So, it's been a while. Four papers left to write before I get a month off of school. Seems fitting that the last post was from the beginning of the semester, and I've finally gotten around to writing again at the end. I'm putting off doing what I have to do, especially since I've got work tonight. Astoundingly, I've managed to catch up on all the homework I procrastinated on (36 blog posts, 4 newspaper articles, and 20 pages of creative writing later...) and just have final projects (and my internship) to worry about now. And then, for roughly 6 and a half weeks, I only have to worry about bills and my job. Thank Jesus.
Due to complications with language requirements (Georgia believes that you should actually KNOW a second language by the time you get a job, not just say you've taken 4 language classes in high school and know how to sing along to your favorite German band), I'm going to be in school for a full extra year. I'm going to be at half time enrollment now, which will be nice. I'm taking two classes next semester. Spanish 1 (they lost their German teacher, which means I don't get to continue learning my favorite second language) and Advanced Creative Writing. I'm hoping this means I won't be on such a stress over load and I can actually spend time with my husband, especially since he's taking a quarter off of school. It seems like all we get to do is collapse at the end of the day and watch a little bit of TV (or read like a maniac, as I've been doing. Back into Charlie Bone!) before going to sleep. Or, like now, I'm banging my head against the wall trying to get finals done with for the next week and whipping around to glare at him when he coughs too loud.
Thanksgiving is coming up. I think John and I are going to do what we did last year: chill at home and eat a lot of food. We might actually do turkey this year, considering that I forced my hubby to eat ham (I've only had two instances in which turkey was delicious, my dad made them both) last year.
You know, at the end of the semester, I feel like I should reflect on what I've learned. I hate to say it but...the only things I've learned (new) came out of my internship with Deep, teaching middle schoolers about how awesome writing can be. My journalism classes, though I like the teachers, didn't cover any groundbreaking information. One of them was so boring that I used it mostly as time to make lists and organize my planner for the week. Were they easy? Sure. Ridiculously so. But the work that I was supposed to do (blog posts) was more busy work than actually educational (we had to analyze the coverage of some article twice a week from NYT or WashingtonPost or Wall Street Journal). I get that the exercise should have taught us to think critically on a regular basis, but after my Mass Media class in 2010 with Professor Sewall, this was an unnecessary exercise. It's hard to get the voice of snarky comments and criticism out of my head while reading the news. But easy does not equate to fun or informative.
My independent study creative writing class taught me that when I'm stressed, writing is the last thing I want to do. Also, that it's hard getting back into writing after abandoning it for a few years. I got some really good feedback and I got to read some great stories and talk one on one with my professor about them but...it mostly consisted of me making up excuses why I haven't turned any chapters in. It was a fun 'class' for sure, but not a lot got done. I'm hoping to either continue what I've got next semester or start with a new idea that I came up with a few weeks ago. Either way, I'm trying to use these classes to write my 50 pages of fiction that graduate schools are going to be asking for.
And Deep. I've never really taught before. Not on a 'regular' basis (once a week). The overall experience has been fantastic. I love the kids that are in this group and seeing their writing transform has been rewarding. But dear god, did it take some nail pulling. Here's why:
I just found out that being called a "Chathamite" (we live in Chatham county) is considered a serious insult. One of John's SCAD professors got in trouble at the DMV for joking after receiving his GA license that "I'm really a Chathamite now," not realizing that it was the wrong thing to say. He was pulled aside by some very angry people. Chatham county schools are so bad that if you are called a 'chathamite' it is basically saying that you are a serious...idiot. To say the least. That's just depressing.
A few of my kids are where they "should be" with their writing, and it's always a treat to read what they've got to say. The others are behind. Sarah (my teaching partner) and I went into the first day with readings from Series of Unfortunate Events and activities that we thought would be fun and engaging. We came out confused. Everything had gone over (the majority) of their heads. I'm going to say that it has taken a few weeks for us to learn how to explain concepts and exercises as simple and clearly as possible, but it didn't take long for us to find out that these guys were reading and writing at a 3rd grade level. A few weeks into the workshop, we voiced our concern to our 'supervisor,' who said that while we weren't the only ones having trouble, we just needed to look at the small accomplishments. I'm so glad she put it in perspective for us.
I finally saw some seriously huge improvements this last week. There's still a couple kids who are fighting tooth and nail against our suggestions and edits, but overall, they all stepped up in their writing again. There have been weeks when some of them regress, but for the most part, it's just because they are so eager to write that they don't stop to consider what they are writing. And I can't be angry about that. Every time I want to pound my head on their papers, I go back to week one in their notebooks and compare it to where they are now. Did they use an adjective that wasn't there before? Did they use a metaphor this time? Did they name their characters this time? Did they write something not based on a book series, movie, or tv show?
One thing is for sure: I couldn't do this full time. Not middle schoolers. As much as I love these kids, it's only because I know that these guys received a scholarship that they competed for to get into the program. They WANT to be there. Even on a Friday afternoon. If I taught middle school, or high scohool, English, I would become discouraged. I already hate our education system. But looking at these kids (who have a passion for writing and usually are doing it outside of workshop in their free time) and imagining what normal classes are like, I shrink away in terror. I might ask to come back to Deep next Fall. I would do it this next semester, but I just can't bring myself to do it again right away. No matter how much perspective I get, I can't stop feeling overwhelmed at how unfortunate these guys are, stuck in this education system.
There are days I wish I could go back to middle school to when I discovered my love of writing. I see that passion in these guys, and I miss it. Maybe that's why I abandoned Dance of Dragons for Charlie Bone. As much as I love G. R. R. Martin, there's something about young adult writing that I devour like a vampire slurps and licks at a blood smoothy (I couldn't help the simile. I've been trying to get the kids to use figurative language by coming up with weird descriptions. I gotta share this one with them). I wish I could take time off of school and work and dive back into writing and reading without caring about academia, or what people will think of me if I start writing 'genre' pieces. That's the message I try to get to these kids: it doesn't matter what you write if you write it well. Just write what you love (thanks Reynolds!).
I was talking to an old friend from back home and discovered, the last time I loved writing was when I was in an environment that I knew my writing was appreciated and maybe even enjoyed: high school. Maybe that's why I couldn't do much for this creative writing class. As much as my professor tried to tell me that he was interested in knowing where my writing was going, there was the pressure that it had to be...adult. I don't know how else to describe it. Maybe I'll try again this next semester. Since it isn't one on one, he can't stare at me with small, beady eyes and frown as I try to describe what I want to write about.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Monday, September 16, 2013
Well, it's that time again.
I've been in school for about a month now and honestly...I'm ready to be done. I was excited for these journalism classes, but the initial giddiness has long past worn off. In fact, I'm just tired. The only thing I'm still slightly stoked about is the book I'm writing in my independent study class. Other than that...I've never been so behind in homework. Now that John is going back to school and I get every Tuesday and Thursday to myself at home, I should be able to relax a little and get some work done. Finally. It helps that we are just down to Doreen. I'm going to be calling to ship my baby Monte Carlo off for junk soon. I find my heart breaking.
I've had my Monte since I was 15. My dad bought her for me as an Easter present (honestly, I think he was just looking for a holiday excuse that was most convenient). He had to put a number of hours into her to get her running smooth, and there was that electrical problem that took four years to figure out...my first car was just as temperamental as the teenager driving her. And she still is. That electrical problem only occurred during the summer (when I was working McD's and at my most volatile), and only seemed to cure itself when my dad came around (much like my moods--my dad has always been and will forever be my best friend). When we finally fixed that (just before I moved to Savannah), the air conditioning broke. Of course, the ride south became steadily more uncomfortable, but she kept chugging along, nonetheless.
Then, just a couple of weeks ago, our Fiat's rear window was smashed out by an angry homeless guy. We drove my baby for one day, and I had just named her "ol' faithful," when she died. We called my favorite mechanic to see if we could save her (not just out of nostalgia, we really need two cars), but he declared her unfit to drive.
"I could spend the whole afternoon fixing her, but I still wouldn't let my own daughter get in that thing," he warned. He wasn't even able to jack her off the ground, she was so rusted through that her frame deteriorated every time he tried to boost her up. "You're from the North, I'm from the North, we both know this was bound to happen." He was incredibly sympathetic.
My dad taught me how to drive in Monte. I had my first, very awkward, kiss in that car. Monte Python's "Always look on the bright side of life" was playing when my crush went for it. Talk about lack of romance. A deer hit me in that car (seriously, it hit me. It came running out of a field and somersaulted over the hood of Monte, the ass cheek of the deer is permanently imprinted). I went on my first, incredibly nerve wracking date with John (I was determined to have some kind of control in the situation, and she was a comfortable old shoe) in that car. And I drove from Minnesota to Georgia in my green, mean, accelerating machine. I screamed and cried in the traffic through Atlanta, I shrunk in fear going through my first ghetto.
But she's kept me alive for 6 years. Her lack of electric locks was charming, the not knowing if the windows would roll back up was all part of the fun. When I saw the odometer clock past the 200,000 mark somewhere in Tennessee, I knew we were living on borrowed time. What with the Jeep gone too, I'm reluctant to let go. I just want her to work again. She's my last big, fat reminder of 'home.' My dad's signature is all over that rusted beast, and so are the signs of my teen years. As cliche as this sounds, all I'm going to have left are memories.
I've had so many life-changing moments in that car, I'm just not ready to give her up yet. Unfortunately our checking account is telling me otherwise. I wonder, if my car could talk to me, what she would say about my life so far. She's literally seen it all.
I've had my Monte since I was 15. My dad bought her for me as an Easter present (honestly, I think he was just looking for a holiday excuse that was most convenient). He had to put a number of hours into her to get her running smooth, and there was that electrical problem that took four years to figure out...my first car was just as temperamental as the teenager driving her. And she still is. That electrical problem only occurred during the summer (when I was working McD's and at my most volatile), and only seemed to cure itself when my dad came around (much like my moods--my dad has always been and will forever be my best friend). When we finally fixed that (just before I moved to Savannah), the air conditioning broke. Of course, the ride south became steadily more uncomfortable, but she kept chugging along, nonetheless.
Then, just a couple of weeks ago, our Fiat's rear window was smashed out by an angry homeless guy. We drove my baby for one day, and I had just named her "ol' faithful," when she died. We called my favorite mechanic to see if we could save her (not just out of nostalgia, we really need two cars), but he declared her unfit to drive.
"I could spend the whole afternoon fixing her, but I still wouldn't let my own daughter get in that thing," he warned. He wasn't even able to jack her off the ground, she was so rusted through that her frame deteriorated every time he tried to boost her up. "You're from the North, I'm from the North, we both know this was bound to happen." He was incredibly sympathetic.
My dad taught me how to drive in Monte. I had my first, very awkward, kiss in that car. Monte Python's "Always look on the bright side of life" was playing when my crush went for it. Talk about lack of romance. A deer hit me in that car (seriously, it hit me. It came running out of a field and somersaulted over the hood of Monte, the ass cheek of the deer is permanently imprinted). I went on my first, incredibly nerve wracking date with John (I was determined to have some kind of control in the situation, and she was a comfortable old shoe) in that car. And I drove from Minnesota to Georgia in my green, mean, accelerating machine. I screamed and cried in the traffic through Atlanta, I shrunk in fear going through my first ghetto.
But she's kept me alive for 6 years. Her lack of electric locks was charming, the not knowing if the windows would roll back up was all part of the fun. When I saw the odometer clock past the 200,000 mark somewhere in Tennessee, I knew we were living on borrowed time. What with the Jeep gone too, I'm reluctant to let go. I just want her to work again. She's my last big, fat reminder of 'home.' My dad's signature is all over that rusted beast, and so are the signs of my teen years. As cliche as this sounds, all I'm going to have left are memories.
I've had so many life-changing moments in that car, I'm just not ready to give her up yet. Unfortunately our checking account is telling me otherwise. I wonder, if my car could talk to me, what she would say about my life so far. She's literally seen it all.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Disconnecting
There has been a lot going on in the news lately. Everything from the Snowden leaks about the NSA data gathering across the world to one of my favorite soccer players returning to play in the US (Clint Dempsey). All signs point to some serious issues with our nation and her people and yet...
All I can think about is what I'm going to do when I graduate (hopefully this Spring). A part of me wants to disconnect for a while: delete my Facebook and Twitter accounts, and move to the mountains (this Savannah heat is absolutely killing me). My sister-in-law in Ellijay, GA made us partial owners in their coffee shop. If they get that up and running, I could get paid to make coffee and read books all day. My husband and I even talked about selling everything, buying a sail boat, and living a nomadic life for a while. What about graduate school? What about school loans? What about a job? I just don't know.
After high school, I knew exactly where I was going and what I was going to do. It was pretty easy. I had grown up with parents that strongly believed in receiving some form of secondary education. From the time I was in preschool, I knew I would be getting at least a bachelor degree someday. So what do I do, now that that moment is so close? The economy suggests that it will take a miracle to get a career (not a job) right out of college, so should I jump into finding my master's degree? Will that help my future prospects of landing on the right career?
That was the plan. Until I burned out. Honestly, I'm not sure how much more of school I can take. Don't get me wrong-- I love learning. I just spent this whole summer studying the history of Savannah, Georgia, just so I could get my tour guide permit to tell strangers how awesome this city is.
I'm frustrated with the institution of it all. I've had few good teachers since starting the university path in 2010, which doesn't really encourage much faith that I'll find better ones at yet another school, pursuing yet another degree. I've already started the extensive research that goes into finding the right master's program (or several, since you really shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket), but there are so many more schools I haven't looked at yet. It's exhausting. I'm exhausted.
My next concern is this: I just spent a whole summer outside driving horses, talking about history. Every day, I felt my skin crinkle as I experienced sun burn (for the first time in years), felt sweat drip from areas I didn't realize could sweat. I even enjoyed the weeks of rain--my callused fingers sliding on the thick plastic lines, barely keeping hold of the horses when they toss their heads as thunder cracked in the sky. Yelling over the roar of trollies, the honking of speeding cars; my voice seems permanently husky now. I came back to my video production job on Monday, and I realized...I hate being in a silent, cramped, dimly lit room. Maybe it is because I feel like I'm not learning while I'm there. I was engaged this summer, learning tour routes and the history of Savannah actively. I've got my history tour down so well that I'm going to start researching other tour routes so I don't get bored, giving the same tour over and over again. I hope that by the end of this year, I'll have downtown Savannah etched into my brain.
Yet I realize, I can't be a carriage driver forever. I work with people who have literally been doing this job for over a decade, and they are burned out. The money is good and the hours are convenient enough that it's hard for some of them to leave. So what about this job specifically appeals to me? Weirdly enough, this goes against my introverted self but...I think I love interacting with the people. Yes, it is tiring to put on a show for tourists up to six times a day, sometimes with a horse that is on the brink of a wild stallion-esq frenzy, but I love it. I've met people from all over the world, most of them with interesting things to say. I do have bad tours now and then--maybe they want to hear more jokes or more about the film industry in Savannah (like about Forrest Gump being filmed here), but I'm telling them about the city history because I think it's funnier. Maybe they want a ghost tour. My ghost tours are horrendous, I won't lie. But the majority of my day is spent talking to people who are either riveted by what I have to say, or will educate me because they are natives, finally exploring the tourist attractions of their city. And even though I seem to have grown up without the love of horses that most women seem genetically predisposed, I have come to love some of those buggers. They all have their own characters; the good and the bad. My favorite horse, Murphy, dances on his way home. I didn't even know horses could do that.
I think it's safe to say that I've learned more this summer than I have in the last year and a half at school. This is the first job I've ever had that feels more like a trade, and I love it.
Fortunately, I just found out that my Creative Writing class, which is independent study, will be forcing me into finally writing something extensive. My professor wants either a full chapter of a novel (30-50 pages) or a full short story by the end of the semester. That will help with the portfolio I'll have to provide for a master's program, if I do go that route. Who knows, maybe I will even get it published. Now I just have to think up a plot. My synopsis is due next week.
All I can think about is what I'm going to do when I graduate (hopefully this Spring). A part of me wants to disconnect for a while: delete my Facebook and Twitter accounts, and move to the mountains (this Savannah heat is absolutely killing me). My sister-in-law in Ellijay, GA made us partial owners in their coffee shop. If they get that up and running, I could get paid to make coffee and read books all day. My husband and I even talked about selling everything, buying a sail boat, and living a nomadic life for a while. What about graduate school? What about school loans? What about a job? I just don't know.
After high school, I knew exactly where I was going and what I was going to do. It was pretty easy. I had grown up with parents that strongly believed in receiving some form of secondary education. From the time I was in preschool, I knew I would be getting at least a bachelor degree someday. So what do I do, now that that moment is so close? The economy suggests that it will take a miracle to get a career (not a job) right out of college, so should I jump into finding my master's degree? Will that help my future prospects of landing on the right career?
That was the plan. Until I burned out. Honestly, I'm not sure how much more of school I can take. Don't get me wrong-- I love learning. I just spent this whole summer studying the history of Savannah, Georgia, just so I could get my tour guide permit to tell strangers how awesome this city is.
I'm frustrated with the institution of it all. I've had few good teachers since starting the university path in 2010, which doesn't really encourage much faith that I'll find better ones at yet another school, pursuing yet another degree. I've already started the extensive research that goes into finding the right master's program (or several, since you really shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket), but there are so many more schools I haven't looked at yet. It's exhausting. I'm exhausted.
My next concern is this: I just spent a whole summer outside driving horses, talking about history. Every day, I felt my skin crinkle as I experienced sun burn (for the first time in years), felt sweat drip from areas I didn't realize could sweat. I even enjoyed the weeks of rain--my callused fingers sliding on the thick plastic lines, barely keeping hold of the horses when they toss their heads as thunder cracked in the sky. Yelling over the roar of trollies, the honking of speeding cars; my voice seems permanently husky now. I came back to my video production job on Monday, and I realized...I hate being in a silent, cramped, dimly lit room. Maybe it is because I feel like I'm not learning while I'm there. I was engaged this summer, learning tour routes and the history of Savannah actively. I've got my history tour down so well that I'm going to start researching other tour routes so I don't get bored, giving the same tour over and over again. I hope that by the end of this year, I'll have downtown Savannah etched into my brain.
Yet I realize, I can't be a carriage driver forever. I work with people who have literally been doing this job for over a decade, and they are burned out. The money is good and the hours are convenient enough that it's hard for some of them to leave. So what about this job specifically appeals to me? Weirdly enough, this goes against my introverted self but...I think I love interacting with the people. Yes, it is tiring to put on a show for tourists up to six times a day, sometimes with a horse that is on the brink of a wild stallion-esq frenzy, but I love it. I've met people from all over the world, most of them with interesting things to say. I do have bad tours now and then--maybe they want to hear more jokes or more about the film industry in Savannah (like about Forrest Gump being filmed here), but I'm telling them about the city history because I think it's funnier. Maybe they want a ghost tour. My ghost tours are horrendous, I won't lie. But the majority of my day is spent talking to people who are either riveted by what I have to say, or will educate me because they are natives, finally exploring the tourist attractions of their city. And even though I seem to have grown up without the love of horses that most women seem genetically predisposed, I have come to love some of those buggers. They all have their own characters; the good and the bad. My favorite horse, Murphy, dances on his way home. I didn't even know horses could do that.
I think it's safe to say that I've learned more this summer than I have in the last year and a half at school. This is the first job I've ever had that feels more like a trade, and I love it.
Fortunately, I just found out that my Creative Writing class, which is independent study, will be forcing me into finally writing something extensive. My professor wants either a full chapter of a novel (30-50 pages) or a full short story by the end of the semester. That will help with the portfolio I'll have to provide for a master's program, if I do go that route. Who knows, maybe I will even get it published. Now I just have to think up a plot. My synopsis is due next week.
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