Baby Steps

After finishing “Watchmen,” I wanted to knock out “The Fault in our Stars” by John Green, for no other reason other than it has been recommended too many times for me to ignore. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the film just came out, so there are no copies available at the library. I’m reading “Catch-22” by Heller instead.

Additionally, I’m writing a résumé and including all of my publications (exactly one), which made me go back and read it again. It was an ambivalent experience for only one reason; I wanted to fix it. My submission was as good as I could possibly make it at the time. I wrote it quickly and did some light editing, but there were few changes I could find. Now I can find a lot. Sentence restructuring, word reduction, tailoring for the audience, it could have been tighter and thus more effective. This is a good thing. It means I’m better now. However, it also means that I released inferior work and it’s now part of my permanent record. Same for the guest blogging I did for the cloth diapering people. Not exactly bad work, but flawed and that’s a little embarrassing. Maybe even negatively impacts my shot at a job.

Still, it’s publication and that’s better than nothing. I'm not sure if guest blogging counts, and I have one more article under review. It's all non-fiction, and I haven't been paid for any of it. I still have a long way to go to selling fiction.

Treading Water

Post graduation, I had every intention of updating the blog every Tuesday, but between caring for and bussing my beautiful but wounded wife to and from work, and looking after my two kids, and not coming up with anything specific to talk about, meeting my deadline is more difficult than I previously thought

I have been reading “Watchmen,” watching “Stargate: Atlantis,” and pecking away at my own work. Atlantis has reminded me how good, personable characters can save a weak plot. Alan Moor’s work verifies that multiple points of view inside a single narrative can be effective, even desirable. Maybe I’m strange for enjoying time spent with Rorschach, but we couldn’t get the whole story with only his point of view and besides, it’s good to take a break from him every once in a while. He’s an intense fellow.

Meanwhile, I recently finished editing a piece on the inoculation conspiracy. Hopefully it will appear in a university magazine, but not in time to pad my resume for the job hunt. C’est la vie. Guess I’ll keep plugging away at my fiction and see where I land.

On the Other Side of the Academic Gauntlet

In May 2012 I went back to school because at 90+ credit hours, it was kind of dumb not to finish. I switched my major from Respiratory Care at Texas State University to English with an emphasis on Creative Writing from the University of Missouri. I changed schools because we moved, and I changed majors because I’m terrible at math (absolute truths proven by inviolable laws) and pretty good at literature (saying pretty much anything you want in a way that sounds plausible). At the time my wife and I were expecting our first child. I had written about three chapters of a middle grade children’s novel, but I didn’t know if it was any good. We were new in town, and didn’t have any real friends though we did have acquaintances that showed some promise. I didn’t know about Aldi, Hot Box Cookies, or where exactly the Hinkson joined with the Katy Trail. I learned some things.

I learned about annotated bibliographies and the precise amount of pucker needed to properly kiss professorial bohonkus. I learned a little about how to use a research engine, a lot about Chaucer, and that most instructors are so tired of reading the same thing in every paper, they are typically appreciative of a little self-aware sass. I learned how much time it takes to get to any given section of campus on foot; walking, running, or flat out sprinting. I learned about the Stith-Thompson motif index, in text citation, and the sensitivity of liberal arts professors concerning the value of what they teach. I learned that clever prose and flowing style will only get you so far, but it’s usually far enough. I learned that literary types love Tobias Wolff’s “Bullet in the Brain” because, they claim, it is an excellent example of time suspension as literary device. This time suspension just happens to occur while a bullet pierces a literary critic’s skull and painstakingly shreds through his dura mater. On a completely unrelated note, I have learned that plot oriented wish fulfillment is a cheap way to manufacture interest and is in fact frowned upon. Speaking of that, I learned a ton about writing.

The majority of what was said in my fiction classes regarding craft made so much sense, and I was gratified to go through my previous work and find I did a lot of things right. Then again, I did a lot of things wrong. The workshop can be a terrifying and embarrassing time for inexperienced writers as they are systematically disabused of the illusions they, and perhaps their friends and family, have engendered about their writing ability. I have been concerned about this from the beginning, especially after I read the work that others put forward. Some were ok, some were pretty bad, only two in my first class had what I considered to be potential, though I take issue with a lot of the stuff that is published so I apparently don’t know anything about good literature. I was typically one of the last to go, but my work was always well received. I had kind instructors who never shamed a student for their work, even if it was objectively terrible. Still, I tried to read my instructors and figure out which stories and authors they liked, and I believe I was always one of those. I learned many things about writing, both craft and theory, but perhaps the most valuable thing I picked up in my entire college experience at Mizzou was confidence. Every creative writing instructor I had encouraged me to pursue publishing. One English/Anthropologist professor asked to use my paper as an example for future students to emulate. A folklorist suggested I submit my final paper to a contest. A religious studies TA tried to talk me into grad school based on my essays. A medievalist did both. Of course I’m not going to grad school. I’m out of money, I have no desire to be a permanent academician, my wife would kill me and my kids would continue to wonder where I was. Basically no one at this address wants me to do any more school.

Now what?

I have no idea. After spending a lot of time reading, researching and thinking, I’ve decided literary success is a combination of skill, marketability and luck. Any book sold has at least a little of each, and if you want to sell enough books to make a living, you’d better have a lot of at least two. I’m doing my best with skill and marketability, both of which have dozens of layers and nuance and are tough to nail down.  Public tastes are always in flux, and currently the book market is also in turmoil. Then remember that I haven’t finished any novels ever, which might be a problem. It’s safe to say that the odds of being able to make a living writing fiction is roughly equivalent to successfully training a duck to operate heavy equipment. That is to say, it’s probably possible, but I would have to devote a lot of time to it and success is no guarantee. Maybe I will get a real job, maybe I will stay being a full time dad. Whatever options present, however, I will write. It’s just what I do.

Pomp and Circumstance

I am this close to graduating, but I will not be walking for so many reasons.

The Cap and Gown: I do not want to buy, rent, borrow, steal or barter for this ridiculous outfit. I am sure it made sense to someone some time, but I think it is one of the goofiest things a person could wear, and I am including bell bottom leisure suits and those absurdly oversized sunglasses in the list. Like a wedding gown, there will only be one time and place that this costume will be appropriate to wear. Like a wedding gown, sentimentality artificially inflates its value. Unlike a wedding gown, every single person looks silly in one. There are thousands of other items I would rather spend my wife’s resources on, like some new books or a nice wedge of artisan cheese.

Pomp and Circumstance: I just don’t like the song. Sir Edward Elger composed it for King Edward the VII’s coronation in 1901, and when he received an honorary doctorate from Yale in 1905 they played it as a recessional. Then Princeton played it, then the University of Chicago, and since all the cool kids were doing it, “Pomp and Circumstance” became the only tune that could possibly accompany a graduation. Over a hundred years later and we haven’t kicked the habit.

Commencement Speech: I don’t have anything against commencement speeches, but all the good ones are recorded and I prefer to listen to them in the comfort of my own home, where I have the option to turn it off if my pretentious BS meter blinks. At the actual ceremony you are a captive audience. I just don’t want to risk it.

Diplomas Don’t Matter: Transcripts matter. Letters of recommendation matter. Diplomas are no big deal, and they don’t even hand those out on graduation day. The ceremony is all symbolic posturing and no substance.

Who Is That Guy Anyway?: The chair of the English department will be the one handing out replicas of meaningless documents. He will be shaking hands. This will be the first time he has met the vast majority of the students he will greet that day, and he does this every year. I realize that he had more to do with my college experience than I can currently appreciate. Even so, I have no personal connection to him. It would mean more to me if my least favorite instructor handed me my fake diploma than for a stranger to do it, but that can’t happen because there are thousands of kids who have to walk, and they have to speed the process along.

Too Many People: In Spring 2013, 5,300 graduates walked. This makes the ceremony less of a celebration of individual achievement and more of a feat of logistical heroism. Every one of us worked hard to win our degrees, and each of us has a different story in how we got to this point. We did not do this as a collective, but as individuals, and each of us deserves individual recognition. We supposedly get that individual recognition, except we are all getting it at once which means that we all kind of bleed in together. Each person gets to go through the line like everyone else, gets their name announced in the same monotone voice, and we all get lost in the crowd of one another. It’s one of those rare moments when the sum becomes less than the parts, and I don’t feel like being swallowed up in the masses any more than I want to participate in devouring anyone else’s well deserved time. We are all special, but on graduation day, what is intended to be our moment of triumph, we become just another face.

Not My Style: I have never been a normal student. Out of high school I went straight into the Army, so when I wound up in college I was already a different kind of person; at orientation I was older and had been through more life threatening experiences than my chaperone. I was married by my sophomore year. I never hung out in the quad, never rushed for a fraternity, never played intramural sports, never joined a club, never lived in the dorm, never did any of the traditional college crap that everyone gets nostalgic about. I did all of that growing up and self-discovery in a different environment, with different people and different rules. My college experience was about getting grades and getting out, so the graduation ceremony simply doesn’t mean the same thing to me as it does to my traditional student peers.

I Love My Friends and Family Too Much to Make Them Sit Through This Thing: I actually don’t have anything to add to that.

Graduation is still a big deal, it’s just the official ceremony that I would like to skip. I worked hard to graduate. I ignored my wife and kids for this. I performed three different songs in sign language for this. I sat through “The Blair Witch Project” twice for this. I have invested too much into this lousy sheet of paper to not celebrate, I just won’t be doing it with thousands of strangers who don’t care about me and only a handful of people that do. Instead we will be throwing a party with people that have in some way contributed to my success, be it through childcare or emotional support, and thus have at least a small stake in me. There will be food. There will laughter. I may even cry a little. But there will be no silly outfits, outdated dirges, tired speeches or impersonal “recognition.” If you are reading this blog post you are invited, just holler for details.

The Premature Burial

Is it Friday already? I guess it is.

School laid into me with a vengeance. The textbook price is high, the reading list long, and as usual, the class that I am most interested in is the one with the lightest workload. Folklore has already demanded I sacrifice 300 words to its insatiable maw, forcing me to summarize reading. Introduction to the New Testament has exacted two pages, double spaced, explaining what I expect from the course. In my capstone class, Democracy and the Liberal Arts (selected because it best fit my busy schedule as a stay at home dad), I must research and present an article appropriate for the subject. What is the subject? I honestly don't know, but my instructor doesn't seem to know either so I guess I'm in good company. I haven't even gone to ASL III yet, that one only meets on Mondays, and I already tremble for the time it will devour. In short, my days are filled with short response papers and blackboard posts allowing little room for cooking, housework, and time with my beautiful bride and young progeny much less blogging.

I love you all, you mostly silently approving masses that adore my work. I don't want to let you down, but until May I don't anticipate having much time to ramble about writing craft or the philosophies of entertainment. I am buried alive under academic busy work. Give me a few months and I promise I will return from this ivory crypt and, hopefully, write a book.

See you on the other side.

This Magic Moment

People and cultures the world over try to control individual development through a series of rituals. We do Christenings and baptisms, or maybe a simple “child dedication” to acknowledge birth and initiate the young child into the religious institution of choice. We’ll celebrate birthday parties, and place that first lost tooth under our pillow. We rigorously prepare, both child and mother, for the first day of school. Oftentimes these rituals are only compulsory vestiges of a shifting culture. The American wedding is by and large meaningless, a formal recognition that two people will proceed to do what they have been doing for the past year (or six), and the college graduation ceremony is nothing more than a poignant commentary on the times that would be terrifying were it not so depressing. I may elaborate on that in the future. Sometimes, however, these rituals are successful in their aim. The baby shower, complete with silly gender guessing games and half-baked advice, both provides some of the physical accoutrements and the emotional reassurance a mother needs to ease into parenthood. The funeral offers a chance to make a sorrowful but clean break in relationships for the living, and may remind those left behind of why they care for one another.

This attempt to control or lives is futile, of course. There are moments that are expected and for some reason have no ritual attached to them, moments like receiving the first driver’s license. The freedom to go anywhere at any time, along with the trust the State places in you to move yourself at greater speeds and with more power than the human animal was ever naturally intended to wield, is unquestionably a more profound transition to adulthood than any high school prom. Then there are the moments that sneak up on you, moments that tear your world apart because they were unexpected, or the moments that slip by unnoticed, but in retrospect are recognized as the most important, revolutionary, devastating turning points in a person’s lifetime. I think I saw one of those today.

My wife and I just welcomed our second child into the world. This is of course a big deal to me, bigger than some might credit. Yes, we are responsible for this tiny life and yes, we will fail in ways both subtle and spectacular, and despite the love that brims and spills over in our hearts for this beautiful girl, we will most likely be the source of some of her greatest pain. This shouldn’t be as big a deal, though, because this is kid number two. We have gone through all of this already, but this is in part what makes it so complicated. Having two kids isn’t simply doubling down on the responsibilities. Now we have to worry about our relationship to each kid and how our relationship to one affects the other. When he sees us showering attention on his sister, is our son jealous? If we shuttle him off to Grandma’s house so we can deliver the new baby, then rest and recoup, will he think we gave him up for that new baby? It’s a little different for our daughter because she doesn’t have anything to compare her life outside the womb to, but having an older brother has undoubtedly already impacted her. We haven’t been able to shower her with the undivided attention we were able to give our son in his first hours, and we never will. It’s a negative synergy that leaves me feeling small and scared and out of my depth. This has been my struggle over the last 24 hours, and my son's behavior wasn't helping much.

Our son knows about babies, though he doesn’t tend to find newborns all that stimulating. They just sit there in their splotched red glory and sleep. He ignores them for the most part, and in his sister’s case he had to make a little extra effort to do so since she’s sharing his favorite source of comfort (mamma’s boobies). Over the last day and a half he has managed to explore every inch of the hospital room that we have allowed, and at least a foot and a half that we haven’t. Mamma has been a little less active in his life than he would like, but he has accepted the compensatory attention from his aunts and uncles with enthusiastic aplomb. He has reveled in the helium balloons sent to celebrate her birth, tried out a toy or two that she is not yet old enough to appreciate, and examined her pink clothing with acute interest, but the thing itself had been carefully avoided until late into this last evening hospital visit. Unexpectedly, he held out his hands toward her and grunted his request. He couldn’t hold her by himself so he pushed her away once I offered, but he did cautiously touch her ear and feel her downy hair, and with a little encouragement, kissed her head

Then he said her name.

He’s been paying attention. Though the full logistics and consequences of the situation are beyond his experience, he knows what’s up. His failure to acknowledge her was intentional, but I watched him change his mind. It was a tiny moment. We hoped for it, but couldn’t force it to happen. He’s too young to understand how to do ritual, much less why, and it didn’t happen in a way that could be so formally marked anyway. Odds are he won’t remember it at all, this life changing instant in which he accepted that our family is about more than him. But I will.