going to write and teach (as mentioned in an earlier post) regardless of the job I hold. I'd rather it not be in finance, and I don't think I can work at a university without being jealous of the faculty and students, but other than that--I think I'm open. anyone need a writer?<br />
<br />
wish three: roots, job, I know what comes next. and it's the hardest thing to put out into the universe, or whatever this is. roots, job, relationship. I've had a lot of time to do what I wanted to do, and to process past experiences. there are a few things I'd like to figure out before I'm all-in, but I'm kind of planning on addressing a few of those this summer. mostly because I'm not sure I can write a 15-page paper without ice cream.<br />
<br />
so there you are, deb, life coach, universe. I put it out there. now let's see what you've got.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-20222120169022564462011-05-24T23:41:00.001-06:002011-05-24T23:43:39.114-06:00can't go back nowI am become far too familiar with rejections. (I like the phrase "I am become," but it doesn't belong on a blog, does it?)<br />
<br />
After enough rejections, you become immune. It hurts for just a moment, your pride twitches, and then you shrug your shoulders and wait for the next one.<br />
<br />
Today's hurt a little more than most. I had (once again) half-convinced myself that this was it--my future--and it wasn't. But then I had emailed Chris in the morning, before I knew it was going to hurt, and asked him for a blessing. I'm so glad they made one of my best friends my home teacher. And when he called to say he could come, I was home, prepared to wallow my way through the evening.<br />
<br />
Instead, I had a beautiful blessing, a visit with Chris and President K, two of my favorite people in Evanston, another job application to complete, and a crazy-wonderful response when I tried to find references for editing/writing jobs.<br />
<br />
I've been so focused on what I don't have, that I forget what I do have. And what I have is a lot. Not just food and a roof (in the form of the perfect studio apt), but friends and family who are ready to cheer me on. A manuscript that keeps growing, and that I'm so happy with.<br />
<br />
I have two weeks left of classes, two weeks to live this life, and then there's another waiting for me. And it's scary and awful and I want to chain myself to my desk and refuse to leave my apartment. But then I think of all the possibilities. That's what I have right now. I want to finish my manuscript, I want to publish, I want to write. And the teaching will come. But tonight I realized that I'm always going to teach. I have to put the writing first. I have to put the words first. "In the beginning was the word." Everything else will follow.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-67684392485635205372011-05-10T23:26:00.000-06:002011-05-10T23:26:46.582-06:00it is finished, 1711.I have this poem, that I'm pretty happy with, that's about St. Paul's Cathedral in London. Actually, I have three poems about St. Paul's. And they are all called "Psalmist at St. Paul's" because for some reason no one likes the word peregrine.<br />
<br />
But that's not what I came here to say.<br />
<br />
The first St. Paul's poem is a bit of a history recitation. St. Paul's was built, destroyed, rinse, repeat, at least four times. The last time it was built they started in 1675, designed by Sir Christopher Wren. It's the St. Paul's that is still standing. After twenty-two years, they were able to hold services. In 1711, they (I'm not sure who they are) declared the structure complete. And ten years after that they were still adding statues of the apostles to the roof, etc.<br />
<br />
The poem plays with this idea of what it means to be "finished," arguing in the end that St. Paul's can't be completely finished until people come and experience the building, all of the building. The first two times I was in London I went to St. Paul's. I took the tour. I marveled. I'm an excellent marvel-er. But the third time, I went up. To the Whispering Gallery, and then the Stone Gallery. And that was the first time I'd ever been to St. Paul's. From the Stone Gallery, you have a view of London that I would argue is better than the view of Paris from the Eiffel Tower. (I kind of hate the Eiffel Tower.)<br />
<br />
Why am I telling you this now, four years after I climbed the steps of St. Paul's? Because this idea of finishing is very real tonight. I just put together the title page and table of contents for my thesis. It's done. And it's been done before--when I had written enough poems, when I revised those poems, when I compiled those poems, when I arranged the manuscript. And now it's finished again. And I still have a good twelve-or-so pages to write for it to be a full length manuscript.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure a manuscript is ever finished. Because even if it's ever published, it won't be finished until it has a reader. And that journey will be completed every time a new reader comes to the poems. And then where do they go from there?<br />
<br />
It's exciting to be at this point. I have a thesis. I'm going to graduate. But it's just as exciting--maybe even more exciting--to think about what comes next.<br />
<br />
If you'll excuse me, I think I have a poem to write.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-67133146188340894482011-05-05T23:25:00.000-06:002011-05-05T23:25:30.541-06:00good night moonI don't know what to do with myself. The obvious answer is to go to bed. All I have wanted to do for the past week or two is go to bed. And now, tonight, when I could be in bed, I'm sitting on my bed (which is what you do in a studio apartment) not wanting to sleep. At all. Possibly ever.<br />
<br />
The problem is, I don't want to do anything. I kind of want to work on the thesis. And I kind of want to watch an episode of Numb3rs. And I kind of want to. . . but no, not really. <br />
<br />
I'm ready. Not to sleep. To move forward. I don't know what "forward" will be, but it's time. My thesis got the thumbs up from my professor yesterday, so all I need to do are some minor revisions. After that I need to finish my courses with a chapbook (!) and a 15-page paper on Ossian and Romantic literature. I like Ossian--I like all blind third-century fictitious bards. I just don't want to write a paper on him. But spending 15 pages with Wordsworth will make me jump.<br />
<br />
So schoolwork, check. And work--well, I told them that I'm leaving. I had to submit a letter of resignation, which was odd. But on June 24, I'm saying good-bye to McCormick and co. And then sometime that next week, I'll drive off into the sunset to that great beehive in the west.<br />
<br />
And then. I don't know. But let's not spoil this.<br />
<br />
Maybe I do have some poet-ing in me tonight after all.<br />
<br />
[P.S. Today was Claire's birthday. She's one and all smiles. I was trying to figure out how I would remember her birthday. I was reciting how Sam's is on the 24th of July and Abby's is burned into my memory, and Claire's was just a random day. And my co-worker looked at me for a minute, like she was waiting for me to catch on. I didn't, so she said, "You mean Cinco de Mayo?" Yeah, Claire. I won't forget.]editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-47585581001515050062011-04-08T08:59:00.000-06:002011-04-08T08:59:27.590-06:00confession and announcementMy birthday isn't until next week. My family is just awesome and impatient. But thank you for all the (early) wishes. I needed them.<br />
<br />
And why I needed them: I didn't get in. Anywhere. I've been processing this for a few weeks now, and I should have told you (collective and individual) sooner, but I thought I'd have good news to offset the bad. And then I found out that I didn't get that job either.<br />
<br />
So. I'm not sure what comes next. I'm open to suggestions. There's part of me that is relieved, that is thinking after a decade of college it's time for a break. And then there's the part of me telling that part to shut the hell up. And then the third part--maybe the best part--is angry and annoyed and is throwing as many poems at as many journals as I can to prove those PhD admission people very very wrong. <br />
<br />
I'm telling you this today because I am on vacation. And I'm with my best friend, which means I can handle telling the rest of the world that somehow I'm back to not knowing what I'm doing after June 17. I know I have options, I'm just not sure what to do with those options. I'm not sure what I want to do with those options. But feel free to stayed tuned.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-981258887114119422011-03-31T14:23:00.001-06:002011-03-31T14:23:16.019-06:00and sometime others will celebrate for youI have the best family.<br />
<br />
<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/g0iGkFSsyXc" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-3005800288256733372011-03-08T21:15:00.000-07:002011-03-08T21:15:45.533-07:00sometimes you have to make your own celebrationAt the point in the waiting process, it feels like my mailbox is mocking me. I'm pretty sure it is. I know Utah sent out acceptances last week. Nothing. No thing. Nada.<br />
<br />
Well, nothing from Utah. I did get something from my work benefits plan, my electricity bill, and some exciting mailers from a local dentist. Why he felt the need to send me three, I'll never know.<br />
<br />
Ohio and Denver should start making offers this week or next, but those chances are slim.<br />
<br />
I'm turning into a crazy person. And I don't like it. This isn't cool crazy. This is crazy crazy. Staring down the cell phone crazy. Checking the same three sites for acceptance updates over and over again. It was on the hour. Now it's every 15 minutes when I'm at work. I'm not sure what I'm going to do at work when this is all over.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what I'm going to do when this is all over. And I'm not sure what I'll be doing after June 17 (graduation). But I do know what I'm going to be doing in one month:<br />
<br />
(do you want to guess?)<br />
<br />
I'm going to make my way down to South Carolina to see Anna and Brooke and celebrate. Celebrate me getting old, Anna getting older, and anything else I feel like celebrating.<br />
<br />
I think a paper chain is in order.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-14094524500937921282011-03-03T21:51:00.002-07:002011-03-03T21:54:38.328-07:00good things happened todayThere's a room on campus called (appropriately) the Great Room. It's a mini-dining hall. Decent food, excellent surroundings, and usually very quiet. I like to go there to write on my lunch break. Yesterday I needed to write. Too bad I had already committed my lunch to picking up a Very Large Book from my thesis advisor. <br />
<br />
But I needed to write, and I felt that I should inform Thesis Advisor of my DENY from UIC, so I emailed him, begging forgiveness and asking if I could come today. And in the postscript, I included a note about the DENY. And yes, it has to be all in caps every time.<br />
<br />
But this set the stage for good things to happen today.<br />
<br />
Thesis Advisor couldn't meet me until 3:00 this afternoon. The walk from my office to his and back to my office is a decent fifteen minutes, give or take a cold wind. Add to that a few minutes for chatting, and I was going to be gone at least a half hour at the end of the day. My plan was to eat lunch at my desk to make room for the half hour, but that was thwarted when my boss and I got a table at Einsteins (a rare feat), so we stayed and chatted and used the hour.<br />
<br />
On the way back from lunch, I mentioned (again) to Boss that I needed to pick up this Very Large Book at 3:00. And then I said I was thinking of not coming back to work, going home to check the mail, and maybe get up the nerve to call schools.<br />
<br />
So at 3:00, I left work, and picked up my (wait for it) Very Large Book from Thesis Advisor, and talked with him a little about the remaining schools. This conversation began my good things. He told me he was surprised I had been DENY'd, he told me that I was going to graduate on time with a solid thesis, he told me that he feels my thesis could be the solid core of a solid book of poetry, and he called himself my mentor. This is not a man who says things lightly. And all this happened in time for me to catch the 3:30 bus home.<br />
<br />
Except I didn't go home. I didn't check my mail, and I didn't call schools. I called Chris, who sometimes answers his phone, and today he did. After he gave me grief for not being at worked, I asked him what his plans for the afternoon were. His response: "Oh, I'm going to see a movie with you." And so we did. I got off at the next stop, walked over to his place, left the Very Large Book, and we made it to the 3:40 show. We were in a nearly empty theater, at matinee prices, and laughed our way through a thoroughly ridiculous show.<br />
<br />
It was just what both of us needed. <br />
<br />
So then I came home, checked the mail--and there was nothing. No emails while I was out either. But I'm not completely discouraged yet.<br />
<br />
That will come next week.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9100657.post-10480391691329391952011-02-28T20:44:00.000-07:002011-02-28T20:44:54.696-07:00I take it backI've told a few people that I just want to have an answer on grad apps, even if it's a bad answer. I lied. I don't want to know. Maybe ever. I want to live in a blissful state of "the admissions committee is so enthralled by my application they are unable to leave it to send me an acceptance." It's a nice place.<br />
<br />
It's an awful place. But at least there is hope. A glimmer. Or a large chunk of "no chance in hell, but enjoy it while it lasts."<br />
<br />
Am I being overdramatic? Maybe. But tonight was my first in what I'm almost positive will be a long list of "Deny." And this was the worst kind of deny. Not a letter (or I'll take an email) with a gentle but firm tone of "we had so many qualified applicants." I'd even take the "seriously? you thought you'd get in here? enjoy your inflated sense of self-worth, but enjoy it far away from our hallowed institution." This was a one-word update to my application status: Deny.<br />
<br />
There's some catharsis in writing this post, so please, no sympathies. It's stupid and awful and part of me wants to curl up and cry, and the other part of me wants to write a poem so brilliant that they'll be physically ill when they realized they could have accepted me.<br />
<br />
But I wouldn't want to go there anyway.*<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*This is a lie.editorgirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07663037069842805377noreply@blogger.com3