My Lost Art
I'm not saying that I ever could write. But of all the modes of expression available to human beings, writing is the only one I can do well. I'm tempted to tell Elizabeth just to read this site, because I believe I articulate things better via the written word. But at no time have I ever been so discouraged in writing as I am now. Every sentence is a struggle. I am afraid to put something down, even though I can delete (and I do), because I don't want to see how badly it will turn out. Let's look at this a little more closely. A couple of weeks ago, I submitted a paper in my Sixties class in which I compared two short essays. I knew what was in my head. I had (or so I thought I had) a clear point. But I knew it wasn't good when I turned it in. We got our papers back last week. Now, I'm a leo. Sure, we have huge egos. Whatever. But oen of the leo traits is to admit when she has fucked up. I do this a lot. And I'm about to really embarass myself by including Snitow's comments (by the way, I was told by the other prof in the class -- Hattam -- that Snitow wanted to read mine):
Dear Catherine, I confess I'm not sure what you're saying here. (ouch!) I've had a try at what I think your theme is on the top of page two, but then you introduce many other issues, draw parallels and offer readings which seem to point in double directions. (geez.) I'm intrigued. Can we meet and walk through it? I'd prefer a clarification and rewrite, rather than to offer a grade at this point. I suspect there are some very good ideas in the works here. So, see me for an appointment, to explain it all to me. Best, Ann S.
Translation: You've got to be kidding me. What the hell kind of shit is this you've turned in. Are you not in graduate school? This is really a D paper, but because this is graduate school and because Cs might as well be Fs, I'm not going to do that to you. So, I'm going to take pity on you and give you the benefit of the doubt. Please make an appointment with me, you should-be-in-remedial-English dumbass, and try to explain this sub-par piece of writing. Best, Ann S.
I have an appointment with her tomorrow morning. She was very nice about it. I went up to her after class last week, a class during which my confidence dropped to depths lower than the earth's core. When she turned to see me standing there, she said she really wanted to talk with me about this. She was all smiles. We would deconstruct and reconstruct the paper, she said. Also, she said there were about three different issues going on here. In other words, she's going to hold my hand through this process, like she would a fifth-grader. I have another assignment due tomorrow in my writing class. I spent all week thinking about topics. I came up with seven different topics, and started papers using two of them. One of those I had about eight different first sentences. I couldn't do it. I finally settled on something and just finished what I consider to be a decent essay, but that no longer means anything to me. I am not confident at all in my writing. I have been handed an A- and B+, the latter of which was also bad, because I couldn't focus my topic. I'm struggling so much that I can't bring myself to re-write it. I'm going to, of course, but when I try, I just sit there and read her comments over and over again. I'm going to talk to the writing prof tomorrow during her office hours. This couldn't be worse timing. I am to write a paper to use as a writing sample for PhD programs, as well as a statement of purpose, something in which I'm to narrow my interests and prove how a particular program will be the perfect place for me explore. The only good thing about last week was that I read a book that comes very close to Middlemarch in excellence. I devoured it. The Song of the Lark should be on everyone's reading list. I read it in four days, but easily could have done it in two had I not watched so much television, something I've been doing a lot of during the past month because it allows me to stay away from myself. Ain't life grand?
