Tolkien has invaded my brain. Okay, that's not a fair thing to say. Circumstances have been such that a few key words he wrote have been rotating around my head, weaving their way in and out of any given actual situation in my life, and repeating themselves over and over while still somehow--miraculously--managing not to sound too much like a broken record: "All that is gold does not glister. Not all who wander are lost."
I suppose that they've been on their own special rotation because my life plans have, once again, changed. And these things always change based on my feelings that it either is or decidedly isn't time to do something. Also, in a way, I think I'm wandering right now. And I'm hoping to heaven that I'm not lost.
A long time ago, I made the discovery (what seemed--at that stage--far too late) that when I act based on my feelings, I tend to feel much better overall about everything I'm doing (or not doing) with my life. So when I recently felt a need to halt my progression toward more school, my inital thought was "Huh?" Closely following on its heels, surprising even myself a little bit, my second thought was "Ok, then."
That promptly sent me into a tailspin of a sorts, except I didn't spiral downward so much as spiral all over the place. Mostly because I realized that this frees up a few possibilities that I couldn't pursue if I gave up the next four or so years of my life. The most important of these possibilities, I decided, is that it frees up some time for me to the write the novel that's percolating in my head. The one that has come out, to a certain extent, in choppy notes. The type of notes that could become something interesting. If I let it.
And I also realized something else, as I recently told a friend: I tend to use school like a crutch. Yes, I tell people, look at me! I'm achieving! But I'm doing it because, after my own initial impetus, there are people telling me what to do. What I need to do. And they're telling me how to do it. Bossing me around, in a way. I work very well within a system. My grades are good. I achieve (at least) the minimum requirements.
But I want to develop my own projects. Be my own boss (in some things, anyway) for the next while. See what I can do when I have absolutely no impetus but my own goals and dreams. I have a feeling this ride will be bumpy. But fun.
Showing posts with label grad school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grad school. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Having Multiple Areas of Interest
In life, I'd have to say that all of the most interesting people I've known have always had multiple areas of interest. Many things they are interested in. While yes, reading and language and such-like are my primary interests, I like to think that I have multiple areas of interest and that having those interests makes me an interesting human being.
What I forgot about grad school (yes, in the approximately three to four ish months that I've been gone): graduate school requires, yea verily--demands--a narrowing of multiple interests to something finite that can be included in a statement of purpose.
To which, tonight, I say:
Crap.
What I forgot about grad school (yes, in the approximately three to four ish months that I've been gone): graduate school requires, yea verily--demands--a narrowing of multiple interests to something finite that can be included in a statement of purpose.
To which, tonight, I say:
Crap.
Monday, December 1, 2008
The Truth about Me
I am going to let you in on a secret. A big secret. A classified, top-level clearance that only you--the few, the proud, the readers of my blog--will know.
Unless you know me personally, in which case you might already suspect.
But here it is: I'm not truly a cynic. I'm actually a cock-eyed optimist (insert the one-eyed joke of your choice in these parentheses here, because really, with a descriptor like "cock-eyed," it's almost too easy, yes?) who dresses in cynic's clothing. You see, the cynics are never disappointed.
And since all of my disappointments are due to unmet expectations, wouldn't the disappointments of a cynical person be sort of an ironic thing? Because, you know, things turned out better than they expected?
Anyway, part of what has led me to this conclusion: this semester has been one of the most grueling experiences of my life. Rewarding, certainly. Fun, even. But more mentally, physically, spiritually, and emotionally challenging than any other time in my entire life.
I exaggerate not.
My first semester of graduate school has introduced me to a host of new ideas. A host of ways of approaching those ideas. A heckuva lot of new people I found intriguing. And these are all good things, these are all expectations that were met.
The unmet expectation: that I knew what I signed up for, what I was getting into. I thought I knew. But there is, simply, no way to know until you arrive at this point. The funny thing about my experience this semester is this: I was warned. And I let that warning slip out of my head.
While I was enmeshed in the process of completing applications at this time last year, Petra and I were having frequent e-mail exchanges. At that time, Petra was wrapping up her first semester of graduate school, and she was a fount of helpfulness and wisdom when it came to both my applications and what the practical experience was like. (In short, what she was experiencing at that moment.)
She felt out-classed. Overwhelmed. Exhausted. All of the emotions I'm feeling now, but I somehow managed to dismiss that series of e-mails between the time I read them and the time I received my acceptance letter. As soon as I received the acceptance, the rose-colored glasses were firmly secured back in their place.
The great irony is this: over the past couple of weeks, I found myself telling a couple of friends that nobody had told me what I signed up for. And then, in the course of trying to find a particular e-mail, I came across Petra's e-mails and re-read them for a second time and realized: someone had, indeed, warned me about this. Vehemently.
She never said it wouldn't be worth it, and she also stated an absolute certainty that I could manage the load. But she told me exactly what my experience would be like.
And yet the cock-eyed optimist in me found a way to overtake the pragmatic advice I'd digested (and if I never thanked you, Petra, for those e-mails . . . now, more than then, I am grateful to know you cared enough to tell me exactly how it would be without sugar-coating it) and turn my vision of graduate school into a sparkly, friendly, happy environment.
So the next time I seem terribly cynical, call me on it. Because the optimism isn't nearly as buried as it probably should be.
Unless you know me personally, in which case you might already suspect.
But here it is: I'm not truly a cynic. I'm actually a cock-eyed optimist (insert the one-eyed joke of your choice in these parentheses here, because really, with a descriptor like "cock-eyed," it's almost too easy, yes?) who dresses in cynic's clothing. You see, the cynics are never disappointed.
And since all of my disappointments are due to unmet expectations, wouldn't the disappointments of a cynical person be sort of an ironic thing? Because, you know, things turned out better than they expected?
Anyway, part of what has led me to this conclusion: this semester has been one of the most grueling experiences of my life. Rewarding, certainly. Fun, even. But more mentally, physically, spiritually, and emotionally challenging than any other time in my entire life.
I exaggerate not.
My first semester of graduate school has introduced me to a host of new ideas. A host of ways of approaching those ideas. A heckuva lot of new people I found intriguing. And these are all good things, these are all expectations that were met.
The unmet expectation: that I knew what I signed up for, what I was getting into. I thought I knew. But there is, simply, no way to know until you arrive at this point. The funny thing about my experience this semester is this: I was warned. And I let that warning slip out of my head.
While I was enmeshed in the process of completing applications at this time last year, Petra and I were having frequent e-mail exchanges. At that time, Petra was wrapping up her first semester of graduate school, and she was a fount of helpfulness and wisdom when it came to both my applications and what the practical experience was like. (In short, what she was experiencing at that moment.)
She felt out-classed. Overwhelmed. Exhausted. All of the emotions I'm feeling now, but I somehow managed to dismiss that series of e-mails between the time I read them and the time I received my acceptance letter. As soon as I received the acceptance, the rose-colored glasses were firmly secured back in their place.
The great irony is this: over the past couple of weeks, I found myself telling a couple of friends that nobody had told me what I signed up for. And then, in the course of trying to find a particular e-mail, I came across Petra's e-mails and re-read them for a second time and realized: someone had, indeed, warned me about this. Vehemently.
She never said it wouldn't be worth it, and she also stated an absolute certainty that I could manage the load. But she told me exactly what my experience would be like.
And yet the cock-eyed optimist in me found a way to overtake the pragmatic advice I'd digested (and if I never thanked you, Petra, for those e-mails . . . now, more than then, I am grateful to know you cared enough to tell me exactly how it would be without sugar-coating it) and turn my vision of graduate school into a sparkly, friendly, happy environment.
So the next time I seem terribly cynical, call me on it. Because the optimism isn't nearly as buried as it probably should be.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
More Leaps of Faith
When I started my program at the end of August, I had full confidence in my ability to work full-time and attend school full-time.
Pride, my friends, cometh before the fall.
(Yes, Caroline. You were right. I tried to do too much. Please refrain from gloating.)
When the Relief Society presidency of our new ward came to visit my roommates and me on Sunday, they asked what we all did. One of my roommates, after I mentioned my insanely busy schedule, said: "Yep. She works full-time and goes to school full-time. She's Superwoman!"
It's a phrase she has repeated to various new acquaintances, and I cringe every time she says it. Because I'm not. I've been sleep-deprived, apathetic, and unable to shine at my homework assignments in all the ways I've wanted. I've stayed up late to finish papers, awakened early to make sure I had all of my reading done, and spent some of my time in class fiercely battling sleep.
My migraines have proliferated. I've been fighting off colds and the flu far earlier in the semester than I should have to . . . And I knew all along that if anything would fall by the wayside, it would be working full-time.
I handed in my notice today, and both of my bosses took it surprisingly well. (I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop . . .)
But now I find myself in a familiar employment situation: I need part-time work. I don't have anything lined up yet. But I have faith something will come up. Especially since I know this is what I need to do.
Just as the situation is familiar, so is this immense feeling of relief . . .
Pride, my friends, cometh before the fall.
(Yes, Caroline. You were right. I tried to do too much. Please refrain from gloating.)
When the Relief Society presidency of our new ward came to visit my roommates and me on Sunday, they asked what we all did. One of my roommates, after I mentioned my insanely busy schedule, said: "Yep. She works full-time and goes to school full-time. She's Superwoman!"
It's a phrase she has repeated to various new acquaintances, and I cringe every time she says it. Because I'm not. I've been sleep-deprived, apathetic, and unable to shine at my homework assignments in all the ways I've wanted. I've stayed up late to finish papers, awakened early to make sure I had all of my reading done, and spent some of my time in class fiercely battling sleep.
My migraines have proliferated. I've been fighting off colds and the flu far earlier in the semester than I should have to . . . And I knew all along that if anything would fall by the wayside, it would be working full-time.
I handed in my notice today, and both of my bosses took it surprisingly well. (I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop . . .)
But now I find myself in a familiar employment situation: I need part-time work. I don't have anything lined up yet. But I have faith something will come up. Especially since I know this is what I need to do.
Just as the situation is familiar, so is this immense feeling of relief . . .
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Why I Love My Critical Theory Class
I won't lie: graduate school did, at first, overwhelm me. But as time goes on, I find myself able to settle into a rhythm (albeit an ever-shifting one) balancing school, work, and a sort-of social life. (Give me some credit! I took time to go to a rodeo last weekend!)
As I had suspected, though, it was only a matter of time before I found myself getting acclimated. Before I readjusted to how school life works. Granted, this time around I'm juggling a more demanding job, but I'm back into school mode and it feels good.
Anyway, while I enjoy my Narrative Theory class and I find my Composition Theory class intriguing and frustrating in turns, I adore my Critical Theory class. And it isn't because I particularly adore critical theory.
I love the way this particular professor teaches it.
As I discussed with a couple of fellow students on Monday: when I was taught these theories as an undergraduate student, the professors had the tendency to treat each individual theorist as God. (I'm sorry if you find this blasphemous, but I just can't think of a better way to put it.) They were the Ultimate Experts on their theories, and we should not question them. Because they were brilliant! That's why we learned their theories!
(This by the way, is the line of reasoning people followed. Just to clarify. I didn't particularly subscribe to this line of reasoning.)
Any questions about problems inherent to the theories were quickly disposed in whatever way the professor chose, and class continued on back then. As I said, questioning wasn't an option. Unless you were questioning the methods of applying the theories--and even that, sometimes, was kind of a gray zone.
This professor encourages the questioning. Asks us to reason our way through the arguments if we can . . . and then proceeds to tell us why the argument is faulty. Or not faulty. But usually, why the argument is faulty.
My roommate, I can tell you, still exists in the theorist-as-God paradigm, because last week when I declared Plato to be nuts, she told me: "You can't do that. He's Plato." That's right. He's Plato. He's not God. Just because some people thought his ideas were good or important does not mean I can't question those same ideas.
You can imagine how validated I felt when I went to class the next day, and our professor declared Plato to be completely insane. So far: Plato is starking raving mad, Saussure had kinda a good idea, Aristotle sort of got it . . . but sort of didn't. Right now, we're discussing Descartes. Who is also bonkers.
When it comes to learning, I have always been a questioner. That is one of my fundamental ways of learning. I have sometimes questioned the basic premises of theorists (which some professors found interesting and some found annoying) when I didn't understand how they arrived at their basic premise.
I don't care what anyone says, it's very rare for a basic premise to just exist (voila! basic premise! like magic!) in its own natural right and be so intuitive that it can be proven. I'm sure some of you might be itching to disagree with this statement. Disagree away.
I thrive on disagreement. That's why I like this particular class.
As I had suspected, though, it was only a matter of time before I found myself getting acclimated. Before I readjusted to how school life works. Granted, this time around I'm juggling a more demanding job, but I'm back into school mode and it feels good.
Anyway, while I enjoy my Narrative Theory class and I find my Composition Theory class intriguing and frustrating in turns, I adore my Critical Theory class. And it isn't because I particularly adore critical theory.
I love the way this particular professor teaches it.
As I discussed with a couple of fellow students on Monday: when I was taught these theories as an undergraduate student, the professors had the tendency to treat each individual theorist as God. (I'm sorry if you find this blasphemous, but I just can't think of a better way to put it.) They were the Ultimate Experts on their theories, and we should not question them. Because they were brilliant! That's why we learned their theories!
(This by the way, is the line of reasoning people followed. Just to clarify. I didn't particularly subscribe to this line of reasoning.)
Any questions about problems inherent to the theories were quickly disposed in whatever way the professor chose, and class continued on back then. As I said, questioning wasn't an option. Unless you were questioning the methods of applying the theories--and even that, sometimes, was kind of a gray zone.
This professor encourages the questioning. Asks us to reason our way through the arguments if we can . . . and then proceeds to tell us why the argument is faulty. Or not faulty. But usually, why the argument is faulty.
My roommate, I can tell you, still exists in the theorist-as-God paradigm, because last week when I declared Plato to be nuts, she told me: "You can't do that. He's Plato." That's right. He's Plato. He's not God. Just because some people thought his ideas were good or important does not mean I can't question those same ideas.
You can imagine how validated I felt when I went to class the next day, and our professor declared Plato to be completely insane. So far: Plato is starking raving mad, Saussure had kinda a good idea, Aristotle sort of got it . . . but sort of didn't. Right now, we're discussing Descartes. Who is also bonkers.
When it comes to learning, I have always been a questioner. That is one of my fundamental ways of learning. I have sometimes questioned the basic premises of theorists (which some professors found interesting and some found annoying) when I didn't understand how they arrived at their basic premise.
I don't care what anyone says, it's very rare for a basic premise to just exist (voila! basic premise! like magic!) in its own natural right and be so intuitive that it can be proven. I'm sure some of you might be itching to disagree with this statement. Disagree away.
I thrive on disagreement. That's why I like this particular class.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Methods of Procrastination
I already knew myself to be a master of procrastination, but until last night, it had been a while since I reminded myself of it.
Today, I have a paper due by 3 PM. (To be submitted, thank heaven, by e-mail . . . I so dearly love that this particular professor enjoys being in the loop electronically and finds it far more handy and convenient to receive essays, print them off on his paper, scribble notes on them and return them.)
Since I work full-time and I don't exactly have time in the course of my work day to pause long enough to figure out why, exactly, Plato argues that written communication is inferior to spoken communication . . . I knew I needed to do it last night.
So here is the sequence of what I did when I got home.
1. Dropped bag on floor, grabbed laptop, and checked e-mail and Facebook.
2. Ate dinner. While skimming Plato.
3. Returned to room, where I picked up my laptop again. And visited YouTube, where I discovered the trailer for Nick and Norah's Infinite Play List, a movie based on a book recommended by a former roommate.
4. Decided I was in the mood to watch Ewan McGregor sing. Therefore, searched "Moulin Rouge--Elephant Love Medley" . . . and viewed four different incarnations. (I was enriching my linguistic experience! One of the videos was in French!)
5. Hid my head in shame when roommate came home and brought my keys to me, because I'd been so absorbed in thinking about my assignment I'd left them in the door. (Note to self: no more teasing her about the absentminded things she does)
6. Thought Plato might be easier to digest with a side of guacamole and chips. Hoped deliciousness would prompt a wonderful stream of thought and cause me to finish essay in a matter of mere minutes. (Mere minutes=twenty or so)
7. Returned to room. Vowed to knuckle down. Started typing outline of points Plato makes.
8. Got bored and started writing a stream of consciousness about how graduate school is far different than I expect, about how I do and don't wish my fellow students were as smart as me, about how I'm beginning to learn to get creative with my time management.
9. And another visit to YouTube. This time because I felt a spontaneous impulse to watch the Nerdfighters vlog with the Harry Potter song. (You know: "I need Harry Potter like a grindylow needs a water . . . accio, Harry Potter!")
10. Followed by an urge (resisted) to look up my favorite Potter passages.
11. By now, we have reached 10:15, when my thoughts started to congeal, but were still only in a semi-gelatinous state.
12. Which--of course!--could be cemented by eating more chips and guacamole.
13. Other roommate arrives home. Must chat!
14. Already home roommate starts chatting too.
15. 10:40: the thoughts are solidified. But the words aren't coming.
16. Write.
17. Growl at Word 2007, because what's up with the spacing??
18. Figure out spacing.
19. Erase everything I'd written that's formal and review notes again.
20. Write. Get on a roll. Reach conclusion of essay at 12:05 AM.
21. Get stuck. Decide to e-mail to self at office and use ten minutes this morning to finish conclusion.
It's just a good thing I'd already cleaned my room and it's super-tidy. Otherwise, the procrastination list would have been much, much longer. As it was, I resisted vacuuming, cleaning the bathroom, and wiping down the mini-blinds. All things, mind you, which need to be done. (Unlike much of what I did to procrastinate yesterday . . . Hmmm . . .)
Today, I have a paper due by 3 PM. (To be submitted, thank heaven, by e-mail . . . I so dearly love that this particular professor enjoys being in the loop electronically and finds it far more handy and convenient to receive essays, print them off on his paper, scribble notes on them and return them.)
Since I work full-time and I don't exactly have time in the course of my work day to pause long enough to figure out why, exactly, Plato argues that written communication is inferior to spoken communication . . . I knew I needed to do it last night.
So here is the sequence of what I did when I got home.
1. Dropped bag on floor, grabbed laptop, and checked e-mail and Facebook.
2. Ate dinner. While skimming Plato.
3. Returned to room, where I picked up my laptop again. And visited YouTube, where I discovered the trailer for Nick and Norah's Infinite Play List, a movie based on a book recommended by a former roommate.
4. Decided I was in the mood to watch Ewan McGregor sing. Therefore, searched "Moulin Rouge--Elephant Love Medley" . . . and viewed four different incarnations. (I was enriching my linguistic experience! One of the videos was in French!)
5. Hid my head in shame when roommate came home and brought my keys to me, because I'd been so absorbed in thinking about my assignment I'd left them in the door. (Note to self: no more teasing her about the absentminded things she does)
6. Thought Plato might be easier to digest with a side of guacamole and chips. Hoped deliciousness would prompt a wonderful stream of thought and cause me to finish essay in a matter of mere minutes. (Mere minutes=twenty or so)
7. Returned to room. Vowed to knuckle down. Started typing outline of points Plato makes.
8. Got bored and started writing a stream of consciousness about how graduate school is far different than I expect, about how I do and don't wish my fellow students were as smart as me, about how I'm beginning to learn to get creative with my time management.
9. And another visit to YouTube. This time because I felt a spontaneous impulse to watch the Nerdfighters vlog with the Harry Potter song. (You know: "I need Harry Potter like a grindylow needs a water . . . accio, Harry Potter!")
10. Followed by an urge (resisted) to look up my favorite Potter passages.
11. By now, we have reached 10:15, when my thoughts started to congeal, but were still only in a semi-gelatinous state.
12. Which--of course!--could be cemented by eating more chips and guacamole.
13. Other roommate arrives home. Must chat!
14. Already home roommate starts chatting too.
15. 10:40: the thoughts are solidified. But the words aren't coming.
16. Write.
17. Growl at Word 2007, because what's up with the spacing??
18. Figure out spacing.
19. Erase everything I'd written that's formal and review notes again.
20. Write. Get on a roll. Reach conclusion of essay at 12:05 AM.
21. Get stuck. Decide to e-mail to self at office and use ten minutes this morning to finish conclusion.
It's just a good thing I'd already cleaned my room and it's super-tidy. Otherwise, the procrastination list would have been much, much longer. As it was, I resisted vacuuming, cleaning the bathroom, and wiping down the mini-blinds. All things, mind you, which need to be done. (Unlike much of what I did to procrastinate yesterday . . . Hmmm . . .)
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
I Was So Impatient Because . . .?
This winter and spring, as I worked at a job I loathed and (im)patiently waited for letters of acceptance or rejection in order to know when, exactly, I could quit said job, I had a wonderfully idealized vision of what the graduate school experience would be like. (And when I say idealized, please know that I'm in no way, shape, or form exaggerating. I was expecting a large-scale experience that would phenomenally change my life.) I looked forward to the witty talk, the bantering with fellow students, the absorbing of new information, and--of course--me stunning my professors.
In the course of my undergraduate work, I was used to being one of the brightest, most vocal people in the class. The sort of student people think of as consistently intelligent with episodic epiphanies of brilliance. You know, nothing special.
And don't get me wrong: I don't hate graduate school. But I certainly wish someone had managed to completely quash my expectations. You know why? There isn't much witty talk and banter, and I highly doubt I'm stunning my professors. Rather, I'm now the student who is episodically intelligent but otherwise quiet.
As for the absorbing of new information: there is a lot of information involved in taking 3 graduate classes. A lot. Which is probably why we're not all witty and in bantering moods--we're tired from reading and reading and reading some more.
(Incidentally, my Composition Theory professor says that is what graduate students do: they read. And read. And read some more. And, every few hours, they look up from their texts to verify their own existence. Then they continue reading.)
It's interesting for me to think about my expectations for this experience, because they were far off the mark. The funny thing about school is this: junior high teachers attempt to prepare you for your high school workload by telling you that you'll have teachers who act like theirs is the only class. That didn't happen to me so much. High school was like junior high, but with more advanced materials.
Then high school teachers told me that undergraduate professors would act like their class is the only class in the world. And again, I didn't have that experience as an undergraduate. I did my fair share of work, sure, but it didn't seem that any of my professors harbored the delusion they taught the only class I was taking.
The undergraduate professors didn't really give me much feedback about how grad school works. But grad school is finally the point where professors acts like their class is the only class students are taking.
It makes for an interesting work load. I have yet to determine whether the job will or won't fall by the way side. I'm giving it a couple more weeks . . .
In the course of my undergraduate work, I was used to being one of the brightest, most vocal people in the class. The sort of student people think of as consistently intelligent with episodic epiphanies of brilliance. You know, nothing special.
And don't get me wrong: I don't hate graduate school. But I certainly wish someone had managed to completely quash my expectations. You know why? There isn't much witty talk and banter, and I highly doubt I'm stunning my professors. Rather, I'm now the student who is episodically intelligent but otherwise quiet.
As for the absorbing of new information: there is a lot of information involved in taking 3 graduate classes. A lot. Which is probably why we're not all witty and in bantering moods--we're tired from reading and reading and reading some more.
(Incidentally, my Composition Theory professor says that is what graduate students do: they read. And read. And read some more. And, every few hours, they look up from their texts to verify their own existence. Then they continue reading.)
It's interesting for me to think about my expectations for this experience, because they were far off the mark. The funny thing about school is this: junior high teachers attempt to prepare you for your high school workload by telling you that you'll have teachers who act like theirs is the only class. That didn't happen to me so much. High school was like junior high, but with more advanced materials.
Then high school teachers told me that undergraduate professors would act like their class is the only class in the world. And again, I didn't have that experience as an undergraduate. I did my fair share of work, sure, but it didn't seem that any of my professors harbored the delusion they taught the only class I was taking.
The undergraduate professors didn't really give me much feedback about how grad school works. But grad school is finally the point where professors acts like their class is the only class students are taking.
It makes for an interesting work load. I have yet to determine whether the job will or won't fall by the way side. I'm giving it a couple more weeks . . .
Friday, August 22, 2008
Just in Case You Were Wondering . . .
. . . what I wrote by way of introduction to that class, here it is:
I’m a native Utahn—born, raised, and usually not terribly ashamed of it, either. I’m a first year American Studies student, and I’m leaning toward a Rhetoric and Composition emphasis. Working at the Weber State University writing center sort of addicted me to the idea of teaching writing in one way or another for the rest of my life. I graduated WSU in 2006 with a B.A. in Creative Writing/Poetry, and I’d discovered by the end of my tenure there that I loved it when I could find ways of making theory and creative writing meet. Then when I started registering for courses this fall, ta da! This one appeared. It seemed more a less a given, considering what my interests are.
Right now, I’m rather adamant about having a loosely defined life plan. Ultimately, I’d like to teach college—but I’d also like to find other things I like to do in the meantime. Unfortunately, this process has worked, so far, by means of process of elimination. For example, I do not like to try to bum it as an unemployed person, I do not like working in an office environment, and though HR involves people . . . well, the fact that it’s called Human Resources should have said something to me in the first place. (Seriously, who likes being called into the boss’ office and being told, “You are a good skill set”?)
I love all foods ethnic—especially Indian, Greek and Thai. My roommate just introduced me to Aristo’s on 1300 East, and I’m not sure she knows exactly what she’s done. My siblings and I all play the piano (it was pretty much mandate in our household going up), so I tend to like music that has some cool piano/keyboard instrumentals going on: Keane, Ben Folds, etc. I also just discovered Even Elroy, and they are my now favorite band ever. (And not just because one of their songs is called “Wanna Meet Katie.”)
My family likes to joke I’ve never laid my hands on a book I didn’t like. But I’m a particular fan of Gregory Maguire, all of the Russian greats, Willa Cather, and a number of others. I have a serious addiction to books about books, and I love The Shadow of the Wind. I’d also be remiss if I neglected to mention Big Fish.
I’d like to find myself more open to different genres after taking this class. I fear I’m a rather homogenized reader who stays squarely in her comfort zone, purely because I think I’m going to read a new sort of work in the wrong way. (Which, I know, is pretty silly. Especially since one of the reasons I decided to study English is because it lacks the whole right answer/wrong answer dichotomy present in so many other disciplines.)
I’m a native Utahn—born, raised, and usually not terribly ashamed of it, either. I’m a first year American Studies student, and I’m leaning toward a Rhetoric and Composition emphasis. Working at the Weber State University writing center sort of addicted me to the idea of teaching writing in one way or another for the rest of my life. I graduated WSU in 2006 with a B.A. in Creative Writing/Poetry, and I’d discovered by the end of my tenure there that I loved it when I could find ways of making theory and creative writing meet. Then when I started registering for courses this fall, ta da! This one appeared. It seemed more a less a given, considering what my interests are.
Right now, I’m rather adamant about having a loosely defined life plan. Ultimately, I’d like to teach college—but I’d also like to find other things I like to do in the meantime. Unfortunately, this process has worked, so far, by means of process of elimination. For example, I do not like to try to bum it as an unemployed person, I do not like working in an office environment, and though HR involves people . . . well, the fact that it’s called Human Resources should have said something to me in the first place. (Seriously, who likes being called into the boss’ office and being told, “You are a good skill set”?)
I love all foods ethnic—especially Indian, Greek and Thai. My roommate just introduced me to Aristo’s on 1300 East, and I’m not sure she knows exactly what she’s done. My siblings and I all play the piano (it was pretty much mandate in our household going up), so I tend to like music that has some cool piano/keyboard instrumentals going on: Keane, Ben Folds, etc. I also just discovered Even Elroy, and they are my now favorite band ever. (And not just because one of their songs is called “Wanna Meet Katie.”)
My family likes to joke I’ve never laid my hands on a book I didn’t like. But I’m a particular fan of Gregory Maguire, all of the Russian greats, Willa Cather, and a number of others. I have a serious addiction to books about books, and I love The Shadow of the Wind. I’d also be remiss if I neglected to mention Big Fish.
I’d like to find myself more open to different genres after taking this class. I fear I’m a rather homogenized reader who stays squarely in her comfort zone, purely because I think I’m going to read a new sort of work in the wrong way. (Which, I know, is pretty silly. Especially since one of the reasons I decided to study English is because it lacks the whole right answer/wrong answer dichotomy present in so many other disciplines.)
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