Punctuation

Look, I suck at grammar. But I know two things:

1. Do not use single quotation marks for anything except for quotes within quotes. Like: "Suzanne is such a bitch," Suzanne's classmate complained. "She said, 'Why the fuck are you in an MFA program and using single quotes for everything?'" Not: 'Suzanne is such a bitch,' Suzanne's classmate complained. Or: I put this in quotes to highlight that it is "ironic." Not: I put this in quotes to highlight that it is 'ironic.'

People at school used these single quotes all the time and it drove me up the wall. Then I doubted myself. Maybe I was the idiot? I looked it up in Strunk & White's book on grammar, and I was correct. Smugness.

2. If you have a list of things, commas go between all the items. This has been the subject of many books. I know that fancy modern writing is OK with sentences like, "I brought my six pack of beer, my handgun, my rifle and my sawed off shotgun to the grammar conference." But that sentence hurts my brain. I learned that it is proper to write, "I brought my six pack of beer, my handgun, my rifle, and my sawed off shotgun to the grammar conference."

Sure, my blog is riddled with typos and I am bad at figuring out when I need a comma to link to sentences. (Is it, "Sure, my blog is riddled with typos and I am bad at figuring out when I need a comma to link to sentences" or "Sure, my blog is riddled with typos, and I am bad at figuring out when I need a comma to link to sentences?" And does that last sentence end with a period or question mark?) Actually, that example brought up another pet peeve, which is punctuation done outside of quote marks. I learned that commas, periods, question marks, etc. belong in the quote mark, not outside of it. (Like, "You stupid fuck," she yelled; not "You stupid fuck", she yelled.)

Grammar is hard. It gives me a tooth ache. OK, sinus pressure also gives me a tooth ache. And so do sentences starting with and, or, but...

Knowledge

Years before I went back to school to study the craft of writing,* I spent scads of money to study social welfare policy and public administration at Columbia. Early on in the program, I realized that I went back when I was way too young, but I resolved to learn what I could. I discovered that I really liked statistics. This was a huge surprise.

My last semester at school, I enrolled in a poverty research class. Students paired up and selected a topic to investigate. We then we given national databases, which we ran many numbers over the course of the semester to support or disprove our thesis. It was exciting.

The topic I chose was whether children living in households with two adults had outcomes that matched those of children living in households with married parents. I pictured grandmothers, aunts, uncles, and other family members offering the same support that a spouse might (or might not) give, thus enabling children to live in more stable environments. My partner and I ran a gazillion multivariate regressions, basic stats like averages, and a fancy-schmancy time-hazard regression to see if this was true.

It was not. According to data from the National Longitudinal Survey of Youth, children from married households had better outcomes than those from two adult households, who in turn were better off as adults than children from single parent homes. I was crushed. Did this not mean that horrid policies put forth by right wing nutjobs were correct? That people really should rush off to get married (assuming they have the right, but that's another story), come hell or high water?

As I moped about my findings, my wise professor opened my eyes. He pointed out that the data may not support my theory, but that the social environment in which we live does not provide the same benefits to unmarried people. Perhaps if I recommended that we implement policies that support different types of households rather than continue to punish them for not conforming to a conservative view of family life, then the outcomes would improve.

I hadn't really considered that it was possible to take a "bad" finding and turn it into a tool for advocacy. This changed the way I interpreted studies and all sorts of news reports. Cool.

*Seriously, just typing "to study the craft of writing" cracks me up. I had hoped to learn how to write a book with a plot and characters. Instead, I discovered that I am not "literary" and my writing will never be literary, because my brain does not think that way. While this discovery caused enormous angst last year, I am OK with it now. I'll just admire people who write really beautiful sentences and go about my business trying to entertain people with a serviceable story. Which is not to say that I did not learn anything, because I learned a lot. But anyway...

Four Bad Ideas in No Particular Order

1. My scary bear hat flew off my personage when a big gust of wind overtook me in London on Saturday. It landed in a muddy puddle at the edge of the curb. As I reached out to pluck it up, I realized that a bus was barreling down the road. I wondered if I could grab it before the bus got there. I snatched back my hand with a second to spare. Unfortunately, the bus ran over my poor hat. When the light changed, I picked it up again, sopping and dirty. All's well that ends well on this, as I did not lose my hand and the hat came out of the washing machine and drier as good as new.

2. For my lit class tomorrow, we are reading What Is the What by Dave Eggers. It is an excellent "autobiography" of one of the Lost Boys of Sudan. (It also could maybe be about 100 pages shorter, but I still recommend it.) People stared at me while I read it on the subway and bawled.

3 & 4. Last night I defrosted a large plastic container of Daisy Mae's baked beans that I found in the back of my freezer. I plan on eating them tomorrow for lunch. It's double whammy of potentially bad ideas, as I probably should not eat a lot of beans before going to class, and the container has been in the freezer since my book party. My book party rocked the house in August 2008.

Richard Peck Made Me Cry Today

The day started out well. I woke up a bit before my alarm sounded, feeling refreshed. After feeding Tycho the rabbit and myself, I ran three miles at the gym. Then I scurried home to purchase U2 concert tickets for Husband. For a concert on Sept. 16, 2010.

Ticket purchasing is not as easy as it sounds. First, he had to subscribe to the band's fan site. This runs something like $50. Then he received an email with a secret code that could be used to purchase up to four tickets before they went on sale to the general public. Since Husband was at a Very Important Meeting when his special group of bribe givers was allowed to give U2 more of their money, he asked me to click on the magic link, enter the code, and secure the best tickets available, at whatever cost.

Fine. How hard can that be? Except that he already used the code he provided me for tickets for a concert this past September. And I had no access to his U2 account to find his new entree to U2 happiness. The man asked me to do a simple task, and it distressed me to no end. He works hard. All he wants are some fucking concert tickets, and I could not provide. Two frustrating hours later, I finally bought the tickets. Yay.

However, I was late for everything else I had to do today. Among other things that did not get done in a timely fashion, I missed a call from an organization offering me a job. Yay for the job offer, boo for missing the call. I left the woman an overly enthusiastic message on her voice mail at 5:30.

Blah, blah, blah. Fortunately, I arrived at school on time to hear my favorite author from when I was in 4th grade. Blossom Culp, the main character in Ghosts I Have Been, was a hero to me back then. I wanted to be her. So all semester, I'd been waiting to hear Richard Peck. During his talk about writing, he said, "I write for lonely people looking for friends in books."

Thank you, Mr. Peck.

Where Husband's Money is Going

An email exchange:

> -------- Original Message --------
> Subject: where your money is goingq
> From: Suzanne Reisman

If it makes you feel better, New School was just ranked by "Poets & Writers" magazine as the #3 nonfiction MFA program.

Nah, it doesn't make me feel better, either. :)

--

[Husband@husband.com] wrote:

The accolades are piling up. I hear "Delaying Reality" magazine ranked
New School's MFA program quite highly as a top place for trust fund kids
to cool their heels for two years.


> -------- Original Message --------
> Subject: where your money is goingq
> From: Suzanne Reisman
>
In that fine publication, Columbia ranked even higher, though.

---

[husband@husband.com] wrote:

Yes. And I was only talking about MFA programs. In the review of all
graduate programs, "Delaying Reality" ranked 327 law schools before the
Columbia MFA at #328.

> -------- Original Message --------
> Subject: Re: where your money is goingq
> From: Suzanne Reisman


I have to disagree with that analysis. Certainly, law school buys more time for trust funders before they have to enter the real world, but at least most people graduate law school with some sort of job, even if they hate it and abandon it a few years later to get an MFA.

Puke

After I posted the last chapter of Always, I went to school. My story about my grandfather's life was set to be workshopped. I was nervous, but figured that it was still better than something I wrote 20 years ago, even if it had no similes.

The workshop was extremely helpful, but also brutal. People were very generous with their praise for what worked, and constructive with why the parts that didn't work failed. I may have improved my writing since "Always," but damn, I have a long way to go.

Class left me both drained and with lots to ponder, but I joined a few friends for food and drink anyway. Indulging myself, I ordered chocolate pudding at the French restaurant we went to. It came with this luscious almond studded chocolate cookie thing (it was sort of like a chocolate waffle cone) and sugary whipped cream. I felt nauseated after I ate the cookie and a few bites of pudding, but ignored it.

When I finally got home, I still felt sick. My undiagnosed mysterious digestive ailment does this to me every once in a while, so I went to bed, figuring I'd feel better in the morning. Dear Reader, false hope. Oh, false hope.

Since I woke up, I have done nothing but puke and crap. It was so bad at one point that I even shit myself, ruining a pair of underwear that I really like. At other times, I lay on the bathroom floor, writhing with cramps. I worried about dehydration, but my second round of vomiting was the Gatorade I sipped to prevent that. I also have a low fever.

Sam Tanenhaus is scheduled to speak at school tonight about his book, The Death of Conservatism. I'm not sure I buy his theory about the two different types of conservatives - good ones who see that government can be positive and bad ones who, in the words of Grover Nordquist, want to shrink it to the size where it can be drowned in the bathtub - but I've been looking forward to the event all semester. It is pretty rare that my political interests and my literary interests collide. Now I can't go. Puke. (Well, I could go and puke on the conservatives, but that is pretty rude, and I don't want to stoop to their behavior. Plus there aren't likely to be many conservatives in a New School audience.)

Memoir, Fiction, and Balls vs. Testicles in Literature

I read Frank Conroy's memoir Stop-Time for my lit seminar on Wednesday. What's good about it is the writing. Conroy doesn't tell his story in a linear fashion, and at times switches to the present tense. I just tried both of these techniques for a story that I handed in last week which will be workshopped on Monday, so it is nice to have another successful model to learn from. (I patterned my work on A Feather on the Breath of God by Sigrid Nunez.)

During a break from the meandering class discussion, a friend calculated that we pay $125 an hour for our classes. We resumed class. After a ten minute debate on Conroy's use of the word "balls," which our professor defended by saying, "Balls is a great word," I thought about other uses I had for $20.84 I spent for that. Not that I disagree that balls is a great word or really minded talking about whether Conroy should have used "testicles" instead of balls, but still. That's a lot of money for something I talk about for free all the time.

Speaking of balls, I posted four more chapters of Always. Chapter 9 is one of my favorites so far, and Chapter 10 (not to be confused with Chapter 10*, as I had two chapter tens) is one of the most gag-inducing. The similes flow in Chapter 11 most impressively. I actually learned a lot from myself from twenty years ago while typing up this work.

New Mottoes

During class on Tuesday night, I reflected on my inability to write things that are descriptive. I decided that it is because I do not think in images, but in concepts. Por ejemplo, when I think about the tree that grew in front of my parents' house, here is my thought process:

It was taller than our humble abode and a conifer. The pine needles fell all over the driveway and any car that was parked near or under its branches. One day, Dana and I came from home school and found our neighbor chopping branches off our tree. We freaked the fuck out, but my parents were glad that he took matters into his own hands because it had become overgrown and blocked part of the driveway. My sister and I, however, felt that the tree was rendered bald and ugly by the indignity visited upon it. Years after that, my mom noticed that the branches at the crown of the tree looked lame. She asked my dad to call a tree doctor. By the time one of them finally put the call in seven years later, the tree was ridden with some sort of tree disease and past saving. It was chopped down. Now no one can find my house, as my friends used to look for the ginormous evergreen tree as a landmark.

While this is a very nice story, it is not terribly descriptive. Anyway, once I realized that I do not think in images, and images are central to writing that is "literary," I realized that "I am about as literary as a potato sprouting eyes." (Actually, I love that image. Potatoes with "eyes" gross me out and fascinate me.) Without writing images, it is hard to include metaphors in my stories. Seriously, I would not think to include a metaphor if one walked up to me at a cocktail party, introduced itself politely, and then punched me in the face when I did not recognize it. If I was to write a metaphor about the tree, it would be something cheesy like, "The tree was an angel that guarded our house against the darkness of the night that wasn't really all that dark because we faced a busy highway that was brightly illuminated by street lights." No good.

Despite my lack of "literary" credentials, I think I can write well in a few styles. Hence my other new motto is, "This cubic zirconium has many facets." Bwa ha ha ha. Fuck being literary.

Insomnia Cure!

The train ride back from Long Island last night took an hour and forty minutes. I figured that I could use the time to get some reading done for my lit class. I am a fool.

The problem is that the book, Safe Conduct by Boris Pasternak, is insanely boring. Maybe boring is not the right word - pretentiously literary probably describes it better. Here is an illustrative passage:

We take people as our symbols so as to overcast them with weather, set them in their natural surroundings. And we take weather, or what is one and the same, nature - so that we may overcast it with our passion. We drag everyday things into prose for the sake of poetry. We entice prose into poetry for the sake of music. This, then, in the widest sense of the word, I called art, set by the clock of the living race which strikes with the generations.

Certainly, this is brilliant writing. I just can't read it. Every time I try to read this autobiography, I fall asleep. I read about 20 pages on the train before I passed out. This is not good for my class discussion possibilities. However, I am glad that I now have a cure for the insomnia that plagues me.

Invisible Stigmata*

During class last night, I spaced out a bit while the very intellectual professor recited a history of first person narratives from Roman times to today. What made me think about St. Catherine of Sienna is beyond me. The mind works in mysterious ways.

Maybe the mention of ancient Rome caused Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, think of Italy, which I first visited in January 1996 as part of a scholarship program at NYU. We took a day trip to Sienna from Florence, and visited a church which had St. Catherine's finger on display. (Now that I think about it, this may have been the start of my obsession with relics.) Our guide explained to us that Catherine's family wanted to marry her off to some guy but that she had pledged herself to Christ (sort of a feminist act, right?), and did not want to break her vows. Suddenly, she developed stigmata that only she could see. Obviously, this was a sign from above that she should not wed a mortal man, and her family shipped her off to a convent instead.

Far be it from me to suggest that Catherine invented the "invisible stigmata" to get what she wanted; that would have been very clever. I suspect that she became hysterical (and I think we were also told that she was locked into her room without food until she agreed to marry the dude), and these conditions likely made her hallucinate the stigmata. Since no one was on her brain hamster's wavelength, the bloody punctures were invisible to everyone but Catherine. I wonder if they really believed she had invisible stigmata, or if they just agreed that she did to shut her up. Interesting.

*I blogged a bit about the invisible stigmata in June 2007, when I saw her cloak in Milan.

School Dance Dream

The buzzing alarm clock cut through the picture unfolding in my head. It interrupted my ascent up a grand staircase dressed in a green knee length silk dress and matching bolero jacket and black satin shoes with chunky two inch heels. The dance was just about to begin.

In only the way a dream can unfold, my friends (I think from New School, but also from my previous graduate program at Columbia) and I were excited for our graduation dance. We spent hours picking out dresses, putting on make-up, and styling our hair. When we got to the dance, I immediately saw my ex-boyfriend from when I was 16. I worried that he would think I was following him, and somehow lost the group of giggling ladies who I accompanied.

Attempting to go in another direction, I headed up the stairs. At that moment, Mayor Bloomberg swept down with his entourage, ready to open the ceremony. It occurred to me that Mayor Bloomberg looked like my ex-boyfriend's unemployed, alcoholic father: short and overconfident. That's when the alarm ended it it all.

Usually I have no idea what sparks my crazy dreams, but I'm pretty sure this one came from two sources. The weather was perfect last night for a long stroll, so I walked home from school. That led me through Times Square, where I saw several groups of high school kids departing from proms in fancy gowns and tuxes. School dance: check. Then when I arrived home, I read an article about how Bloomberg is once again buying an election for himself (last election, he outspent his opponent by 10 to 1), not only through campaign ads, but also by buying off the best Democratic consultants through hiring them to run his campaign. Mayor Bloomberg: check. The ex-boyfriend tends to show up in my dreams when I'm upset about something in general, so that explains that.

The dream, though, made me miss the good old days. I would love to gather up my friends, get dressed up, and go to a school dance. How fun would that be?

Three Cheers for Maurice

Frankly, I'm in deep shit. I think that working full-time, attending a full-time master's program in creative writing, drafting two posts a week for BlogHer, serving on the Board of a nonprofit child care center that has real estate issues, attempting healthy-ish lifestyle through exercise, and continuing to have relationships with friends and family (which I am failing at miserably in some cases) is maybe more than I can handle. For the last two weeks, I've been exhausted constantly.

It's not just me who needs a break. Maurice, the hamster who runs on the wheel that powers my brain, is on strike. At first I was mad at his furry ass for not keeping up, thus resulting in me making big mistakes like handing in the same story twice (written in two different ways, since I didn't remember writing it in the first place) or smaller errors like when I called Oedipus Odysseus in yesterday's blog post. Now I realize that the little dude is just overworked.

Maurice and I used to take breaks to read friends' blogs or watch mindless TV. These days, I need to think for more hours, whether to learn about the nuances of Obama's foreclosure prevention plan or to answer questions about a book I read for class, and poor little Maurice runs nonstop from when I wake up until I go to sleep. That's a lot for any brain hamster, let alone a 33 year old one. So I want to thank him publicly for hanging in there. (Thanks Maurice!)

I need to take a hard look at everything that's on my plate. I know what I want to cut, but Husband is not on board with that plan. If only I could write a book and sell it for six-figures, like, say fucking Meghan McCain,* that would solve everything. Uh, right....

*Love Jossip's suggested title about Ann Coulter, as does Maurice.

Maybe the Childhood Concussions Did Have an Effect...

A surge of excitement ran through me as my lit professor handed back our papers from the previous class. I had worked extra hard on mine, and thought that it was one of the best things I had written in a while. In addition to telling the story of my best friend from 4th grade and exploring racism in my hometown, it had metaphors!

The professor generally keeps the papers she likes best at the top of the pile, so I was a bit disconcerted when mine came in the middle of the stack. Looking it over, I was struck by the lack of comments on it. "Oh my God," I fretted. "She hated it!" In the following nanoseconds, I realized that I was a talentless hack who should drop out of school and never show my face again. Then I decided that it might be more productive to ask her why she didn't like it.

"Oh, I always look forward to reading your work," she replied. "But I read this one already, so I was disappointed that it wasn't anything new."

"What? You did?" I urged the hamster to run more quickly on the wheel that powers my brain so that I could figure out how this was possible. Maurice grunted at me before reluctantly picking up the pace.

"Yes, this is a nice expansion of something you handed in earlier in the semester."

I frowned. I knew that I had been thinking about this particular story for a few weeks, but I was pretty sure that it hadn't left my head until I wrote the paper I now clutched in my bony hand. Finally, Maurice got his furry ass in gear and I realized that I had, in fact, handed in the same basic story my second week of class. Worse, I had just looked at that first story again on Monday night, and thought about where I wanted to go with it, making no connection to the fleshed out version that I eagerly anticipated receiving back on Wednesday night.

Very, very scary. I would think that I completely have lost it, except that I think that Maurice threw some information out of the mental filing cabinet to make room for all the details I learned about the Obama administration's mortgage refinancing and loan modification program. (I am a very good resource on this!) Still, not good.

Something Not Funny Happened Part Way Through the Writing Program

My goal was to attend an MFA program to better understand the craft behind writing a book, then to write a hilarious account of the horrors and indignities that I suffered through during puberty. My writing sample (or portfolio or whatever the fuck they call it) was an uproarious account of my first bra shopping experience and adjusting to having boobs. This culminated in the absurd experience of a breast reduction at the age of 22. I had a whole draft chapter on my first period and then what happened when I stopped getting it at all at age 17. Funny shit.

The problem is that as I've been studying literature, I find myself writing not so funny stories about the Holocaust and my family, the prejudiced community in which I was raised, and how direct and indirect discrimination impacted my decision to pursue a career in social justice. Sure, sometimes I am able to throw in a good joke about my bubbe's tuchus (that's butt in Yiddish), as my grandfather used a wicked sense of humor to deflect the pain of losing his family in the Holocaust (a tactic I also employ when I talk about subjects that are difficult for me, even if I can't compare what he experienced to anything I did), but I'm finding myself scribbling all sorts of serious little stories. It's both cathartic and distressing to explore these topics.

I hope that as I progress and develop my voice, I can strike a balance between the serious and the hilarious. Writing. Harumph....

No Whine with This Cheese

Man, have I been whiny lately. I am happy to report that my first class of this semester was good. Fingers crossed, I think I will learn a lot from this workshop. The instructor laid down some clear ground rules, which pleased my fuddy duddy side. I suspect she will not indulge anyone who compares my writing to Oscar Meyer. Plus, she gave a quick lecture about what she looks for in nonfiction writing that actually provided some good insight and guidance.

The other exciting aspect of the class is that no one seems like a pretentious fuck. I walked out of my first class last semester and blew up over some of the outrageous, obnoxious things that my fellow writers said to introduce themselves. No one made me want to stab them in the face tonight. Hurray! Plus, one of the guys sells mattresses. (Or at least I think that was what he said he did for a living when I met him at a student event back in September.) Joe Biden also sells mattresses (or at least he looks like he should), so I am excited that vice presidential material is hanging around me.

AAA

Three As are a cause for suspicion these days. The bond rating agencies ignored all common sense, succumbed to pressure, and gave AAA ratings to all manner of junk securities. (As Husband explained to me, when there's a lot of shit in a lot of buckets, the smell of each bucket doesn't offset the others, which how how the rating agencies justified giving excellent ratings to buckets of shit.)

I thought about the AAA rating when I checked my grades online. It turns out that I got an A in my workshop, an A in my lit seminar, and an A in my colloquium. Under normal circumstances, I'd be puffing my chest and celebrating with a metaphorical cigar. However, I know that my grades are as inflated as Moody's ratings on collateralized debt obligations full of subprime mortgages. And just like with all the securities ratings, I know that all of my classmates' "products" were given triple As, too. It's sort of hollow.

Once, way back in the day when I thought that a career in public policy would fulfill me and thus pursued a graduate public administration degree, I aced a semester. I received an A in my advanced seminar on child & family policy (actually a PhD class in the School of Social Work), an A in my seminar on social policy analysis (also a social work PhD course), an A in a course on the legal environment of policymaking, and an A in my public management practicum. Damn, I feel my chest puffing up as I write this. The next semester I almost outdid myself, earning two As (in an insane course on public housing policy and in a policy analysis practicum), and A+ (seriously, they gave me an A+!) in a research practicum on poverty and public policy. Then I got a B+ in a sociology course in which the professor refused to talk to me after I missed a class due to illness, so that ruined it, but whatever. I've never been prouder of my work.

Grades don't buy happiness, that's for sure. I'm pretty nervous to start over again at the end of the month. I won't even go into the problem I'm having trying to change a class because no one is overseeing the fucking program right now; the director is on leave for the semester, and the associate director is out until Jan. 20. Not that they should be at the beck and call of students just because we pay $22,000 a year in tuition, but you'd think someone might stick around for little issues. What do I know about running programs, though? I just got an A in public management and have been administering nonprofit programs for almost a decade. I smell some buckets. (Man, this is way more bitter than I intended it to be.)

I'll Drink to That!

A mojito in a diner cost me $8 last night. Eight dollars!!! And, of course, I could only manage to drink half of it, even though it was fairly tasty. With the first sip, my gut started to feel funny, as my liver yelled, "What are you putting in me? Get that gunk away from my pure lifestyle! Harridan!"

My liver will once again be forced to cope with one little drink, as I intend to imbibe tonight as well. Last night was the final workshop of the semester, something to celebrate. (Not that the class was completely awful, and I did learn many things, but it presented me with intellectual and emotional challenges that I am glad I don't have to face until at least Jan. 26, when school starts again. Hopefully, I'll be better equipped to cope with nasty comments, pretentious fools, and implications that I am a talentless hack now that I know how it goes. Even better, perhaps no one will be an asshole! And damn, that is one long winter break. But I digress...) I am sad that my lit class is over tonight, as I also learned a lot (and at various times, also felt like Trig Palin at the RNC convention, but overall this was not the case) and immensely enjoyed the reading we did and how the professor parsed the material to show us the craft in each piece. She's an interesting person, as were all the people in the class.

Blah blah blah. At any rate, I survived my first semester as an MFA student, and I think my liver needs to deal with my one toast. I'm hoping for a grasshopper (some green alcohol and milk)or toasted almond (amaretto and milk), but I'll settle for a amaretto sour if I must. Or cheap sangria. Whatever.

Backfire

I hate my workshop. Two weeks ago, our writing workshop professor asked us to hand in a copy of the comments we left on other students' papers so she could have a sense of what we were thinking about feedback and criticism. I suspect that my complaint about Cunty McCunterson's rude comments and illustrations in my paper played some role in this exercise. While I am not obnoxious, I also do not think I leave the most useful feedback in the world. I try my best, but sometimes I just don't know what to say. I hoped that the professor might have some useful tips for me.

Instead, she photocopied Cunty McCunterson's comments and handed them out to the class as an example of how we should all provide feedback. Of course, Cunty's comments were far more constructive when she knew that the professor would be reading them. Only an idiot would turn in something rude and insulting when she knew the prof would see it. Sigh. I knew this would backfire on me.

There's another woman in the class who didn't read anyone's work for two weeks, and yet we all workshopped her story last week. She also yelled at someone last night for using the word "analysis" to describe the analysis of film that another student wrote, insisting that "analysis" was too Freudian. (I wonder how upset she would be if she knew that I applied for a part-time data analysis job yesterday.) I watched the person whose piece we were discussing doodle in his notebook the whole time. I'm not sure he cared what anyone in the class thought.

That I am counting down until this class is over (only four to go...) is upsetting. It didn't have to be this way. I like the professor a lot on a personal level and tremendously value what her insight. But that two or three people have managed to make class so dysfunctional and unpleasant for six of us (I think one person is unperturbed because she is low key like that), infuriates me. I can't believe how much money I paid for this. I am getting things out of it, so it's not a total loss, but it's enough to make me apply for a part-time data analysis job. Ba dum dum cha.

Digging Deep

"What does this mean to you? Dig deeper!

Numerous people in my workshop wrote this comment on my story about developing breasts and being tormented by their ginormous size and then undergoing breast reduction surgery (if they bothered to give me back my paper at all, which one person did not, but that is another story). It vexes me because in many cases I don't say what the situation means because it means (or meant) nothing.

For example, I talk about how breasts have not worked out so well for the women on my maternal side. My granny is a short women who walks around stooped over, maybe partially from the two watermelons stuck to her chest. On the other hand, my mom is a woman of average height with a very small frame who had two small boobs until she lost one to cancer when I was 4 years old. The people in my class wanted to know what I thought about her scarred chest when I was growing up, and the honest answer is that I didn't. It was just a fact of life that I accepted. My mom had cancer. They had to cut off one of her boobs. The end.*

The point is that this made me realize two things. First, I am not a deep person. I really do often accept things for their surface explanation. This is not entirely true, as I also analyze certain things that happen until I've beaten the dead horse to a bloody mixed metaphor, but still - I'm shallow. The second thing is that I am lazy. I'm probably not as shallow as I claim (see dead horse metaphor), but digging deep means extra work and maybe even painful revelations, and I'm not going there. Sometimes I just want to tell a funny story. Why look for the underlying pathos just to make the story more literary? It's all very distressing to think about.

*Now you know the truth, so if I ever do write a best-selling book about puberty and there are paragraphs describing how I didn't want to get boobs because I was scared of cancer and blah blah blah, you can all go to the tabloids and say that I am a liar just like James Frey. And then I will have to lie and say that I had recovered memories in the process of writing the book and blah blah blah and it will all be very scandalous. If you do sell me out, I hope that the tabloids pay you good money. Then you can take me out for afternoon tea and we can laugh about it.

Things I Know

I know that I am not a great writer, and probably will never be a great writer.
I know that I want to be a better writer.
I know that I decided to go back to school so I could learn more about the craft of writing.
I know that attending an MFA program was a scary decision because it meant I would have to confront my lack of literary skill.
I know that I am not a lyrical or beautiful writer, but I also know that it is as hard to pull off humorous writing as it is to craft a gorgeous sentence.
I know that, although I am not a literary writer, I deserve to have my writing treated with respect.
I know that one person in my workshop thinks so lowly of me that she thought it was appropriate to leave me the following comment: "My bologna has a first name! It's n-o-t t-h-i-s s-e-n-t-e-n-c-e, p-l-e-a-s-e!"
I know that the person who wrote such an obnoxious line of criticism is capable of writing lyrical sentences.
I know that I have a published book that seems to be selling well.
I know that two publishers asked me whether I would be interested in writing more books about New York City.
I win.

Workshop

Tonight my story about developing breasts and how boobs have affected me over time will be workshopped in class. I am excited, but also nervous. The good news is that a few people already mentioned that they enjoyed reading it. (Right after I submitted my work two weeks ago, I convinced myself that I would be asked to leave the program.) Mostly, I look forward to hearing what people think I can do to make it a richer piece, but I am also relieved that at least a few people found it funny.

If I am lucky, I will avoid the same fate I suffered in class last Wednesday. My mysterious digestive ailment reared its ugly head earlier that week, plaguing me with acid reflux and cramps. The cramps and gas pockets were particularly painful on Wednesday night, and it is only a testament to how much I enjoy my literature class that I was able to focus on the discussion while simultaneously worrying that I might literally shit myself.

During the peak of my mysterious digestive ailment, I often worried that I might poop my pants, but I had never done so. As I gathered my belongings and dashed out of the classroom last Wednesday, I felt wetness on my ass. Two possible explanations ran through my head: 1. I got my period early (please, please, please); or 2. anal leakage. Whatever it was, I prayed that I did not reek. The two women who walked out with me did not seem to notice anything, so I took that as a good sign. All I can say is that I subsequently learned that anal leakage does not smell. Sigh.

Clean and Fresh

While I read How to Read Literature Like a Professor yesterday afternoon, the phone rang. Husband answered.

"It's Rebecca," he said and brought me the phone.

My cousin is a writer, so I thought I'd show off what I learned thus far. "Did you know that rain is a symbol of cleansing in literature?" I said, rather than "Hello."

She started to reply, when Husband shouted, "So's douche!!!"

My chest puffed with pride. We are so erudite in my household.

What Would CUSS Readers Do?: Lit Crit 101

Um, does anyone know anything about writing 2-3 page criticisms of short stories and essays focusing on one aspect of the work (like dialog)? Because I sure as fuck don't have a clue. I take that back - I have a clue, but only one that would lead me to write 2-3 sentences.

Advice is welcome. Recommendations of potential sources are welcome. Anything is welcome.

Update, 6:20 PM: After spending some time cruising the aisles of my local B&N, I purchased How to Read Literature Like a Professor by Thomas C. Foster. It certainly lives up to its subtitle, "A Lively and Entertaining Guide to Reading Between the Lines. While I do not think this will entirely solve my problem, it has provided me with three or four more clues as to how to write some sort of paper describing the techniques that are used in the various pieces that I am reading. I also bought a book of literary essays from 2000-2005 by J.M. Coetzee. Now I just hope that "literary essays" and "literary reviews" are synonyms for "literary criticism."

CUSS reader insight is still very welcome.

Five Things I'm Loving

1. Husband somehow wound up on John McCain's mailing list. The man is a lifelong, committed Democrat. He is never going to give money to a douche bag like McCain. Every time I find an envelope from the McCain campaign in our mail box, I think of the money they wasted sending him materials. The return envelope is one of those "No postage necessary if mailed in the United States" deals. Would it not be awesome to wrap it around a brick and send it back? Mwa ha ha ha ha.

2. Going back to school at an "older" age. When I went for my MPA, I was only 22. I didn't feel confident enough to speak up on certain issues or challenge others, so I didn't say anything. This time around, I am just as eager to learn, but I'm also not willing to sit on my opinion. Plus, I care not a whit about grades. I just want to do my best and see what happens. It's liberating.

3. My pink John Fluevog boots. And the fact that I did not pay anything near $305 for them a few years ago. (I bought them on clearance, although now I'm shitting myself at what it will cost to replace them some day.)

4. On a perfect sunny day in the mid-70s, I hopped the subway to see St. Demetrios' ankle bone. (First I went to the dentist, though. No cavaties!)

5. The good people I continue to meet in person and online.

Class

For once, a post titled "Class" has nothing to do with socioeconomic issues. Have no fear - it also does not mean that I behaved in a way which would exhibit exceptional taste. Rather, I'm excited that I started class at the New School.

My first class was a writing workshop. The instructor* is wonderful, and I think that I will learn a lot from her. There are only 10 students in the workshop, and all of us are first years. The instructor was shocked, as usually workshops are mixed between first and second year students. I've been joking that we are the special ed class. We'll get mainstreamed with the big kids next semester.

Last night I attended my second class, which is about essays and short fiction. (The cheap bastard that resides within me is especially delighted that I don't have to buy any books. All the articles are photocopied and supplied to us for free!) This class is a mix of first and second year and fiction and nonfiction students, although mostly we are first years and nonfiction folk. The instructor of this class is also thoughtful. Again, I believe that I will learn a lot.

One of the assignments was to choose an author from the syllabus and prepare a 10-15 minute oral presentation on a topic on which she/he writes. Using my usual quality barometer, I choose Edwidge Danticat because I read a glowing review of her memoir in my Bible, Entertainment Weekly. (Let's keep this fact between us.) Also, she writes about Haiti, which is a country that I know very little about but am fascinated by from cultural and policy perspectives. I also have a very tiny personal connection. When I was a wee lass, my aunt went to Haiti to do humanitarian work, and she brought me back a Creole primer and a wood table and chair set for my dolls. My aunt also served as a VISTA volunteer in the Haitian community in Miami. From what I understand, Haiti is one of those nations that has consistently been fucked by racism, poverty, and the United States meddling in its affairs, which exacerbates the first two problems. Danticat also writes about the beauty that remains in the country, so I am excited to delve into her work.

*Professor? The technical titles confuse me.

Conventions and Orientations

Twenty years ago, I sat home and watched the Republican convention on TV every day. I was annoyed that there was nothing else on the boob tube to entertain me as I worked on a Strawberry Shortcake latch hook rug. (This is not to say that I did not find the programming interesting. In fact, it hooked - hardee har har, no pun intended - me onto politics.) Today, I'm disturbed by how little of the political conventions are televised on non-cable channels. I hope people really do get their information from other reliable sources. (Or maybe everyone has cable and is glued to news programming.)

Twenty years ago, I thought that I would be a lawyer who would defend abused children when I grew up. Last night, I went to the orientation for the writing program I will attend for the next two years. It was a semi-familiar late-August event for me, as it is my third graduate program in 11 years. (I attended Fordham University Law School for two days in 1997 before acting on the realization that my childhood ambition for my adulthood was not my young adulthood ambition; I went on to receive a Masters in Public Administration with a concentration in social welfare policy from Columbia University in 2000.) My friend Kim is also attending the MFA program at New School, so I felt a little less pressure. Still, it is scary meeting new people and trying new things. After 11 years working in public service, this writing thing is very new territory.

The good news is that everyone I spoke with was friendly and interesting. While I expected people to ask me who my literary idols are (to which I would be forced to admit are Carl Hiaason, Stephen King, and Lemony Snicket) and then snub me for my low brow tastes, no such incident occurred. I even was one of the last people to leave the post-orientation social event. This is not to say that there aren't people who immediately annoyed the crap out of me (I wouldn't be me otherwise!), but really, people were awesome. I far less nervous now, and so excited to start on Tuesday.

Registration

This afternoon is the first day of registration for incoming students at the New School MFA program. Deep breath. I'm nervous as hell. The writing workshops don't scare me as much as the literary courses do. I only took one literature course in college, and that was 13 years ago. Oof. As for the writing part, I'm still grappling with the difference between "literary" versus "magazine-y" writing. For example, I consider this passage from Saturday's post about my toilet to be literary, what with the ghost imagery and all:

For the first five or so years that we resided at this apartment, our industrial-type toilet (it has no tank) dealt very effectively with the digestive abuse we hurled upon it. Then last year, I noticed a change. After I flushed and the water settled, wisps of toilet paper drifted back up from the pipe, like ghosts haunting the bowl. Even the most basic uses of the toilet required an after-flush to send the restless toilet paper souls back to their watery graves. Still, the hardier matter went away and didn't reappear.

Somehow, I suspect that working these lines into something I submit for class will not earn me accolades, though.