New Year, Fresh Start

Yes, I know, it's been a while since I wrote anything. And yes, I know, I've probably lost all of my followers (all one of them). And finally, yes, I know that this is probably not the best use of my time. Now that I've acknowledged all of this, can I continue?

I really don't have a good excuse for the long break. Between the house purchase, move, and speeding snowball of work craziness, I just didn't have time to keep up with my writing. OK, the truth is that I didn't have the mental energy. I lost my sense of humor sometime in early November and I figured that no one wanted to read about how badly I was dog-paddling in the deep end. Day after day of "students irritated me again," or "I'm still really tired," or "delivered yet another soul-crushing lecture" - who wants to read that? (If you do, just know that you make me very sad.)

But, it's a new year - a new decade even - and that seems like a perfect time for a fresh start. OK, in the interest of full disclosure, I'll admit that I watched "Julie and Julia" this weekend. If that movie doesn't inspire you to blog or cook, or both, then you've completely missed the point. I did not miss the point and in the past 24 hours, I have both blogged and cooked. I even tried a new recipe - braised short ribs. Slow cooked ribs in a rich tomato sauce, a baked sweet potato, and buttered asparagus sounded perfect for a cold, cold, cold winter night. In the end, I have to say that the ribs let me down. Lot of fat and not as tender as I'd hoped. I'd make a joke here, but the only ones that come to mind are really not nice. I know, that's never stopped me before. Well, new year, fresh start.

So, the cooking didn't turn out so well, but hope springs eternal. I'll also share that I had an epiphany during "Julie & Julia" - I decided that there must be two kinds of people in the world: those who have a crush on Stanley Tucci, and those who will have a crush on Stanley Tucci. I'll close with this promise: Until Stanley Tucci arrives on my doorstep, I'll try to write more regularly.

History Writer

As my new work colleagues talk about sending out article manuscripts for review and obtaining book contracts, I remain mired in grading, writing lectures, and fielding student requests and complaints. On my way home yesterday, my trusty iPod shuffled to "Paperback Writer" by the Beatles. Got me thinking about courting publishers. I think I'll send this rendition with my propectus to potential publishers.

History Writer
(sung to the tune of "Paperback Writer" by the Beatles)

History writer (history writer)
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took six years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a program to help people read,
And I need a job, so I want to be a History writer,
History writer

It's the southern story of excluding blacks
From voting and reading and all of that
The teachers try to help people read,
I've written it up and I want to be a History writer,
History writer

History Writer (History Writer)

It's two hundred pages, give or take a few,
I'd have written more but I blew a fuse
I can make it longer if you like the style
Or I'll change the whole thing, I'll even wash your car
History writer, History writer

If you really like it, you can have the rights
And I'll cook dinner for you every night
All I ask is that I get tenure, I need to eat
So I want to be a History writer
History writer

History writer, history writer
History writer, history writer

Project Dissertation

I love Project Runway. Sure, the over-the-top contestants get on my nerves (last seaon's Vincent and Angela, and this season's Christian and Elisa) for example), but the combination of ridiculous challenges and snarky judges wins me over every time. I have the same response to Top Chef. At least the Project Runway judges don't have to eat the failed designs.

As I watched last night, I realized that writing a dissertation is a lot like Project Runway. I'm at a point where time is running out and I'm just hoping that my committee (the judges) don't see unfinished hems and puckered seams. Most of all, I'm hoping they don't see that the whole thing is held together with safety pins, ready to collapse into a scrap heap in the slightest breeze. I don't think I'll use this season's Elisa's "spit marking" technique on my dissertation.

Unfortunately, I don't have a stick figure model to "work" my dissertation when it's finished. And I don't have an accessory wall where I can choose scarves, shoes, and purses to dress up my creation and hide all the flaws. Nor do I have Tim Gunn looking over his glasses at all the mounds of paper and books, giving me the stare and saying, "It looks like you have a lot of work to do. I'm concerned." OK, maybe I can do without that, but I would like to hear, "Make it work." Who knows, maybe he'd come by and say, "This is great! Really. Carry on." Let's just hope none of my committee members say, "Your dissertation is boring and uninspired. It left us sad. You're out. Auf Wiedersehen."

Perhaps I've been writing too much lately. I plan to stop in April.

Waxing Philosophical

As I approach the end of my dissertation, I'm forced to confront the reality of the academic job search. I know there are plenty of people out there who believe that I have made a career of purposely avoiding permanent employment. They probably believe this because I've said as much. But, as I approach the midpoint of my life and still live in an apartment, the thought of gainful stable employment does not seem so nauseating.

So, I'm jumping through hoops. I'm writing cover letters where I humbly brag about my accomplishments and magically turn shortcomings into "areas for improvement." I'm also preparing a teaching philosophy, where I explain what I believe about teaching and why. A friend of mine and I have decided that this is an exercise in proving you can sound like a complete tool. So far, I'm failing miserably (something I am particularly proud of.) As I stare at the blank computer screen, all I can think is: "I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess inside, give them a sense of pride to make it easier. Let the children's laughter remind us how it used to be." I just don't think this is helpful.

Luckily, I'm not left to my own devices. Like in any profession, there are plenty of people who stick their noses firmly in the conceptual treebark of teaching and learning and then offer advice to the rest of us who actually teach and learn. Because I've hit a brick wall, I turned to some of these experts for guidance.

Many experts pose "helpful questions." These include:

• What are your objectives?
• What methods do you use?
• How do you assess and evaluate your effectiveness?
• Why is teaching important to you?

All fine questions. All questions that I should be able to answer. Should be able to answer. So far, all I hear is Whitney Houston, which really only answers the last question.

So, I dug a little further. I am a researcher, after all. If I just keep digging, I'll eventually find the answer. I printed some advice from a university website. They cite AF Grasha, who suggests using metaphors to describe your teaching philosophy. For example, you could compare teaching to being a:

• Coach
• Gardener
• Director of a play
• General leading troops into battle
• Midwife
• Swiss army knife
• Evangelist
• Rabbi
• Entertainer
• Choreographer
• Tour bus driver with passengers who keep their window curtain closed

I'm sorely tempted to compare my teaching style to midwifery. Something like: "I put the class at ease, reminding them that this a natural process that students have gone through for centuries. As they begin to experience the pains of learning, I offer gentle and soothing encouragement until finally, a beautiful new paper is delivered. After cleaning the muck off the paper, I then evaluate it, offering advice on how to do better the next time."

I won't even attempt the swiss army knife or tour bus driver. I just don't think that would be a good use of my time. After all, I have a Whitney Houston song that I need to exercise from my memory.

Writer's Conference

Yesterday, I attended a writer's conference here in town. The conference aimed to create a community of writers. From what I could tell, they managed to create a community of people who are trying desparately to avoid, or get out of, a "real job."

While waiting in line to register, I was privvy to several conversations. It's my favorite time to eavesdrop because you can't not hear the people around you when you're in line. The man in front of me was telling the woman in front of me all about the many writers conferences he'd been to. He'd been to one in Myrtle Beach. He'd been to one in Jacksonville. I thought, "When do you ever find time to write?" About then, the woman got a phone call so I couldn't learn more about all the fascinating conferences this fellow had attended.

As I waited, I turned my attention to the people behind me. I'm not sure how their conversation started, but I joined in at, "I went to college in western Massachusetts." I turned and asked, "Where?" She named the "other women's college" and I divulged that I had attended "the women's college." We graduated the same year, and she made a comment about living in a small world. (Side note: For the rest of the day, I had "It's a small world, after all" going through my head, thanks to my new friend.)

After the first speaker, my "sister" and I struck up a conversation. As I recanted the abridged version of "my life to date," I mentioned that I had escaped from a northeastern post-industrial wasteland. She stopped me to ask where. When I told her, she replied, "That's where my family is from. We make a pilgrimage there as often as we can." As Mickey Mouse's voice blared "It's a small, small world" in my ears, I said, "Well, that's ironic, because I just made an exodus from there," thus allowing Bob Marley to momentarily drown out Mickey Mouse.

We made our way to the first of four workshop sessions. Each round, I could choose from eight workshops. The organizers decided to make the selection process more challenging by providing only the session titles. Most were self-explanatory. For example, "Working with Agents" and "What an Editor Wants" were pretty obvious. Others were more challenging. For example, "The Ghost that Got Into My House" and "SLAM!" left me perplexed. I decided to forgo "Villanous Smells" all together.

At the end of the day, we all gathered for the last speaker. He's a fellow who writes cookbooks with vignettes about his experiences. He started his talk by describing his first books about bread. It was late in the afternoon and I thought, "Mmm, bread." I tuned back in as he said something about bread being a metaphor for life, but he'd lost me at "bread." In what was supposed to be an inspirational send-off, he told of his travels to find the perfect pizza. I thought, "Mmmm, pizza." Then, he transitioned from pizza to cheese steak. As he described watching this guy make the perfect cheese steak in Philadelphia, I almost cried, "Stop it! You're killing me over here!" Meanwhile, my new friend somehow got past the food references to grasp his broader message about mission.

If only he'd talked about anything but cheese steak and pizza, then I too could have found inspiration. As it was, I was inspired to order pizza for dinner, which I'm guessing was not his main point.