If I have any advice worth giving to fellow students it is this: Never, EVER be so foolish as to take six college classes during the summer session! I barely escaped with my sanity intact and thankfully, with my GPA enhanced. For the most part the two rounds of six week long semesters were challenging but not utterly horrible. That is until two weeks into my Algebra course the college switched instructors on us. That in itself would not have been a problem had it not been that the newly inserted adjunct instructor was utterly and in every way a complete incompetent. Interestingly enough this instructor teaches at a county high school. Even more interesting is the fact that the instructor in question managed to get several problems wrong while trying to work them out on the board in our class. One problem she got wrong three times in a row, until finally giving up and exclaiming that she had no idea how to teach us what was in our text book and if we knew she sure wished we would tell her.
No. I am not kidding.
Needless to say our class went into a state of veritable mutiny and after a great many of us complained to the college administration and even went so far as to lend our names to a formal letter of concern regarding the new instructors capacity to teach at the college level, she was unceremoniously removed from her teaching post; at least in our class.
Thankfully our short six week course was salvaged by the quick action and great talent of one of the college faculty instructors, who even though it meant extremely long work days for her, as our class met at night and she already taught all day, took pity on us and took over our class. Her commitment and effort prevented a great many students from failing the class, or dropping the class because they risked failure.
What is really disturbing about the incompetent adjunct instructor is that the high school students who are stuck with her as a teacher are really being short changed. The high school where she teaches is one that is notorious for underperforming on standardized state assessment tests. If that teacher is representative of the quality of educator there, then it is little wonder as to why.
I am sure that most teachers take pride in how their class performs. The majority of educators surely must have gone into the profession with the intention of helping students succeed. The school district's teacher shortage has however left it vulnerable to the kind of incompetence witnessed by every member of my Algebra class. Thankfully ours is a college that took the student complaints seriously and acted upon them. But what about the students in the public high school where this teacher is employed? Who speaks for them? Make no mistake that even one bad teacher who manages to retain a teaching post (because the district cannot afford to lose even those teachers who are clearly underqualified) can lead to a culture of failure, a complacency toward underperformance and an expectancy and acceptance of mediocrity.
What a staggering blow it must be to the confidence of a young student when they fail a class for no other reason than they are stuck with a substandard instructor. A student who otherwise may have done well might go through life thinking that they do not have an aptitude to learn a subject, such as math simply because their teacher wasn't qualified.
Apparently, having a teaching certification does not necessarily make one an educator. The students in my class were fortunate. We endured only a bump, a wrinkle in our education and a temporary inconvenience to our schedule due to our encounter with incompetence. But for high school students I cannot help but wonder how often such a wrinkle gives way to an academic chasm from which they never emerge.
Teachers should take note.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Sticky Business
Ugh. So here it is; the week that I need to decide which topic to write my English Lit research paper on that is due the week after next. The problem is that my professor gave us so many topics to choose from that are interesting and I would like to write about, that I'm having a hard time choosing. Could be worse, I know. He might have given us a crappy list to choose from and then I would be complaining about having to research the crap. At least it won't be horrible to research a subject that I want to explore in detail.
Documentation is a different story. If there is one thing I despise about college writing, it is the endless hours spent documenting and citing sources. A necessary evil to be sure, as there are many students who would be thrilled to just cut and paste another's words into their own research papers if they thought they could get away with it. But, that is plagiarism... unless of course the appropriate quotation marks and works cited styles are utilized. Then it is research.
Literary research paper writing can be quite a sticky business simply because you are researching another's work and words. It is a very fine line between paraphrasing a writer's work and meanings and plagiarizing. It never ceases to amaze me how many students think that they can get around citing works if they just reword their sources. They get caught up in thinking that if they just change a few words around here and there, then they are not actually copying.
It is a pity. Really. Here, I, along with a majority of the other students take great care in ensuring that we are producing an original, well documented research paper. But there is always that poor misinformed schlep who tries to get past having to do the hard work. I mean, HELLO! They have software installed at the writing lab that is specifically designed to catch cheaters.
Copy THAT!
I'm hoping beyond hope that in this class, on this research paper, no one tries to lift work that isn't their own. Cheaters suck and plagiarists are the bottom of the barrel.
Documentation is a different story. If there is one thing I despise about college writing, it is the endless hours spent documenting and citing sources. A necessary evil to be sure, as there are many students who would be thrilled to just cut and paste another's words into their own research papers if they thought they could get away with it. But, that is plagiarism... unless of course the appropriate quotation marks and works cited styles are utilized. Then it is research.
Literary research paper writing can be quite a sticky business simply because you are researching another's work and words. It is a very fine line between paraphrasing a writer's work and meanings and plagiarizing. It never ceases to amaze me how many students think that they can get around citing works if they just reword their sources. They get caught up in thinking that if they just change a few words around here and there, then they are not actually copying.
It is a pity. Really. Here, I, along with a majority of the other students take great care in ensuring that we are producing an original, well documented research paper. But there is always that poor misinformed schlep who tries to get past having to do the hard work. I mean, HELLO! They have software installed at the writing lab that is specifically designed to catch cheaters.
Copy THAT!
I'm hoping beyond hope that in this class, on this research paper, no one tries to lift work that isn't their own. Cheaters suck and plagiarists are the bottom of the barrel.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Let it Rain
Don't you just love it when a day that starts out with horrible, torrential rain type weather? Yeah. Me neither, but that is just how the day started. As I stared out my car window waiting for my daughter's school bus I was treated to Mother nature's version of a light show. Huge bolts of lightening speared the morning sky, menacingly beautiful as they sliced through the charcoal colored clouds. And I thought, this day is gonna suck.
To add to the bright mood of the morning, I had an American Literature midterm exam first thing. I was not looking forward to it - even the thought of driving to the college agitated me. Naturally, it poured incessantly the entire trip. I was grateful for backroads and the ability to avoid the pitfalls of heavy traffic backups on the rain slickened main streets.
Part one of the midterm consisted of six questions to be answered in short essay form. Short meaning two to three hundred words. Part two required I choose to answer one of three questions in "standard" essay form. That is between five hundred and one thousand words. Thankfully, we have word processor capabilities in the test lab. I was able to get the whole thing done in under two hours. Our professor allowed us two and a half, so I felt satisfied that I finished early.
Still pouring when I left campus. When I got back to my office computer my English Literature professor had e-mailed me with my grades from our first test and essay in that class. I earned an "A" on both. The day was looking up. Only maniacs and English majors are fool enough to take two Literature classes simultaneously. I happen to be both.
So, anyway, my English Lit professor also e-mailed me regarding a discussion a few of us were having in our critical analysis group. The subject was Arthurian legends and what makes them appeal to the modern audience. I made several points and mentioned my admiration for the writings of J.R.R. Tolkien. My professor wrote me that he had taken a 20th Century Literature class in grad school taught by Corbin Carnell; one of the few people at the time who wrote serious criticism on Tolkien. Then he worked with Corbin on an independent study examining the works of the Oxford mythmakers Tolkien, C.S. Lewis and Charles Williams.
How cool is that? Anyway, I let him know that I am officially envious.
After learning that bit of information, I was no longer bothered by the rain. I was too busy counting my blessings that I am fortunate enough to have an English Lit professor who has a keen understanding and appreciation of Tolkien, Lewis, Williams and the fantasy genre. Lucky me :)
To add to the bright mood of the morning, I had an American Literature midterm exam first thing. I was not looking forward to it - even the thought of driving to the college agitated me. Naturally, it poured incessantly the entire trip. I was grateful for backroads and the ability to avoid the pitfalls of heavy traffic backups on the rain slickened main streets.
Part one of the midterm consisted of six questions to be answered in short essay form. Short meaning two to three hundred words. Part two required I choose to answer one of three questions in "standard" essay form. That is between five hundred and one thousand words. Thankfully, we have word processor capabilities in the test lab. I was able to get the whole thing done in under two hours. Our professor allowed us two and a half, so I felt satisfied that I finished early.
Still pouring when I left campus. When I got back to my office computer my English Literature professor had e-mailed me with my grades from our first test and essay in that class. I earned an "A" on both. The day was looking up. Only maniacs and English majors are fool enough to take two Literature classes simultaneously. I happen to be both.
So, anyway, my English Lit professor also e-mailed me regarding a discussion a few of us were having in our critical analysis group. The subject was Arthurian legends and what makes them appeal to the modern audience. I made several points and mentioned my admiration for the writings of J.R.R. Tolkien. My professor wrote me that he had taken a 20th Century Literature class in grad school taught by Corbin Carnell; one of the few people at the time who wrote serious criticism on Tolkien. Then he worked with Corbin on an independent study examining the works of the Oxford mythmakers Tolkien, C.S. Lewis and Charles Williams.
How cool is that? Anyway, I let him know that I am officially envious.
After learning that bit of information, I was no longer bothered by the rain. I was too busy counting my blessings that I am fortunate enough to have an English Lit professor who has a keen understanding and appreciation of Tolkien, Lewis, Williams and the fantasy genre. Lucky me :)
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
An essay, a Mid-term, a Research Paper and a Little Fantasy Thrown in For Good Measure!
I tapped out a 1200 word literature essay this morning. At least the thoughts flowed easily onto the page and I was able to support my thesis without having to pull my hair out. The subject was poetry, and I am more of a prose type girl. I'm a little out of my element with poetry. All the metaphors make me batty, I must admit. I never could, and still can't figure out why writings dripping with vague allusions and obscure references are so exalted. I guess writers writing down what they want to communicate in a way that leaves no room for interpretation is not as artsy. Whatever. At least the essay about the artsy poetry is complete .
I have an American literature mid-term tomorrow, and no sooner do I finish that than I need to dig into my English literature research paper. I have yet to choose my topic. Rest assured it will not be poetry.
I worked a little bit in my novel length wip, world and language building mostly. I already have most of the world stuff completed - history, magic, creatures, conflicts between races, and most of the spiritual backbone in place. The language is more daunting. I never thought creating a language would be so time consuming, but it is. I am using elements of several different human languages, some of them ancient, to create a believable "original" language that is spoken as the native tongue of the ancient race in my story. Anyway, I am sure that I am doing it all wrong - breaking rules and whatnot, but for me it is working.
What I am not doing is randomly throwing together words. I am careful about how I develop each new word, and I have already gone back and altered or even completely changed a few of them when I find something different works better. This has turned out to be far more complex an undertaking than I originally anticipated. Isn't that the way of it though?
I hope to get more done tonight, but it is already getting late and I still need to read an entire chapter in my Biology text. Maybe I will learn something about genetics that can be incorporated into the history of one of my "worlds." One can always hope ;)
I have an American literature mid-term tomorrow, and no sooner do I finish that than I need to dig into my English literature research paper. I have yet to choose my topic. Rest assured it will not be poetry.
I worked a little bit in my novel length wip, world and language building mostly. I already have most of the world stuff completed - history, magic, creatures, conflicts between races, and most of the spiritual backbone in place. The language is more daunting. I never thought creating a language would be so time consuming, but it is. I am using elements of several different human languages, some of them ancient, to create a believable "original" language that is spoken as the native tongue of the ancient race in my story. Anyway, I am sure that I am doing it all wrong - breaking rules and whatnot, but for me it is working.
What I am not doing is randomly throwing together words. I am careful about how I develop each new word, and I have already gone back and altered or even completely changed a few of them when I find something different works better. This has turned out to be far more complex an undertaking than I originally anticipated. Isn't that the way of it though?
I hope to get more done tonight, but it is already getting late and I still need to read an entire chapter in my Biology text. Maybe I will learn something about genetics that can be incorporated into the history of one of my "worlds." One can always hope ;)
Monday, May 30, 2005
I Wrote! I Wrote! I Wrote!!!!!
I finally did it. I set aside my studies for a few precious hours and dedicated that time to writing in one of my novel length wips!!! It was so nice to get back to my characters. I've missed them so. I mean, they are with me every day, I'm always thinking about ways to further develop them and the plot, but to actually sit and just write them is heaven. What was interesting was that I had been at an interesting turning point in my world building at the last point I left the manuscript. After rereading just that small section before adding to it last night, I was able to fill in some holes and through doing that I wound up in a place where I can add an antagonistic device. Sweet! It needed that little something extra there, and now, not only is it going to get it, it is going to tie in seamlessly.
I must have been in creative mode major. Not only was I able to write last night, I woke up this morning with a vivid recollection of the most amazing dream. I dreamt an entire story, characters and all from beginning to end. I've always been able to dream certain aspects of a story - a characterization, a plot - something, but never an entire story. This definitely marked a "first" for me. My daughter invited my niece for a sleepover last night, and they came in my room this morning and jumped on my bed to wake me up. It must have been just at the completion of this dream. Talk about timing. I think maybe if they hadn't woke me, I might not have remembered the dream at all.
Anyway, I immediately went into my office to write out the outline of what I remembered. I didn't even put on a pot of coffee first. I was too concerned that I would lose some of what I was remembering. Thank goodness the kids weren't hungry for breakfast at that moment. So now I have this entirely new story sketched out and I am literally itching to write it.
The thing that is frustrating is that I already have two manuscripts that I am trying to complete. I really should not start another, especially considering the time constraints of my schedule. I have about twenty-five chapters down in one of my wips and ten or so in the other. I really need to complete at least one before I begin another.
I took the kids to the beach for a while this afternoon and met a friend of mine there with her daughter. After I told her about the dream I had she said she wondered if maybe I should concentrate on the new, dreamt story because it came to me in such a way. I don't know. I'd hate to put priority on it simply because it was "given to me," as my friend put it.
One thing is certain. I wrote. And obviously it fired off some creative neurons or something in my brain because after that I wrote in my sleep.
I must have been in creative mode major. Not only was I able to write last night, I woke up this morning with a vivid recollection of the most amazing dream. I dreamt an entire story, characters and all from beginning to end. I've always been able to dream certain aspects of a story - a characterization, a plot - something, but never an entire story. This definitely marked a "first" for me. My daughter invited my niece for a sleepover last night, and they came in my room this morning and jumped on my bed to wake me up. It must have been just at the completion of this dream. Talk about timing. I think maybe if they hadn't woke me, I might not have remembered the dream at all.
Anyway, I immediately went into my office to write out the outline of what I remembered. I didn't even put on a pot of coffee first. I was too concerned that I would lose some of what I was remembering. Thank goodness the kids weren't hungry for breakfast at that moment. So now I have this entirely new story sketched out and I am literally itching to write it.
The thing that is frustrating is that I already have two manuscripts that I am trying to complete. I really should not start another, especially considering the time constraints of my schedule. I have about twenty-five chapters down in one of my wips and ten or so in the other. I really need to complete at least one before I begin another.
I took the kids to the beach for a while this afternoon and met a friend of mine there with her daughter. After I told her about the dream I had she said she wondered if maybe I should concentrate on the new, dreamt story because it came to me in such a way. I don't know. I'd hate to put priority on it simply because it was "given to me," as my friend put it.
One thing is certain. I wrote. And obviously it fired off some creative neurons or something in my brain because after that I wrote in my sleep.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
This is a Test...
Well, since I'm in the midst of summer session mid-term hell, it seems like I spend every spare moment studying for a test. At least I got a little break today at a big family cookout. It was actually a pretty near perfect day, with tons of laughter, great food and lots of swimming. I began the day by accompanying my daughter to a friend's birthday party. Ten seven year olds bowling and drinking way too much soda, but they had a great time. I coach several of the girls who were in attendance, including the birthday girl.
I think that probably the best part of a child being on a team is that they can always count on their teammates to attend their birthday parties. Several weeks ago my daughter went to a party for a school friend and she was the only invited guest to show up. The poor mother of the kid was distraught. She'd planned the party for weeks and sent out the invitations early, had it at a really fun indoor basketball gym adjacent to a popular park, but still... no one came. I talked with her at length about considering enrolling her son in a team sport of some kind. A week later it was my own daughter's birthday. I held her party at the gymnastics facility where I coach. Of course, we invited tons of kids, including her friend from school whose party was all but ruined from lack of attendance. I felt so bad for his mother, because when she saw how many kids came to my daughter's party, she was awe struck.
We invited thirty-five children to my daughter's party and of those, thirty-three showed up. Of the two who couldn't make it, one was sick and the other had to go away for the weekend. The mom who had been so upset at her son's party, has told me several times since my daughter's big day, that she has never in her life seen anything like my daughter's party. She couldn't get over the turn out of kids. But I explained to her that of the kids who attended, only three were school friends, the rest are all my daughter's teammates and that my daughter's birthday parties are like that every year.
I ran into that mother yesterday while shopping for a birthday present for the party we attended today. She told me she signed her son up for baseball camp and plans on keeping him in a team sport. Then she asked me how I, a single parent, finds the time to be a writer, go to school and coach gymnastics. I told her that it's not easy. I work my tail off, and right now my writing is suffering from the time crunch. But I wouldn't change the coaching part. I do that so I can spend time with my child. I do that because if I didn't coach I couldn't afford to have my daughter in such an expensive sport. But the main reason I coach is that through doing it I am able to give my child a team experience that you simply cannot put a price on. She is having the time of her life, making lasting friendships and memories that will stay with her long after she stops doing back hand springs.
Could I write more if I didn't coach? Sure. Would it be worth the trade off? That is a test that I wouldn't risk failing.
I think that probably the best part of a child being on a team is that they can always count on their teammates to attend their birthday parties. Several weeks ago my daughter went to a party for a school friend and she was the only invited guest to show up. The poor mother of the kid was distraught. She'd planned the party for weeks and sent out the invitations early, had it at a really fun indoor basketball gym adjacent to a popular park, but still... no one came. I talked with her at length about considering enrolling her son in a team sport of some kind. A week later it was my own daughter's birthday. I held her party at the gymnastics facility where I coach. Of course, we invited tons of kids, including her friend from school whose party was all but ruined from lack of attendance. I felt so bad for his mother, because when she saw how many kids came to my daughter's party, she was awe struck.
We invited thirty-five children to my daughter's party and of those, thirty-three showed up. Of the two who couldn't make it, one was sick and the other had to go away for the weekend. The mom who had been so upset at her son's party, has told me several times since my daughter's big day, that she has never in her life seen anything like my daughter's party. She couldn't get over the turn out of kids. But I explained to her that of the kids who attended, only three were school friends, the rest are all my daughter's teammates and that my daughter's birthday parties are like that every year.
I ran into that mother yesterday while shopping for a birthday present for the party we attended today. She told me she signed her son up for baseball camp and plans on keeping him in a team sport. Then she asked me how I, a single parent, finds the time to be a writer, go to school and coach gymnastics. I told her that it's not easy. I work my tail off, and right now my writing is suffering from the time crunch. But I wouldn't change the coaching part. I do that so I can spend time with my child. I do that because if I didn't coach I couldn't afford to have my daughter in such an expensive sport. But the main reason I coach is that through doing it I am able to give my child a team experience that you simply cannot put a price on. She is having the time of her life, making lasting friendships and memories that will stay with her long after she stops doing back hand springs.
Could I write more if I didn't coach? Sure. Would it be worth the trade off? That is a test that I wouldn't risk failing.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
And then there was no time to write...
No time! No time! Ugh! It is frustrating, just how tight my schedule has been. Here I am, going to school to advance my writing career, but the irony is that my school schedule is so demanding that is leaves me literally no time to write. I haven't written a thing in either of my manuscripts in close to a month. A month! My poor blog has so much dust accumulating in it that it fairly resembles an old abandoned western town complete with tumbleweed. This is not for lack of desire to write. I miss it so much I could cry - and just might - at any minute.
I know, I know... I did this to myself. It wasn't demanding enough to go to school full-time throughout the year, no, I had to go an enroll in a mind-numbing SIX classes during the six week summer semesters. At least I am thankful that I had the presence of mind to include two literature classes in that mix. I'm taking English lit and American lit currently, so the quickie semester is not without its rewards. However, the pace of the reading and work output is some where between break-neck speed and warp-speed, depending on the day and the course requirement.
So, what is a writer to do when she can't write? You, know I have tried throwing a hissy fit but all it did was exasperate me. Obviously that didn't help. I didn't even have time to write about it afterward, it was too time consuming. I've taken to writing character motivations and plot ideas in the margins of my notebooks while I sit through a lecture or when I'm studying, but since I am not then going into my manuscripts to actually write, all those ideas are stagnating.
I can't stay up any later to write. I'm already studying till the wee hours every night. There is no way I am waking up any earlier either. I think the only possible solution is to pick one evening a week - probably Friday nights - and give myself a four hour window to do nothing else but work in my manuscripts. I gotta do something or I'm gonna wind up slamming myself upside the head with one of my massive lit books. I just hope that I don't get caught up in procrastination and use the four hours to watch television or clean my house.
This boggles me. I haven't gone this long without actively writing in I can't even recall how many years. I've always been the writer who found the time, made the time, created the time, and put the world on hold (inasmuch as I could) to ensure the time. This is alien territory for me. This really not having two minutes to rub together to write creatively is like a heavy weight that threatens to suffocate me if I do not find a way to lift it.
I've heard other writers lament about a lack of time so very often through the years, but I never really empathized until now. I used to think there was no way they really didn't have time. That they must be procrastinating, and I am still convinced that in many cases they were putting off their writing. But now I see how a person can literally box themselves into a corner with their schedule until they've worked their fingers to the bone, and then there was no time to write.
That prospect is so disconcerting that I am determined to rail against it until I've eked out enough time to write every week. I feel like such a poser. If I allow myself to become a writer who doesn't write - what will that make me? An antiwriter, a wannabe. No. I need to reign in my schedule before it consumes all of my creativity to the point that I have forgotten why I started writing in the first place. I started because I had to. Because the muse wouldn't sleep. Because I love it.
But then I started back to school, because I wanted to become a better writer, and then there was no time to write.
I know, I know... I did this to myself. It wasn't demanding enough to go to school full-time throughout the year, no, I had to go an enroll in a mind-numbing SIX classes during the six week summer semesters. At least I am thankful that I had the presence of mind to include two literature classes in that mix. I'm taking English lit and American lit currently, so the quickie semester is not without its rewards. However, the pace of the reading and work output is some where between break-neck speed and warp-speed, depending on the day and the course requirement.
So, what is a writer to do when she can't write? You, know I have tried throwing a hissy fit but all it did was exasperate me. Obviously that didn't help. I didn't even have time to write about it afterward, it was too time consuming. I've taken to writing character motivations and plot ideas in the margins of my notebooks while I sit through a lecture or when I'm studying, but since I am not then going into my manuscripts to actually write, all those ideas are stagnating.
I can't stay up any later to write. I'm already studying till the wee hours every night. There is no way I am waking up any earlier either. I think the only possible solution is to pick one evening a week - probably Friday nights - and give myself a four hour window to do nothing else but work in my manuscripts. I gotta do something or I'm gonna wind up slamming myself upside the head with one of my massive lit books. I just hope that I don't get caught up in procrastination and use the four hours to watch television or clean my house.
This boggles me. I haven't gone this long without actively writing in I can't even recall how many years. I've always been the writer who found the time, made the time, created the time, and put the world on hold (inasmuch as I could) to ensure the time. This is alien territory for me. This really not having two minutes to rub together to write creatively is like a heavy weight that threatens to suffocate me if I do not find a way to lift it.
I've heard other writers lament about a lack of time so very often through the years, but I never really empathized until now. I used to think there was no way they really didn't have time. That they must be procrastinating, and I am still convinced that in many cases they were putting off their writing. But now I see how a person can literally box themselves into a corner with their schedule until they've worked their fingers to the bone, and then there was no time to write.
That prospect is so disconcerting that I am determined to rail against it until I've eked out enough time to write every week. I feel like such a poser. If I allow myself to become a writer who doesn't write - what will that make me? An antiwriter, a wannabe. No. I need to reign in my schedule before it consumes all of my creativity to the point that I have forgotten why I started writing in the first place. I started because I had to. Because the muse wouldn't sleep. Because I love it.
But then I started back to school, because I wanted to become a better writer, and then there was no time to write.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Inspiration
Sometimes inspiration strikes at the darndest times. I was in the middle of taking an exam today when ideas came out of nowhere for one of my novel-length wips. Trying to jot down the thoughts was impossible. I had nothing to write on other than my test paper and that was being turned into my professor. Then, of course I had to concentrate on answering the questions on the test, but it was really difficult to focus on the exam when all I wanted to do was write down the character interaction that was dancing in my mind before I lost it.
It's not the first time story ideas have come to me at an inopportune moment. I've taken to always keeping a small notebook in my car in case inspiration hits me as I am barreling down a highway or stuck at a red light. But I can't keep a note book in the shower, or pull one out during lunch with a friend, or in the middle of coaching gymnastics. So what's a writer to do?
I don't generally lose the entire epiphany, but invariably bits and pieces go unrecalled, leaving holes in what had been a complete thought. Just the way it is I guess. That thought doesn't make losing the muse any less frustrating, but it does support my assumption that every writer undoubtedly experiences the same problem at one time or another.
What makes it more frustrating is that there really isn't any way to change it. How do you prepare for an idea that hasn't actually come, but might, and possibly in the shower? I can't think of a way, but I can't spend too much time pondering it either. I guess it is just a matter of timing and hoping that yours is good. With any luck, the perfect idea will hit at the optimal time.
At least it is something to wish for.
It's not the first time story ideas have come to me at an inopportune moment. I've taken to always keeping a small notebook in my car in case inspiration hits me as I am barreling down a highway or stuck at a red light. But I can't keep a note book in the shower, or pull one out during lunch with a friend, or in the middle of coaching gymnastics. So what's a writer to do?
I don't generally lose the entire epiphany, but invariably bits and pieces go unrecalled, leaving holes in what had been a complete thought. Just the way it is I guess. That thought doesn't make losing the muse any less frustrating, but it does support my assumption that every writer undoubtedly experiences the same problem at one time or another.
What makes it more frustrating is that there really isn't any way to change it. How do you prepare for an idea that hasn't actually come, but might, and possibly in the shower? I can't think of a way, but I can't spend too much time pondering it either. I guess it is just a matter of timing and hoping that yours is good. With any luck, the perfect idea will hit at the optimal time.
At least it is something to wish for.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Late Night Write
I love to write late at night. I don't know what it is exactly that I find so pleasing about it. Perhaps it is the quiet of the house, my kid is asleep, no neighbors are mowing their lawns next door, no doorbell rings, even my three dogs are settled and don't come up to nudge me for a treat or a pat on the head. Heck, they rarely even bark this late. So, maybe it is the peacefulness that causes late night writing to be so appealing to me. Maybe it's just that I am more creative at night. I always was a bit of a night owl. Even as a young child I could never fall asleep early. Could also have something to do with my current genre. I am working on two fantasy novel-length fiction manuscripts. Might be that I feel night time is more conducive to writing about my created world replete with non-human characters. Possible I suppose.
Honestly, I am not sure why it is that I seem to always do my best writing after midnight. Editing I do better in the daytime, but my creative writing is definitely a late night pursuit. I do notice that I fall asleep quicker after I have written. As if allowing the characters in my stories to spill onto the page somehow quiets them and allows me to sleep rather than lie awake thinking about what they are going to do next or how they are evolving.
Maybe it is just that I have trained myself that if I am gonna be up late - I may as well write. I know other writers train their creative focus to allow them to pursue writing morning pages. I keep telling myself that I am going to mix it up a little and start getting up early to write rather than stay up late, but there is something about getting up at 6am to write fiction that seems insanely barbaric to me.
For now, I will probably stick with the late night write that I have become so accustomed to. You know what they say; if it ain't broke...
I wonder though if fixing it would actually repair a weakness or cause it to break down all together
Honestly, I am not sure why it is that I seem to always do my best writing after midnight. Editing I do better in the daytime, but my creative writing is definitely a late night pursuit. I do notice that I fall asleep quicker after I have written. As if allowing the characters in my stories to spill onto the page somehow quiets them and allows me to sleep rather than lie awake thinking about what they are going to do next or how they are evolving.
Maybe it is just that I have trained myself that if I am gonna be up late - I may as well write. I know other writers train their creative focus to allow them to pursue writing morning pages. I keep telling myself that I am going to mix it up a little and start getting up early to write rather than stay up late, but there is something about getting up at 6am to write fiction that seems insanely barbaric to me.
For now, I will probably stick with the late night write that I have become so accustomed to. You know what they say; if it ain't broke...
I wonder though if fixing it would actually repair a weakness or cause it to break down all together
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Crossing the Finish Line
I never thought that this semester would utterly consume my every waking minute. Had I known though, I don't think I would have changed anything. I'm excelling in all of my classes and can finally see the finish line looming ever closer as the end of the semester draws near. After that I will be taking six classes through summer session, as long as my grant holds. Yeah, I did say six. It's going to be mountains of work but I want to get through to my degree and following summer session I will have only two classes that I need to take to graduate in the spring. The prospect of finishing is both exciting and exhausting. I can't wait to complete my degree, though I know that after I do, life will become more exhausting because I plan to plunge right back into the University. My dream is to earn a doctorate in English and an MFA in creative writing.
It has occurred to me that plodding along through school has not been at all unlike plodding my way through writing my two novel-length fiction works-in-progress. They too present their own set of challenges, sometimes on a daily basis. There have been days when I toy with the idea of abandoning the stories and not finishing. If you write at all then you know what I mean. The days when you're all out of fresh ideas, or you've reread over your material and decided it is terrible, and you have no talent and you might as well throw in the towel and go take a job in retail or some other underappreciated service industry.
But then after the whining and feeling a bit sorry for myself I return to my keyboard and pound out some words.
I have a rule that is working quite nicely for moments like that: I force myself to write 50 words in my manuscript - even if they really make no sense whatsoever. This always works for me, because before I know it, the ideas are flowing again and if nothing more is accomplished at least I feel better afterward because I was able to work through the creative crisis. It reminds me of the way I will push on through schoolwork even if it is something difficult, or far out of my comfort zone.
It gives me some peace realizing that I can work through enormous challenges by myself and that understanding of how I work and why the hell I do it in the first place encourages me to push on through school and my creative writing, because I know if I do, I will eventually cross the finish line.
It has occurred to me that plodding along through school has not been at all unlike plodding my way through writing my two novel-length fiction works-in-progress. They too present their own set of challenges, sometimes on a daily basis. There have been days when I toy with the idea of abandoning the stories and not finishing. If you write at all then you know what I mean. The days when you're all out of fresh ideas, or you've reread over your material and decided it is terrible, and you have no talent and you might as well throw in the towel and go take a job in retail or some other underappreciated service industry.
But then after the whining and feeling a bit sorry for myself I return to my keyboard and pound out some words.
I have a rule that is working quite nicely for moments like that: I force myself to write 50 words in my manuscript - even if they really make no sense whatsoever. This always works for me, because before I know it, the ideas are flowing again and if nothing more is accomplished at least I feel better afterward because I was able to work through the creative crisis. It reminds me of the way I will push on through schoolwork even if it is something difficult, or far out of my comfort zone.
It gives me some peace realizing that I can work through enormous challenges by myself and that understanding of how I work and why the hell I do it in the first place encourages me to push on through school and my creative writing, because I know if I do, I will eventually cross the finish line.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Easy Work
There is something to be said about preparedness. What it is exactly, at this point, I don't know... but I know there must be something. After all, aren't we taught all our lives to follow little golden rules of preparedness? Gosh. One rule that immediately springs to mind is: Do your homework. Why? Why, do people have such a hard time with this one? Literally and figuratively it seems to me that we are swiftly becoming a nation of bumbling, fly by the seat-of-our pants - idiots.
Take for example, a college class that I am currently enrolled in. I am an English major, not to mention a freelance writer. As such take my writing classes extremely seriously. This particular class requires a good deal of research for writing analytical essays on the literary fiction we are studying this term. Of course, research translates to citing various sources. So, anyway, there is this one girl, um, wait... girl is an inappropriate description, as this girl is probably in her mid 30's. Anyway, put delicately, this young woman is driving me nuts!
First, she is often late for this class. She blusters in, loudly, I might add. Hey, I could live with that - but for the fact that no matter where I sit in the room - she weasels her way either right next to me, or across from me, or worse - behind me. It's moderately bothersome, but I could still tolerate that, were it not for the fact that she then proceeds to address me with whispered questions. She'll ask what she missed, or if I did the reading assignment - I mean - DUH!!! I didn't become an "A" student by blowing off my reading assignments.
Regardless, it gets worse. She is forever fielding me questions about her written assignments. I feel for her in a way. She is, after all, to be counted among the walking clueless of the world. Blissfully unaware of how ignorant and tactless she appears to others.
So, good person that I am, I try to help her here and there. I offer advice. I have even gone so far as to edit a draft of one of her essays at her request. Mercifully, I have taken courses taught by my current professor previously. She had definitely noticed my unease at being targeted by this classmate as her personal tutor. She has tolerated the disruption up to this point, but I know the unprepared student is in for a rude awakening if it continues.
I have tried to distance myself. This week, after class my classmate approached and asked if we could exchange telephone numbers, you know - in case she had questions about the upcoming research paper. I was aghast. No. Not going to happen. I explained that I am an extremely busy writer, student and single parent. That while I do not mind helping her from time to time, I cannot spare a moment on work that is not my own. I told her, and honestly so, that I am lucky that I manage to get my own work done.
Well, she became frustrated and pushed the issue. After all, she only has a few questions and surely I can take a few minutes to help her out. Then she blurted that I should help her because writing is easy for me. EASY! Pardon? What say?
She said it in the same accusatory way that former coworkers have in the past. The ones who assumed that I would pen their reports for them because writing came easy for me. Friends who have needed help sprucing up a resume, would offer a similar tone, when they would promise me that it would only take a few minutes. After all, writing was hard for them. But not me. It's easy for me.
My professor glanced up from stacking papers on her desk. She had taken notice of the exchange between myself and my unprepared classmate. Part of me wanted to humiliate this girl, by informing her just how much work goes into writing well, and do so in front of our professor who undoubtedly understands the complexities to which I refer . But I thought better of it.
What I did instead was suggest that she seek out the free services of the tutoring lab. I assured her that writing comes easy for them too, and that they would be pleased to spend as much time helping her as she might need, so that next time she might come to class prepared. She left in a bit of a huff.
My professor didn't say a word about it, but the approving look she gave me was enough.
Tomorrow we have a quiz on two short stories that were assigned a week ago. Afterward, we will have open discussion, analyzing the works. Then we will shift gears and review twenty research questions that we should have completed with sources cited on a separate page. Invariably, there will be a few students who "forgot" to do the reading assignment, or perhaps one or two scrambling to complete the research questions.
All I know is that I have done my homework. Then again, writing comes easy for me.
Take for example, a college class that I am currently enrolled in. I am an English major, not to mention a freelance writer. As such take my writing classes extremely seriously. This particular class requires a good deal of research for writing analytical essays on the literary fiction we are studying this term. Of course, research translates to citing various sources. So, anyway, there is this one girl, um, wait... girl is an inappropriate description, as this girl is probably in her mid 30's. Anyway, put delicately, this young woman is driving me nuts!
First, she is often late for this class. She blusters in, loudly, I might add. Hey, I could live with that - but for the fact that no matter where I sit in the room - she weasels her way either right next to me, or across from me, or worse - behind me. It's moderately bothersome, but I could still tolerate that, were it not for the fact that she then proceeds to address me with whispered questions. She'll ask what she missed, or if I did the reading assignment - I mean - DUH!!! I didn't become an "A" student by blowing off my reading assignments.
Regardless, it gets worse. She is forever fielding me questions about her written assignments. I feel for her in a way. She is, after all, to be counted among the walking clueless of the world. Blissfully unaware of how ignorant and tactless she appears to others.
So, good person that I am, I try to help her here and there. I offer advice. I have even gone so far as to edit a draft of one of her essays at her request. Mercifully, I have taken courses taught by my current professor previously. She had definitely noticed my unease at being targeted by this classmate as her personal tutor. She has tolerated the disruption up to this point, but I know the unprepared student is in for a rude awakening if it continues.
I have tried to distance myself. This week, after class my classmate approached and asked if we could exchange telephone numbers, you know - in case she had questions about the upcoming research paper. I was aghast. No. Not going to happen. I explained that I am an extremely busy writer, student and single parent. That while I do not mind helping her from time to time, I cannot spare a moment on work that is not my own. I told her, and honestly so, that I am lucky that I manage to get my own work done.
Well, she became frustrated and pushed the issue. After all, she only has a few questions and surely I can take a few minutes to help her out. Then she blurted that I should help her because writing is easy for me. EASY! Pardon? What say?
She said it in the same accusatory way that former coworkers have in the past. The ones who assumed that I would pen their reports for them because writing came easy for me. Friends who have needed help sprucing up a resume, would offer a similar tone, when they would promise me that it would only take a few minutes. After all, writing was hard for them. But not me. It's easy for me.
My professor glanced up from stacking papers on her desk. She had taken notice of the exchange between myself and my unprepared classmate. Part of me wanted to humiliate this girl, by informing her just how much work goes into writing well, and do so in front of our professor who undoubtedly understands the complexities to which I refer . But I thought better of it.
What I did instead was suggest that she seek out the free services of the tutoring lab. I assured her that writing comes easy for them too, and that they would be pleased to spend as much time helping her as she might need, so that next time she might come to class prepared. She left in a bit of a huff.
My professor didn't say a word about it, but the approving look she gave me was enough.
Tomorrow we have a quiz on two short stories that were assigned a week ago. Afterward, we will have open discussion, analyzing the works. Then we will shift gears and review twenty research questions that we should have completed with sources cited on a separate page. Invariably, there will be a few students who "forgot" to do the reading assignment, or perhaps one or two scrambling to complete the research questions.
All I know is that I have done my homework. Then again, writing comes easy for me.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Lesson in Courage
Iraqis turned out to cast their ballots in their first free election in over fifty years. It is remarkable that the elections proceeded as scheduled. More astonishing is the sheer number of Iraqi people who rose up and exercised their new found right to vote under the threats of death by radical insurgents.
The numbers are staggering considering the circumstances. It is estimated that between 60 to 72 percent of all eligible Iraqi voters actually voted. Weigh those numbers against the estimated 50 percent of all eligible American voters who participate in our democracy by voting, and it is clear that the Iraqi people have sent a message to the world: they are willing to risk everything to embrace democracy.
Americans would do well to take note and reflect upon the dear price that has been paid by those who came before us to ensure our right to vote. We have taken our open elections process for granted for too long. How shameful it is that in our free nation so many fail to take part in the democractic process that is the model for the world.
The Iraqi people have reaffirmed that which our forebearers knew so well; that freedom is worth sacrificing for. The newsfootage of Iraqi women, most of whom have suffered unimaginable oppression their entire lives, casting their ballots should serve as a stark reminder that women in our own country were at one time ineligable to vote. Were it not for the committment, courage and sacrifices of women during the Sufferage movement, perhaps American women would still be refused the vote.
It has been reported that an alert guard at a polling location in Iraq noticed as a man came charging toward the enterance to the polls. When the man refused to halt the guard opened fire, and the man, an apparent suicide bomber, blew up. The Iraqis who turned up to vote at that location were not disuaded by the attempt on their lives, rather they became inscensed and refused to leave the polling place without casting their ballots. What a lesson in courage.
The numbers are staggering considering the circumstances. It is estimated that between 60 to 72 percent of all eligible Iraqi voters actually voted. Weigh those numbers against the estimated 50 percent of all eligible American voters who participate in our democracy by voting, and it is clear that the Iraqi people have sent a message to the world: they are willing to risk everything to embrace democracy.
Americans would do well to take note and reflect upon the dear price that has been paid by those who came before us to ensure our right to vote. We have taken our open elections process for granted for too long. How shameful it is that in our free nation so many fail to take part in the democractic process that is the model for the world.
The Iraqi people have reaffirmed that which our forebearers knew so well; that freedom is worth sacrificing for. The newsfootage of Iraqi women, most of whom have suffered unimaginable oppression their entire lives, casting their ballots should serve as a stark reminder that women in our own country were at one time ineligable to vote. Were it not for the committment, courage and sacrifices of women during the Sufferage movement, perhaps American women would still be refused the vote.
It has been reported that an alert guard at a polling location in Iraq noticed as a man came charging toward the enterance to the polls. When the man refused to halt the guard opened fire, and the man, an apparent suicide bomber, blew up. The Iraqis who turned up to vote at that location were not disuaded by the attempt on their lives, rather they became inscensed and refused to leave the polling place without casting their ballots. What a lesson in courage.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
The Truth is Sometimes Stranger than Fiction
I know, I know - I fell off my blogging wagon for a while, but this time for very good reason: I've been writing like mad. I am working on a personal essay that will evolve into a researched article as I nail down all the details. This is something I have put off writing for the past several years because the subject matter; my having been stalked for two years, is very personal to me, and was frankly too painful for me to write about. I needed some time and space before I could even communicate the particulars effectively. So, I never wrote about it... I didn't even etch my thoughts in my journal.
The stalking changed my perception of safety to such an extent that I didn't even feel safe writing it down. As if not putting it in print made it less real and so less frightening. But now I am past fear. My stalker is my ex-husband. He shadowed my every move, stole my mail, broke into my home, and continually threatened me for two years after divorce. But it didn't stop there, he also electronically stalked me, breaking into personal information and gained access to everything from my pharmacy to my bank accounts.
It took two years and more than fifty police reports before he was finally convicted of several counts of Felony aggravated Stalking, and sent to jail. He is now serving five years of Felony probation in another state, as the State of Florida deemed him such a danger to me that they refused to permit his remaining in Florida to serve his probation.
The kicker in all of this was that because I had been at one time married to him, the police always considered his persistent infiltration into every aspect of my life as a domestic issue. Had he been a stranger he would have been arrested long before he violated my order of protection by coming to my house to do god-knows-what to me. Thankfully, my parents had hired private detectives to protect me, and on the two separate occasions that my stalker came to my home, they were there to intercept him.
The story of all that happened and the legal battle that ensued is so vast and detailed that I am sure I will need to put it all down in book length eventually. For now I am writing little segments at a time starting with an essay with the intention of working it into articles on the subject. I hope my experiences with the horror of being stalked will help another who is suffering the same violation.
The writing is cathartic, but time consuming, as I need to step away from the page every so often to be able to endure recounting it.
The strangest part about living through a stalking is the reaction of other people when they learn about it. They are not sure what to say, and invariably they become uncomfortable with it. Like it is a disease that may be contagious. Strange... but then again sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction.
The stalking changed my perception of safety to such an extent that I didn't even feel safe writing it down. As if not putting it in print made it less real and so less frightening. But now I am past fear. My stalker is my ex-husband. He shadowed my every move, stole my mail, broke into my home, and continually threatened me for two years after divorce. But it didn't stop there, he also electronically stalked me, breaking into personal information and gained access to everything from my pharmacy to my bank accounts.
It took two years and more than fifty police reports before he was finally convicted of several counts of Felony aggravated Stalking, and sent to jail. He is now serving five years of Felony probation in another state, as the State of Florida deemed him such a danger to me that they refused to permit his remaining in Florida to serve his probation.
The kicker in all of this was that because I had been at one time married to him, the police always considered his persistent infiltration into every aspect of my life as a domestic issue. Had he been a stranger he would have been arrested long before he violated my order of protection by coming to my house to do god-knows-what to me. Thankfully, my parents had hired private detectives to protect me, and on the two separate occasions that my stalker came to my home, they were there to intercept him.
The story of all that happened and the legal battle that ensued is so vast and detailed that I am sure I will need to put it all down in book length eventually. For now I am writing little segments at a time starting with an essay with the intention of working it into articles on the subject. I hope my experiences with the horror of being stalked will help another who is suffering the same violation.
The writing is cathartic, but time consuming, as I need to step away from the page every so often to be able to endure recounting it.
The strangest part about living through a stalking is the reaction of other people when they learn about it. They are not sure what to say, and invariably they become uncomfortable with it. Like it is a disease that may be contagious. Strange... but then again sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction.
Monday, January 03, 2005
Tuning Out the Noise
One sentence at a time. That's the mantra I repeat over and over again in my mind. Sounds good in theory, but in practice I am having difficulty tuning out the noise of the world around me for long enough to string two sentences together. I am finding it excruciatingly hard to reconcile my fiction writing schedule as a necessary, or even deserved venture while there is is so much grief and suffering in the world. The macabre horror and human wreckage left in the wake of the Indian ocean tsunami disaster weighs heavily on my heart. The images of hardship and war burn through my mind, and cause me to wonder if pursuing my creative work is at all worthwhile. It seems an utterly useless use of time - wasteful - even selfish. How can I justify writing fiction when the world is wrought with turmoil and sadness?
Then, there are also the distractions of daily life, which here in Florida include constant rebuilding from the hurricane bombardment of the past summer. Today roofers seem to have descended en-mass in my neighborhood and my neighbor, directly across the street, is finally getting his roof repaired, along with several other homes on the block getting their roofs replaced. Hammering, pounding,drills, dumping of debris - are just a few of the sounds permiating through the closed door of my office. If it's not roofers, it's tree guys, or screen room enclosure guys, or landscaping technicians (aka: lawnmower guys) causing the din of noises that assail the sanctity of my office.
How to tune it all out? That is the question running my creativity ragged. Perhaps I shouldn't write today. Maybe I'm not supposed to. In light of all that is going wrong in the world, it's possible that I don't even deserve to write fiction. What a luxury to have such time and waste it writing! What a gift to have such ability!
What a crime to waste such a gift by not writing. Failing. Procrastinating. Avoiding. Hiding. That is what I am doing. Not writing is NOT an option. Regardless of how I am processing the chaotic world around me.
There. I talked myself into writing something - one sentence at a time. Just like the roofers on the house next door, I've peeled away the shredded layers that caused the leak and in the process revealed what was causing the damage. It is my responsibility to provide adequate shelter for my creative musings.
A writer must be convinced their ideas have a right to exist on paper, or they never shall. Better get hammering.
Then, there are also the distractions of daily life, which here in Florida include constant rebuilding from the hurricane bombardment of the past summer. Today roofers seem to have descended en-mass in my neighborhood and my neighbor, directly across the street, is finally getting his roof repaired, along with several other homes on the block getting their roofs replaced. Hammering, pounding,drills, dumping of debris - are just a few of the sounds permiating through the closed door of my office. If it's not roofers, it's tree guys, or screen room enclosure guys, or landscaping technicians (aka: lawnmower guys) causing the din of noises that assail the sanctity of my office.
How to tune it all out? That is the question running my creativity ragged. Perhaps I shouldn't write today. Maybe I'm not supposed to. In light of all that is going wrong in the world, it's possible that I don't even deserve to write fiction. What a luxury to have such time and waste it writing! What a gift to have such ability!
What a crime to waste such a gift by not writing. Failing. Procrastinating. Avoiding. Hiding. That is what I am doing. Not writing is NOT an option. Regardless of how I am processing the chaotic world around me.
There. I talked myself into writing something - one sentence at a time. Just like the roofers on the house next door, I've peeled away the shredded layers that caused the leak and in the process revealed what was causing the damage. It is my responsibility to provide adequate shelter for my creative musings.
A writer must be convinced their ideas have a right to exist on paper, or they never shall. Better get hammering.
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