Tasks on the Shortest Day: Grocery Stores, Sermon Writing, and Wonder

It's another day where my morning has gotten a bit ahead of me--but for good reasons!  I'm in the middle of rethinking my Christmas Eve sermon.  Let me capture a few details here.

--Yesterday, I went for a walk with a pastor friend and mentor who lives in the neighborhood.  She told me about some ideas that her pastor son presented to the University of South Carolina students, where he is campus pastor.  The Greek word for inn is actually much closer to guest room.  If we say there was no room for Mary and Joseph in the guest room, does it change our understanding of the Nativity story in the second chapter of Luke?  I'm going to write a sermon suggesting that it does, and I'll post it next week.

--It's the Winter Solstice.  From here, we have more light each day:  small dribbles at first, but then more and more.  By the end of January, I expect to be surprised by the amount of light each day contains.

--Today is also the feast day of Saint Thomas.  I wrote a blog post about the juxtaposition of this feast day with the Winter Solstice.

--I read this article in The Washington Post about trees and what their rings tell us about the changing climate. I love the term "latewood," a term I hadn't known before today. I started thinking about my own bones, and what they might tell a researcher. I created some lines that might become a poem. Later today, on my neighborhood walk through the church camp Lutheridge, I will look at trees differently, with a new sense of wonder.

--I made this recipe for salmon rillettes in the way that Dorie Greenspan showed us how to do.  Yesterday I was at the grocery store, and the herbs looked fresh, and they had scallions and shallots.  Smoked salmon was on sale, so I took it as a sign.  It is so good.  Why do I only make it around the holidays?  It's probably healthier than the cheese and crackers I often eat for supper/evening snack.  I am hereby resolving to make it more often.

--Sadly, my dumplings yesterday did not turn out as delicious as the last time they made them.  Not horrible, just not as good as in November.  Hmm.  I did look up the online recipe to make sure that I had the measurements correct.  Hmmm.

--I strung colored lights across the window of the bedroom where my writing desk currently resides.  They delight me.  After Epiphany, perhaps I'll string the white lights up, if I can find them.

--Let me get to the grocery store one more time--and maybe plan ahead for Christmas Day.  

Scary Stories for Halloween

 --Early Halloween morning, rain battering the windows, knowing that it can find its way in if it just batters long enough.  I think about leaks and wind driven rain, and I touch the towels to keep track.  I also keep an eye on the street, gauging whether or not to move both cars to the driveway where there will be less threat of flooding.  And there's no tropical system delivering these flooding rains, the 3rd or 5th or who can keep track anymore flooding rains this month.

--A friend in Atlanta posted pictures of tree branches that had crashed through roof and then the ceiling of his house.  This damage is from Hurricane Zeta as it moved inland.  My friend is in Atlanta, which is in northern Georgia, roughly 450 miles from where the hurricane first crashed ashore.  How far inland must we go to be safe from hurricanes in an age of global warming?

--I'm also seeing pictures of people's Halloween decorations covered with snow--not quite as scary, but sobering nonetheless.  

--My Halloween decorations don't show you how warm it is in South Florida, highs still in the 90's.

--It's Halloween in a plague year, where various countries are setting new records when it comes to counting cases.  The scary stories practically write themselves.

--Yesterday I got a copy of Poets and Writers that I ordered because I wanted to read Sandra Beasley's article on MFA programs that have shut down (I can't provide a link because it's not online, which is why I bought the magazine).  It's a scary story on its face, but the substory was scary too.  It was also a tale of people in charge who had to prove to people in charge up the administrator ladder that expenses were valid and programs were essential, and in many cases, they couldn't do it, through no fault of their own.  It's a story of changing situations where there likely is no fault, at least not fault that can be given to a single person/department/board of trustees.  The article is worth the price of the magazine.

--Yesterday I read another article that's so well written, so inspiring, yet also scary:  Monica Hesse's "Kamala Harris knows things no vice president has ever known" in The Washington Post.  It begins with this paragraph:  "In the week before the country potentially elects its first female vice president, I’ve been trying to write a sweeping essay about progress and trailblazers and glass-breakers and what it all means. But what I keep thinking about is this: At some point in Kamala Harris’s life, someone has instructed her to carry her keys like a weapon when she walks to her car. Someone has said, Get them out of your purse even before you leave the grocery store. Arrange them between your fingers, and if someone attacks you, aim for the face."  What a shiver it gave me!

--But the end of the article made me cheer:  "How someone must have told her, once, to use her keys as a weapon in a parking lot. How something like that shapes you. How it hopefully makes you into a person who never lets anyone walk in the dark alone."

Giving Natural Disaster a Voice

Lately I've made some Amazon orders.  I've requested free shipping which should have taken 5-8 days or more.  The orders have arrived the next day.  I am not a Prime member, so that's not the explanation.

I'm not complaining.  It just seems worth noting.

On Saturday, I read this blog post by Jeannine Hall Gailey.  She had reviewed Lee Ann Roripaugh's Tsunami vs. The Fukushima 50.  It sounded like a book that would hit several of my reading sweet spots:  nuclear disaster, natural disaster, poetry, and a female-centered take on it all.  It's been awhile since I've ordered a book of poems, so I ordered it.

It arrived on Sunday.  Usually books arrive and go to my ever growing books to be read shelf, but I decided to read it while I could still remember why I had ordered it.  So I did.

It's a great book--but it's also the kind of book that makes me wonder if I'd appreciate it more if I had more background.  There are some pop culture references that I can sense are there, but they're not mine, like the reference to Watchmen.

There were also some references that may or may not be references to Japanese pop culture, but I can't be sure.  I know even less about the pop culture of other cultures than my own.

It's not enough to keep me from enjoying the poems, and also not enough to send me on a quest to know more.  It is the kind of moment that makes me feel old--once I knew all sorts of stuff about a wide variety of pop culture, and not just that pop culture coming from my own society.  Once I could keep track.

My favorite poems were the ones that gave the tsunami a voice.  I thought of Patricia Smith's Hurricane Katrina poems in Blood Dazzler.  If I was a grad student, I might do more with those comparisons.  If I was an ambitious woman on a tenure track, I might write a book that explores the ways we give natural disasters a personality.

I am a poet feeling like a dried out crisp.  Maybe I need to play with the idea of weather having a personality.  Maybe I should start with the August weather that's leaving me so worn out.  Hurricanes get so much press (speaking of which, I should keep an eye on Tropical Storm Dorian down in the Caribbean), but heat waves can kill far more people.  Maybe I should write a poem in the voice of the disappearing Arctic ice.

This morning, I went to Jeannine's review on The Rumpus.  I had decided not to read it until I read the book.  It's an amazing review--wow.  It does just what a review should do.  It puts the poems in context and gives me insight.  It makes me want to read the book again.

Here's the way she ends the review:  "In Tsunami vs. the Fukushima 50, a book that crackles with imaginative language and mythological retellings that represent real-life disaster, Roripaugh offers the audience a new way to think about nuclear and natural disasters and the remnants and ghosts that remain in their wake. Worth a close reading just for the sonic skills displayed, this book manages to weave a larger message for the reader inside poems that are at once playful, plaintive, and foreboding."

This experience over the past few days is as close to having a real time conversation about poetry as I'm likely to have these days.  It's been a treat to think about a volume of poems in this way.

Writerly Dispatches from the Month of June

I don't have as much writing time this morning, but I did want to capture some moments from my writerly life in the month of June:

--Yesterday, I sent my full-length manuscript to Black Lawrence Press.  Today is the last day of their open reading period, which happens in June and November; go here for more details.  For $12, you get a book and consideration of your manuscript--I like those kind of reasonable deals.

--Last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I figured out an essential part of a short story I'm trying to write--and better, I figured out how to start it.  I will use the water main break incident of a few weeks ago.  Friday evening, I got home from work, and my spouse said, "Well, the tree guys broke the main water line.  I had them turn the water back on so that we'd have water this week-end."  I had this vision of a geyser of water spewing all through the week-end--happily, it was a tiny puncture with only a drip of water every minute or so.

--Yesterday, I spent time reading this wonderful compendium of voices that look back as we approach the 25th anniversary of Tony Kushner's Angels in America.  I already knew many parts of the story about how the play came into existence, but it was inspiring to read it again--a wonderful reminder of the importance of art.

--I still own copies of both plays that make up Angels in America.  Maybe I'll reread them this week-end.  Or maybe I'll check out the DVD from the library.  Last week-end we watched The Normal Heart, which was a very powerful film about the early days of the AIDS crisis.  The week-end before that, we watched How to Survive a Plague, about the early days of ACT-UP. 

--Why am I drawn to this material?  Weeks ago, this line came to me:   I was not the typical person that you would see at an ACT UP rally--I'm still trying to find my way into this story.  It's a different story than the one that will use the broken water main.

--I am working on stories that I hope will be part of a larger collection, the one that came to me as I drove across the U.S. South for Thanksgiving.  I described it in this blog post, but it's changing.  Instead of having the activists all have been part of the same group in college, I'm using the looser idea of activists at 50 as the thing that links the stories.  I'm still trying to decide if I want a stronger link.

I'm taking tomorrow off--I am really looking forward to having a 4 day week-end:  time to write, time to catch up on chores, and hopefully, time to relax.

Contemplative Advent/December

My blog post on slowing down for Advent is up at the Living Lutheran site.  Go here to read it.

You might be saying, "Advent?  What's that?"  or "I'm not a churchgoer--what does your post say to me?"

Advent is the liturgical season that happens during the 4 Sundays before Christmas.  In an ideal world, we would slow down during the Advent season.  We would light the candles on our Advent wreaths (1 per Sunday) and open a window on the Advent calendar each day.  We would keep watch, as the Advent texts remind us to do.

We do not live in that perfect world.  Advent necessarily takes place during December, which for many of us is one of the busiest times of the year.

My post ponders the possibility of having a more contemplative Advent time.  It has suggestions for all of us who spend time in December feeling frazzled and wishing that our pre-holiday time could be different.

 Here are some quotes to whet your appetite:

"We give up things for Lent. Maybe that should be an Advent practice too."

"We need to build some times of stillness into our days, and Advent is a great time to start. If we just turn off the volume of our computers, we won't get pings whenever anyone sends us an e-mail; I know I'm not the only one who feels that I must drop everything and check my e-mail when I hear that ping. Maybe instead of having news on as our background noise, we could have some soothing or inspiring music. The world can spare us for the amount of time it takes to pray. We could find a yoga class – surely we can find an hour or two in our weeks for some kind of physical discipline that helps our minds calm down. We can look at our free time and make fierce decisions. We can vow to go to just one party per weekend."

"Before we get deep into December, we should contemplate which of our traditions bring richness to our lives and which ones we do out of hollow duty."

The complete essay is here.

The Writer as Spy

On the way to spin class on Saturday, I listened to a great story on NPR's Weekend Edition.  Scott Simon interviewed William Boyd, who has written a new James Bond novel.  He's full of fascinating insights about  James Bond, about writing, about the difference between the James Bond of the movies and the James Bond of the books.

I loved what he had to say about the similarities between spies and writers.  I hadn't thought of these things in the James Bond context; I'm really more of a Harriet the Spy kind of girl (must reread that book soon).  But I thought he made a great point. 

Here, for your inspiration is what he said:

"Having written three spy novels now ... I began to see, there's a certain overlap between the world of the spy or the double agent and the world of the novelist. And I think that overlap occurs not in any kind of intrepid way — because most writers are abject cowards — but in the way they look at the world. And I think spies and novelists look at the world with the same intent, curious gaze. I mean, spies are looking at it to, as it were, cover their back.


But novelists look at the world in the same way — you walk down the street and your eye is roving, you're looking for interesting things, you're interpreting and analyzing almost unreflectingly — what a curious way to smoke a cigarette, or look at that hairstyle, or what kind of clothes are those? You're constantly allowing the phenomena, the cinema of every day life to flow by you as you take note, and I think that's what spies do. ... And, of course, the other thing is, spies and novelists are both very accomplished liars."

To hear the whole interview, go here.

Creative Collaborations

I don't have as much time to write this morning, so I thought I'd recommend this story on NPR's Fresh Air.  Seth Rogan and Evan Goldberg talk about their long friendship and their creative collaborations. 

Even if you don't like their movies, the interview is worth your time.  I loved hearing about the projects they worked on during their high school years, and earlier.  They started the script for Superbad when they were 13, continued to work on it in high school, worked on it long distance as they went off to do different things, and finally, 10 years later, made the movie.

I've always been lucky to have creative communities wherever I've been.  Well, maybe not lucky:  I've taken an active role in creating them, after all.  This interview reminded me of how much further we all go when we've got a community to anchor us, to help us, to console us, and to encourage us.

If you like hearing about creative collaborations, this interview, also from Fresh Air, is a great one.  Richard Linklater, Julie Delpy, and Ethan Hawke talk about making Before Midnight, along with the earlier movies Before Sunrise and Before Sunset.  I found their creative process fascinating.

Unlike Rogan and Goldberg, they aren't in close proximity when they're not making a movie.  Often, they're not even thinking about the next installment.  But when they get together, the next movie emerges naturally.

I wonder if they'll keep making these films.  I love the idea of following these characters through to old age.  Linda Holmes wrote a great blog piece about seeing them age in real time: "It's not that there's never been a story told about the maturation of a relationship over years, but there is something about the way they executed these films, in real time, that cannot be duplicated with makeup. People age unpredictably — if you tried to dress up as You In 20 Years, you would fail, because there's a mystery to whether faces get craggier or softer or fuller, and to how women's hips change when they have kids."

It's also interesting to watch their relationship age, as Holmes points out:  "And now that we know what was coming, nine years later and then nine years later, Sunrise is like a six-sided die turning into a 20-sided die. Those kids, that floppy-haired boy and that willowy girl, would be so glad if they knew what was coming, and so sad, and so scared, and so relieved."

Of course, one reason I'm so interested in this story line is that these characters are close to my age.  I first watched Before Sunrise in 1995, when I was weighed down with 2 houses, housemates, a job that felt draining, a marriage that felt prematurely old.  I longed to be young and unattached and on a train in Europe.

I needed change, and while I didn't shuck it all and go to Europe, I did devise a way for my unhappy spouse to go back to grad school which set us on a path that has gotten us here, to South Florida, a dream come true in many ways. 

I am sure that the Before Midnight will warn me that happy endings lead to all sorts of other complications.  I already knew that.

Last night was graduation, and I always love seeing these graduates who have completed one dream and must now head off towards another.  I love seeing that many of our students do find this kind of success.  And I love NPR for bringing me these kinds of stories too.

Prodigal Perseids and Other Generosities

--As I listened to various people talking about Julia Child, again and again people mentioned her generosity, especially in terms of her time.

--When I was younger, generosity wasn't one of those traits I aspired to, or even thought much about.  I wanted to be a great artist (an actor or a writer) or I wanted to change the world like Martin Luther King did.  But generosity?  Now that I'm older, I see how important it is--and what a great agent of social change it could be.

--For those of you who want more about Julia Child, Diane Rehm did a great interview with Bob Spitz, who has just published a biography of Julia Child.

--This bit about another generous soul, Richard Simmons, is also quite intriguing.  I already knew about his work as minister by way of being aerobics instructor.  But I didn't realize he got his start by saving a 18 months worth of tips from his work as a waiter--that's how he bought his first aerobics studio.

--I love these stories of how people reinvented themselves and went places no one would have expected them to go.  I need that message these days.

--Our stairwells at work have a variety of graffiti.  We're an arts school, of sorts, so that doesn't surprise me.  But a week or two ago, this message, in tiny print at my eye level, appeared:  "Dream big and go for it."  Another message I need these days.

--It shouldn't be surprising that I see messages from the universe everywhere I go.  I'm the woman who used to say, "If this radio station plays a U2 song in the next 15 minutes, God is telling me to move back here."

--I have a vision of leaving my most hopeful poems in places where people might find them.  I'm not brave enough to paint them on the stairwell walls--although that does give me an intriguing idea towards all sorts of installation art shows.  No, I have a vision of leaving them in desk drawers in classrooms, and where else?  Hmm.

--It's not the generosity on the scale of Richard Simmons or Julia Child.  But it doesn't have to be my only method of generosity.  I suspect that the next 6 weeks/months at work will offer me many an opportunity to be generous--and to practice being fully patient and present.

--Last night, I glimpsed another strange generosity.  I was trying to help one of my direct reports navigate the payroll system to update her timecard.  To get to her timecard, I went to my list of direct reports.  I had 8 new names!  I've never heard of these people before, so I let the HR department know that something strange is happening.  But hey, if the computer is adding hires instead of taking people off the payroll, maybe that's hopeful.

--And this morning, as I slogged through a summer run in the hot (82 degrees), breezeless pre-dawn by the Atlantic Ocean, I saw a shooting star.  Doesn't that sound more poetic than to say I saw a meteor.  I tried to remember whether or not it could be a Perseid.  We didn't have much chance to view those meteors--it was very cloudy.  But this morning, the universe sends me a prodigal Perseid.

--Once upon a time, I had a friend with small children.  If they saw something wonderful in nature, they'd shout out, "Great show, God!"  This morning, I wanted to shout it.  But I didn't want to startle the other pre-dawn exercisers.

--Of course, those of us who exercise early are used to all sorts of strangenesses.  I once saw a woman runner softly singing the Mass in Latin.  I've seen people walking cats on leashes.  A few weeks ago, I saw a couple who stood up and made gestures.  I prepared for conflict.  Instead, they said, "We just got married."  I said, "May you have a century of happiness!"

--May the universe send more generosities to us today than we can hold in our hands!

Writing Advice and Inspirations of All Sorts

There are Sundays where The New York Times book review section has nothing that appeals.   Then there are other Sundays where I want to savor everything, like this Sunday's (or, if my reading is on a Saturday, is it last week's Sunday section?  in this Internet age, it becomes increasingly harder to tell).  It included lots of essays that explore the art of writing, as well as a clever review of Tiny Beautiful Things, a collection of Cheryl Strayed’s online advice columns for The Rumpus, where she writes the Dear Sugar column.  The review is written in the style of a Dear Sugar column!  Genius on the part of reviewer Anna Holmes.

Most of all, I loved the Colson Whitehead piece that gives rules for writing.  In some ways, it seems his tongue is firmly in cheek:  "Writer’s block is a tool — use it. When asked why you haven’t produced anything lately, just say, 'I’m blocked.' Since most people think that writing is some mystical process where characters 'talk to you' and you can hear their voices in your head, being blocked is the perfect cover for when you just don’t feel like working. The gods of creativity bless you, they forsake you, it’s out of your hands and whatnot. Writer’s block is like 'We couldn’t get a baby sitter' or 'I ate some bad shrimp,' an excuse that always gets you a pass. The electric company nagging you for money, your cell provider harassing you, whatever — just say, 'I’m blocked,' and you’re off the hook. But don’t overdo it. In the same way the baby-sitter bit loses credibility when your kids are in grad school, there’s an expiration date."

And yet, even with tongue in cheek, there are nuggets of good advice buried within each "rule":  "Don’t go searching for a subject, let your subject find you. You can’t rush inspiration. How do you think Capote came to 'In Cold Blood'? It was just an ordinary day when he picked up the paper to read his horoscope, and there it was — fate. Whether it’s a harrowing account of a multiple homicide, a botched Everest expedition or a colorful family of singers trying to escape from Austria when the Nazis invade, you can’t force it."

And of course, he must end with this classic final rule:  "There are no rules. If everyone jumped off a bridge, would you do it, too? No. There are no rules except the ones you learned during your Show and Tell days. Have fun. If they don’t want to be friends with you, they’re not worth being friends with. Most of all, just be yourself."


If you're looking for a longer read to savor, I give Carol Anshaw's Carry the One my highest recommendations.   It's the kind of book that I found myself rationing, because I didn't want it to end.  It's the kind of book I'll read again for all sorts of reasons:  the characters are compelling, the writing gorgeous, and the trajectories of characters intertwine with each other and with larger historical forces in both predictable and surprising ways.

It's not apocalyptic, in the way that a lot of my summer reading has been apocalyptic:  there are no supernatural zombies, no radiation pollution, no global disaster.  But this book does remind us that the apocalypse can be personal.  It begins with a marriage where 5 guests who are a bit too stoned/drunk to drive leave in a car.  They hit a young girl who is out roaming the country road in the wee, small hours of the morning.  This event affects them all in a wide variety of ways, some expected and some unusual.  We follow the characters through several decades, and I never got tired of them.

Along the way, the writing was so beautiful that I started turning down pages and going back to savor sentences.  Here are some to give you a taste:

"Her presence at these actions was in part due to her social concerns, in part a way of letting off steam.  She was basically a hooligan with a conscience.  If she didn't have a cause, she'd be out robbing banks." (p. 73)

"'Here we are,' he said as they pulled into a parking spot, 'the aorta of the American heart of darkness.'" (p. 83)

"This was a guy she'd probably be lucky to get, and before he had even put himself forward she was already rejecting him.  The social road ahead looked like a bleak highway, post-apocalyptic, overblown with dust, gray and lifeless, except for mutants popping up here and there." (p. 97)

Spoiled Milk; No Tears

We have visitors this week:  my spouse's brother and his wife are here for the better part of a week.  Having visitors means certain delights come back into our lives:  more walks at the beach!  It also means we're running back and forth to the grocery store.  When we have guests, I feel like we should adopt the more normal eating patterns of the rest of the U.S.; I'm talking about eating at regular times--which, of course, means that we need food in the house.

Yesterday, my spouse was unloading groceries.  He said, "How long was this milk in the car?"

I said, "I didn't buy any milk."

"I brought in a gallon of milk."

I was confused.  I didn't buy milk yesterday; no, I had bought milk the day before.  "The dishwasher soap?"  It was vaguely gallon jug shaped.

"I put a gallon of milk in the fridge.  Warm milk."

"But I bought milk on Tuesday."  Realization dawned. Oh dear.  We had left the milk in the trunk.  Tuesday afternoon.  Overnight.  Throughout a hot summer morning.  Happily, it didn't explode.  What an awful clean-up experience that would be.

My brave spouse took the gallon of milk outside.  His scientist self could not resist finding out that it was so curdled that he could only pour out a cup.

Well, no use crying over spoiled milk.  Onwards to planning the week:  shall we explore area lighthouses?  Go to the Everglades?  Take another walk on the beach?  When can the cousin and her family join us?

Yesterday, after realizing that I'd left the milk in the car, I looked through the mail.  My contributor copy of Adanna had arrived!  It seems like moments ago that I submitted, and now, here's the journal.  I haven't had time to look through it much, but I see that some of my  favorite contemporary poets, like Kathleen Kirk and Karen J. Weyant, are here, wonderful as ever.  Weyant's "Sleeping with the Radium Girls" fits neatly with my recent nuclear reading.

But this week, with the International AIDS Conference meeting in Washington D.C., I've been plunged backwards to a different spectre from my youth.  Last June, in this blog post, I wrote:

"What scared me more, AIDS or nuclear annihilation? I had more bad dreams about that mushroom cloud. But in terms of an insidious threat that always seemed to whisper at my consciousness, AIDS would take that trophy.


Much like nuclear annihilation, AIDS too may seem to be vanquished, only to come back again in a scarier form. Those of us with health insurance may have the luxury of seeing AIDS as a chronic condition, but diseases morph and change."

The news from the AIDS conference seems very good.  Last week, the FDA approved a drug that seems to give prophylactic protection against the virus.  It's not the vaccine we've been waiting for, that miracle injection that would keep us all safe.  The new drug is expensive for one thing.  And it needs to be taken daily, from what I understand.  Still, what an intriguing development.

And the prognosis for those infected seems more positive, with the reports of patients who have seen their viral load drop to undetectable levels.  Who'd have thought we'd see this day?

Michael Gerson wrote a great article in The Washington Post where he praises all the people who worked to make this day possible: 

"In America, it is common to distrust institutions — to express a lack of confidence in Congress, the federal government and major companies. The response to AIDS weighs on the other side of the balance.


It has brought great credit to the scientific enterprise, which first helped allay unreasoned fears, then guided evidence-based treatment and prevention. It has illustrated the power of government to do good in ways denied to individuals and private groups. Public agencies — particularly the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief (PEPFAR) — met ambitious treatment goals, and on budget. The response to HIV/AIDS has been a reminder: The quest of politics is not big government or small government but effective government on the necessary scale.

The entities and individuals deserving a share of credit in the AIDS movement are marvelously diverse. Gay men in New York and San Francisco who refused to pass away in silence. Pharmaceutical companies that developed tests and antiretroviral drugs. Members of Congress from both parties who appropriated money to save lives outside their districts, outside their experience, outside their country. Taxpayers who paid the bills. Billionaire philanthropists, irritatingly persistent rock stars, nuns in Kericho. What other social movement, in its hall of fame, would need to reserve places for Gay Men’s Health Crisis and for George W. Bush, the author of PEPFAR?"

I am well aware of diseases that retreat and then come back with a vengeance.  But there are also diseases that once wiped out chunks of humanity which eventually become fairly mild childhood diseases.

It's easy to get bogged down by bad news.  It's easy to fear the future.  But it's good to remember that so far, humans continue to make astonishing progress.  In a recent interview on NPR's Fresh Air, Jill Tarter talks about the search for intelligence beyond our own planet and whether or not we should worry about what happens when the aliens arrive.  She says, "They [the aliens] are an old technology. How did they get to be an old technology? Well, one thing - one way might have been that they outgrew the aggressive tendencies that were probably at the base of their becoming intelligent in the first place. When you look at evolutionary biology - at least, on this planet - one explanation for how intelligence arose is the predator-prey situation that ratchets up intelligence.  But after a while, when the kill power becomes so extreme, then in fact, our evolutionary best strategy might be to back away from that. Steven Pinker has a recent book that argues that we are kinder today than we used to be. So I don't think you can get to be an old technology unless you manage to stabilize your population, husband your resources, and get your world in shape."

The news from the AIDS conference makes me think we are indeed stabilizing our population and husbanding our resources.  There's still much work to be done to get our world in shape, no doubt.  But how wonderful that AIDS now seems to be a manageable disease for most people.

Would You Blog for a Living?

Recently, I've heard of several people who just up and quit their jobs. My first thought was to wonder how awful the job must have become for someone to just quit in this economy. And then I wondered if there are some people who are just better off than I am. I know that economists tell us we should have 6 months to 1 year of salary in our savings account. Yeah, right.

But then I wondered if those people had better jobs waiting, which led me to a different train of thought. What kind of wonderful job would have to be offered to me to get me to leave the safety and the known qualities of my current job for something else?

Well, it's getting hard for me to think of voluntarily trading in my current salary for something lower; in my younger years, if the job looked better, I might not have given a salary cut a second thought. Likewise, I'm getting to the age (45) where I need to think about health insurance and retirement.

So, let's say that all of those factors stayed the same. What would I like to spend my days doing, if anything could be possible?

My friend and I had a conversation yesterday about whether or not we'd really like to be paid to write on a rigorous schedule. She said that even if she was able to write whatever she wanted, she wouldn't want to work out of her home. She needs the human interaction that her job gives her.

Many days, I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed with human interaction and the thought of staying home writing appeals to me. Would that appeal wear off quickly? Hard to say.

Yesterday, I saw this article about a woman who makes a living blogging, so the topic was on my brain. Of course, if you read the article carefully, you'll find out that it isn't just blogging pays this woman's bills. She does a lot of speaking engagements and some product endorsements, and she's written 2 books. Still . . .

So, if you could blog the way you always blog, but make a living at it, would you want to? Or would that be too much pressure?

I'd do it in a heart beat. I already feel the pressure of a self-imposed deadline; I used to think it was just because I was a student, but it has persisted. I write, even when no one is there to crack the whip (well, no one but me). I wonder if/how my writing would change if someone was there dangling carrots.

Ask What Your Poets Can Do . . . Writers and Service

I have service on the brain this morning. Perhaps it's because of the death of Sargent Shriver, who helped create the Peace Corps, who helped with the War on Poverty, who changed our landscape in so many ways. My favorite rock star Op Ed writer Bono writes a lovely tribute in The New York Times today, a tribute which reminds me of how much any of us could do to make the world better, even if we don't have Kennedy family connections.

Maybe I have service on the brain this morning because it's the anniversary of that great speech by John F. Kennedy, the one that instructs "Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country." E. J. Dionne has a great essay in today's The Washington Post that deconstructs the speech. For those of you teaching Composition, this essay is a keeper. It analyzes why and how the words are so powerful. It also talks about the revision process and shows how revision made the speech stronger. The speech itself is fairly short, and if I designed a module for my Composition class, I'd have students analyze the speech and write an essay about the speech. Then I'd have them read E. J. Dionne's article and task them with finding another outside source about the speech. I'd then have them incorporate a quote or two or three into their original essay. Then, finally, I'd have them write a similar speech: "Imagine that you are elected President of the U. S. or head of your company or . . . write your inaugural speech."

There's my service for the day--an idea for Composition teachers everywhere, a teaching module that covers a variety of competencies that Composition classes must teach (analysis, use of outside sources, documentation . . .).

If you're like most people, you might not think of poets as social justice crusaders or the people who serve. But you would be wrong. Just a look through my blog roll shows how much poets do not just for each other, but for total strangers. Poet January O'Neil is raising money for the Cave Canem Fellows here (a group that supports African American poets). The 32 Poems blog gives us tips for making the most out of our AWP experience here. Kelli Russell Agodon continues her wonderful series about navigating the publishing world by interviewing Jeannine Hall Gailey here where they discuss the benefits of having your book of poems published by a small press or a micropress (go here and here for Kelli's discussion of poetry contests). And then, Sandra Beasley wrote a post on her blog about her experience with publishing; her experience has been different, and so it's a treat to get yet another perspective.

Scoffers might say, "Well, that's very lovely, but how exactly are these activities changing the world?" I could make a long list of the ways that writers have changed the world; I could fairly easily make the case (but it would take a lot of pages, so I shall spare you) that dissident writers helped bring down the Soviet Union, especially in Eastern Europe. And it was the solidarity of other writers that helped the visionaries--writers and others--be bold.

We've been having an argument in this country over whether or not words matter. Of course they matter. Do they move people to kill? Sure, although Jared Loughner killed because of his mental illness.

It's also important to remember how words inspire. We've lost sight of that in recent years. Thinking back to that inauguration of JFK can remind us of what we're doing here with our wordsmithing, of the power of words to call us to our better selves.

And for those of us in despair because our day jobs keep us away from our visionary task of poetry, read this book review of the latest book on the ever elusive Andrew Marvell, who had a variety of civil service type jobs, yet he still managed to write one of the most perfect poems, "To His Coy Mistress."

There are so many ways to serve--some of which will make a distance across generations, some of which will only make a difference for a day. We never know which poems will give comfort, which will inspire social change, which will call people to be their best selves. Our task is to continue writing.

Today is also the birthday of Edward Hirsch, a man who has done much to open the doors of poetry to the regular reading public, a valuable service indeed. If I could write a book like How to Read a Poem: And Fall in Love with Poetry, I would be a happy woman.

Go here to read one of my favorite Hirsch poems,"I'm Going to Start Living Like a Mystic."

What Can Poets Learn from the Dave Matthews Band?

Yesterday, my contact lenses irritated me so much that I took them out early. I said, "If these lenses still feel this bad tomorrow, I'm throwing them away a week early." I took a minute to think about what I've said. A pair of contact lenses costs less than most of the bottles of wine that I buy. Why am I so reluctant to throw them away?

It goes back to how much they used to cost. They used to be hundreds of dollars a pair, so expensive that you might insure them. Now, we just toss them away. But my brain hasn't caught up.

Likewise with concert tickets. When I went to the first concert that I paid for (Journey, with Loverboy opening), I paid $9. So, forever in my head, a rock concert ticket should cost around $10.

Well, those days are over. An article in today's The Washington Post notes that the Dave Matthews Band keeps its tickets cheap, just under $60 a ticket, while an Aerosmith concert ticket will set you back over $90. Yikes.

However, the article had other interesting implications, aside from showing me how far behind the times I am. It explored the Dave Matthews Band and how it tours a lot, keeps costs low, and offers fans lots of value for their dollar, even aside from the cheap tickets. There's a fan club and merchandise and lots of cheap to make videos of concerts. They offer members of the fan club all sorts of special deals, which makes the fan club membership fee attractive. A Dave Matthews Band concert is different each time, because although the song set stays the same, the jam sessions change.

The article shows how the Dave Matthews Band and the Grateful Dead are similar, mostly in this important point, that they "courted their fans, treating the concert like a service rather than a commodity and their fans like members of a community rather buyers of a product."

Throughout the article, I thought that poets who aren't already doing similar things should be taking notes. If we're not using the Internet, it's time to start thinking about dipping our toes in Internet waters. If we have an Internet presence, we should make sure we're using it to its full capacity. Here's my guilty confession: although I blog almost daily, I don't always keep my web site as up to date as it should be. It's never horribly out of date, unlike those sites where you go and you can tell that no one has updated it since 2008. But I should make a weekly appointment to update it.

I'm probably not the only poet who has trouble thinking of myself as having fans. Why is it hard for me to let people know I've got a book coming out? Why is it hard to ask people to buy the book? We should act more like people who are helping to shape a community, not like solitary poets locked up in our isolated rooms.

How would our behavior change if we thought of ourselves as community builders, in addition to being poets? How can we make it worthwhile for readers to also be our fans? What would it take to create such loyal fans that readers might follow us around the country?

Reading, both Non-Festive and Festive

My leisure time has become a bit disjointed. We've been watching holiday stuff via Hulu and Netflix; last night, for example, we watched an old holiday episode of Silver Spoons. And when I'm not watching holiday fare, I've been racing through Laura Lippman's heart-pounding thriller I'd Know You Anywhere.

I don't usually read thrillers, especially not when the plotline revolves around young girls held captive and/or hurt. But this review in The Washington Post convinced me to add the book to my list. And then I read Leslie's review and wanted to read it right away; but the public library waiting list was very long, and I didn't want to buy a hardcover book that I was pretty sure I'd only be reading once. So when I found the book on my school's library New Book shelf, I snatched it right up. And finally, this week, I read it.

It's a different kind of thriller, much more a personality study--of several different personalities--than a standard thriller. There is a subdued rape scene, but it comes at the end, and so it seems less horrifying and less exploitive than it might have otherwise. It was an effective book, and I wished that I knew someone else who had read it.

In that spirit, I returned to Leslie's post, and I was surprised and delighted to remember that it was a post about the power of words, particularly the book review.

Today is a great day to reflect on the power of words. Over on my theology blog, I've written a post about Nicholas Kristof's The New York Times article where he tries to convince us to spend our gift giving dollars on worthy charities. He makes a solid case. But of course, I was already convinced, so I'm maybe not the best judge.

In 1776, Washington's army was not convinced of the righteousness of their purpose: morale was at an all-time low. On this day in 1776, Thomas Paine published the first of his important pamphlets, with those famous words: "These are the times that try men's souls; the summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly; 'tis dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper prince upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed, if so celestial an article as freedom should not be highly rated" ("The American Crisis").

These words kept the Continental Army going, and on December 26, they won an important victory at the Battle of Trenton. Who knows, if not for Thomas Paine, perhaps the war would have taken a different turn.

Here I could insert a pep talk about why it's so important to remember the power of the word and our writing. I could write a mini-meditation about how no other person on this planet has the kind of unique perspective that we have, that we've been put on the planet for just such a time as this, and we need to get busy creating our art.

But if you're reading this blog, I suspect you already know all that. You're already convinced. But perhaps you're tired. Maybe like me, you've spent the week-end grading the last papers, some of which remind you of your worth as a teacher, some of which make you wonder if you should exert the effort to uncover the plagiarism. Maybe like me, you've been suffering from a cold that leaves you with such sinus pressure that you wonder what an aneurysm feels like and makes you think of your colleague from almost two decades ago who complained of headaches when she was grading research papers and you thought it was only the poor quality of the student essays, but 3 days into the holiday she dropped dead of burst blood vessels in the brain. With all that pain in your head, you can't possibly return to poetry just yet.

Luckily, there are lots of holiday shows that you can watch for free. Cue up one of the many versions of A Christmas Carol today. On this day, in 1843, that classic by Charles Dickens was published. Think about how that book has changed the world. Think about all the works, both serious and comic, that make allusion to A Christmas Carol. If you need a writing prompt, you might have some fun with this classic. Imagine Ebeneezer Scrooge going back to school, either as a returning adult student or as adjunct faculty. Imagine that Bob Cratchit gets a promotion and now he's the boss. Tiny Tim, all grown up.

If you're in a reading mood, you could finish this book in an afternoon. You might be surprised how different it is from the many movie and television varieties. Or if your brain is oatmeal mush at this point, just watch one of the versions and enjoy this ghost story, a tale which Victorian England would have read as a thriller, much the way I read Laura Lippman as a thriller first, personality study later. A Christmas Carol still has much to teach us. But if we're not in the mood to be taught, it's entertaining nonetheless.

Reprieves and Rescues

This week, a meeting was cancelled, a meeting that we have on a regular basis. These meetings always lasts at least 2 hours, and they usually leave me drained and irritable. These meetings often kill the better part of the day, what with the dread of them, the meeting itself, and the recovery time afterwards. When the meeting was cancelled, I had that feeling of elation that a snow day used to bring: the gift of time, the gift of letting go of anxiety.

When I read Dean Dad's post about meetings, I realize I shouldn't complain. I've never had so many meetings in one day that I forget their locations. Still, I find meetings the bane of my existence. I wouldn't mind them if we talked about something new or if we emerged from our meetings with actions that we actually attempted. But too often, meetings are just repetitions of what we've already been discussing via e-mail. All too often we talk about possible actions, but we never actually attempt them.

Let me stress that I think that most people have similar experiences with meetings. I see meetings as a leftover creation from the 20th century, which we continue to have as part of our lives just because we've always had them. It's like a land line telephone--occasionally very useful, but often not the most efficient tool.

Is the university such a leftover? Is higher education doomed for the dustbin along with _____? ( . . . oh there are so many ways to fill in that blank (8 track tapes, video tapes, typewriters, doctors who visit your home, dairies that make home deliveries . . .).

I went out for a late lunch with a friend who is more resistant to technology than I am. We talked about the future of education. She believes that the future of the Western world depends on scholars thinking deep thoughts. I'm fairly convinced that state legislatures are at the end of paying for scholars who sit in universities thinking deep thoughts.

She thinks the end of the university means calamity. I tend to agree, but I'm also fascinated by the ways that technology opens up new opportunities that we can't anticipate. I read this article in The New York Times which made me really excited about the possibilities that technology might offer to us. And then I read this article about a person who writes a wide variety of papers for students (some of them working on the Ph.D.), and I just feel gloomy.

Of course, for those of us who have been college level teachers for decades, it's hard to imagine what else we might do. I worry that we're seeing an education bubble (just like the tech bubble, the housing bubble), and I wonder when it will pop. There are days when I think, this must be how newspaper writers felt in the late days of the 90's (and before that, autoworkers). I hope to make it to retirement--and then I feel gloomy again, because I can't imagine that I'll ever have enough money to actually stop working.

But enough of this gloom! It's the week-end, and we're promised beautiful weather, with the joy of Thanksgiving to anticipate. Last night, my psyche sent me a powerful message, which I think applies to all of us creative types.

I dreamed that I was hosting a creativity party for a wide variety of friends and acquaintances. They kept asking for supplies: fabric, papers, paint, beads, ribbons. I gave them what I had. I kept looking for the rest of the supplies. I said things like, "I know I used to have more fabric than this, but here's what I have" and "Where's the rest of my paper? But look at the cool patterns on this sheet." We created marvelous things.

You don't need a degree in Psychology to analyze this dream: we may not have everything, but we have enough.

That will be my mantra today, as the home inspector comes to create a variety of reports that will determine our insurance rates.

Rethinking and Reshaping Higher Education

All over a variety of media this season, one of the targets of ire has been tenured professors and education in general (from high school on up, although we see quite a focus lately on post-high school education). For those of you who have missed it, here's an essay in The New York Times that sums it up nicely. Several books have just been published that call for an end to tenure and an end to how college has been done. These authors have been on the interview trail to promote their books, and I've listened.

I've felt a profound sense of disconnect.

Where are these professors that these books excoriate? People who earn over $100,000 a year? I've never met a one. People who only work a few hours a week? In what teaching universe?

I know the answer: at some of the most elite universities. But let's be bluntly honest: most higher ed faculty aren't teaching in that world.

The higher ed faculty I know are teaching an extra class for free or taking furlough days. They're grumpy, but they know they're lucky to hang on to full-time teaching jobs. I also know plenty of people cobbling together a pittance by teaching lots of classes as an adjunct and working in tutoring centers.

Even faculty at state schools aren't living the life of leisure described by these books. They may have a 3-3 teaching load, but they have scads of other duties.

I suspect that these authors are mad about a state of affairs that hasn't existed in years, or decades. I had a similar sense when I read Christopher Hitchen's God is Not Great. Hitchens wasn't describing a church that I had ever known. He was still mad about Church, as it existed in the middle of the twentieth century. If he had explored the Church of the 3rd world in the 21st century, he might have really found something to worry about.

Still, these authors make some valid points. Many of us are teaching a curriculum that was valid for the middle of the 2oth century, but may need some rethinking for this century. That's a topic for another post, but a question for today: if you were remaking college curriculum, how would you shape it? An Economics professor takes a stab here. What would your answer be?

Hurricane Distractedness

With Hurricane Earl off our shores, I find myself increasingly distracted. In some ways, there's no reason to be so distracted; we don't really expect the storm to affect us. Actually, we've already been affected, but in a good way, with gorgeous weather: a strong breeze, drop in the humidity, achingly blue skies, and heat that isn't unbearable.

Hurricane Charley will always haunt me, with its last minute change in direction. If you lived in the Port Charlotte area, you'd have likely gone to work in the morning, expecting a Category 2 hurricane to hit the Tampa area, some 3 hours north of you. You might not have boarded up the house or laid in supplies. And then, 6 hours later, you'd have a Category 4 hurricane bearing down upon you.

In 2005, my spouse and I briefly thought about not using the hurricane shutters as Hurricane Wilma approached. Wilma was going to approach us from the west, so we thought we might not even have a real hurricane. But I knew that Wilma had already made history as the most intense hurricane on record, with that dropping barometric pressure. I was haunted by Wilma parking herself over the Yucatan peninsula for 2 days. Two days with a hurricane roaring overhead. Good grief! So we closed up the house, and I'm glad we did. I have friends who swear we experienced a strong Category 3 hurricane, but the official record was only a Category 2. It's amazing the damage that was sustained, some damage that still isn't fixed.

And so, I go to the NOAA site periodically. I go to Dr. Jeff Masters' blog at the weatherunderground site. I am fascinated by all the people who comment. I am mesmerized by all the images. All these currents of wind and water that swirl around the planet, and so many of us move through life with no awareness of them.

I've thought of writing about hurricanes and literature. Early in the summer, I picked up two wonderful books. Patricia Smith's Blood Dazzler does amazing things, an astonishing collection of poems that deal with Hurricane Katrina. I love the way that Katrina comes to life. I love that a dog makes its way through these poems. I love the multitude of voices, so many inanimate things brought to life (a poem in the voice of the Superdome--what a cool idea!). I love the mix of formalist poetry with more free form verse and the influence of jazz and blues music. An amazing book.

In Colosseum, Katie Ford also does amazing things. She, too, writes poems of Hurricane Katrina. But she also looks back to the ancient world, with poems that ponder great civilizations buried under the sands of time. What is the nature of catastrophe? What can be saved? What will be lost?

No, I will return to these poems in the winter, when the Atlantic cools a bit. I will appreciate this time, since I suspect that during my lifetime, we will cease to have a separate hurricane season. I suspect the seas will continue to warm, which will mean that we will always be susceptible.

But let us not think of that. Let us return to our resolutions to live a better life. Today I will pick up a different book of poetry, perhaps the latest by Diane Lockward or Susan Rich. They, too, have been on my to read shelf all summer. I'll plan good meals.

If you, like me, have been feeling some amount of shame about the dinner ritual, you must read this great article at The Washington Post. The article exhorts us to return to dinner the way Mom did it. The article posits that too many of us are striving to be too gourmet or too exotic every night of the week. Time to return to some time honored approaches which are quick and nutritious. Many of the cooks advocate the simple meat, two veggies, and a starch. But I'd also include stews and casseroles. I've been feeling somewhat guilty about our once-a-week pleasure dinner of grilled hamburgers (with meat from a local shop that grinds its own, so the risk of contagion is reduced) and red wine. But lo and behold, those types of meals are advocated by many of the home cooks interviewed in the article.

So, it's been a half hour since I looked at radar images. Time to bring this writing to a halt so that I can stare mesmerized into the whorls of a satellite stream!

Just 12 Books

The New York Times is full of inspiration this morning. I enjoyed this essay by David Brooks, who looks at the different ways we live our lives. He posits that some of us lead Well-Planned Lives, a life modeled by Clayton Christensen, who spent an hour every night of his time as a Rhodes Scholar thinking, reading, and praying about his purpose on the planet. Brooks then goes on to talk about the Summoned Life, which says that life is essentially a mystery, that we can't possibly plan in the way that Christensen did.

Then I went to this story, which talks about the results of a student summer reading experiment. One group of low-income children got to choose 12 books, any books they wanted, at a book fair shortly before the end of the school year. Another group received activity and puzzle books. At the end of 3 summers, the students who chose the 12 books had significantly higher reading scores.

One of the secrets of success? The students chose the books, which meant they would actually read them. Some of us have already suspected the implications of this study. Reading, any reading, is better than no reading.

The successful students weren't reading classics. The most popular book was a biography of Britney Spears, not a choice that most parents or teachers would choose for the children.

The story also mentions the cost of this program: $50 per student. Lots of bang for the buck there. It's a much cheaper program than summer school would be for the children, and the benefits were similar.

I've always fantasized about winning the lottery and all the social justice programs that I could fund with my winnings. I've always dreamed of funding feminist projects.

But maybe I don't need to win the lottery. Maybe I should create some kind of foundation to fund these kind of programs.

I wonder if there's something similarly inexpensive that we could all be doing as poets. I think children have a natural delight in the kinds of things we often see in poetry: fanciful use of language, intriguing imagery, rhythm, meter, rhyme, word play. Why and when do children lose that? How can we as grown up poets work to make sure the loss doesn't happen?

Before I Was a Poetry Geek, I Was a Theatre Geek

I did not originally plan to be an English major, a Ph.D. in British Lit, a Composition teacher, a poet, or Chair of a Department. No, I originally planned to be a star on Broadway. Yes, as early as seventh grade, I was reading the great classics of the theatre world. I read my way through Sophocles, Shakespeare, Ibsen, and Tennessee Williams. Since I planned to be a star on stage, I would choose one of the parts and read it out loud. If I made the mistake of choosing a minor character, I switched roles. I thought about how I would stage the productions. I thought about costumes. I spent many of my waking hours dreaming of theatre.

Even before seventh grade, I was writing plays and puppet shows. My mother graciously donated old clothes for our dress up trunk. My family went to real, live drama on a regular basis. We supported community theatre and university groups, and every so often, we made the trip from Montgomery to Atlanta (and later, the trip from Charlottesville to Washington, D.C.) to see Broadway touring groups. By the time we moved to Knoxville, there were more touring groups hitting more midsize towns, so we didn't have to make as much effort.

My big theatre memories of the 70's are Godspell (the first play I remember seeing, when I was in the second grade) and A Chorus Line. My sister and I memorized every song, and once we saw the shows, we acted out scenes.

It was only later that I realized what a unique childhood/adolescence I had. While some kids played sports or got stoned, I devoted myself to theatre. I didn't dream of being a movie star. I was very clear on the superiority of live theatre to any other manifestation.

As I got older, I joined school drama clubs and acting troupes for teenagers. I was always happily surprised to see how our school drama groups included many types of people who wouldn't socialize otherwise: jocks and chorus people worked side by side to put on a show, along with the punk rock crowd, people with learning disabilities, new kids, and general misfits. I'm fairly sure that other groups (like, say, the football team) didn't experience this.

I've had this on the brain as I've been watching Glee. Even though those kids have devoted themselves to song, their world feels familiar.

I gave up on my Broadway dreams for many reasons, not the least of which was that I had no self-confidence in my singing, and I couldn't stand to dwell in my body long enough to become a good dancer. I've often been struck, though, by how often I use the skills I developed as a teenage drama geek. Much of my teaching has involved reading texts out loud, and I'm good at it. Much of my teaching has required a certain theatricality to keep students interested; I'm really good at that.

I haven't been an administrator long enough to know which theatre geek skills will translate into this arena. The ability to keep my face passive? Well, I suspect I still haven't mastered that skill. Stay tuned.

I have these thoughts on the brain because of tonight's Tony Awards. When I was a teenager, I would have stayed up late, watching and studying. Tonight, I won't.

For those of you interested in the generational aspect of musical theatre, how enthusiasm comes and goes in generational waves, I refer you to this article on the Glee generation. Great fun. And for those of you still keeping up with the New York theatre scene, you probably won't need to read this article about tonight's musical theatre awards. For those of you raising young drama geeks and wondering which touring shows to see, it might be useful.

Maybe I will watch the Tony Awards after all. I, too, need to plan my theatre going. I've been away too long.

The Teenage Reading Self

Do you still have all the books you bought as a teenager? Do you ever go back to read the books you read when you were a teenager? Do you remember what you read?

I remember my eleventh grade English teacher, a grandmotherly type. I sat on the front row, and I was always carrying a book with me, usually a book of which she would not approve. One day, she picked the bodice ripper romance novel I was reading off the stack of books on my desk and held it over her head. She said to the whole class, "Why do you waste your time with this garbage? Can't you see that books like these are just written to titillate you?"

I was shocked, shocked, SHOCKED by her use of the word "titillate." Those of you who teach or who live with adolescents know that young folks are easily shocked. I couldn't believe she would use that word in mixed company. Didn't she know there were BOYS in the room?

But her words sunk in. I put myself on a regime. For every 2 trashy books I read, I had to read one of the books on the list of books that every college bound high schoolers should have read by the time they packed the boxes for college.

Where did I get that list? What's become of it? I do not know.

I was a voracious reader in high school. High school bored me, and I learned early on that most teachers would leave me alone to read if I got my work done quickly and efficiently. So, with my rigorous reading plan, I read a lot of the classics, mainly British and American. I didn't get as much out of them as I would when I read them again in graduate school and had a class in which to discuss them and the author and the world which produced them. But it was a valuable discipline.

I'm prompted in these thoughts by this delightful essay on the website of The New York Times. The writer talks about his different selves as a reader, and about how teenagers imagine that there's all the time in the world for reading. Our older selves know better.

I'm also thinking of my teenage self because last night I started reading Anna Karenina. Yes, I have a Ph.D., but I have yet to read one of the Russians. It's a gaping hole in my knowledge, one of many gaping holes. My school reading group has taken this on. So far, one member has fallen rapturously in love with the book again, and one member has given up. The in love reader has read the book again, and the member who gave up made it through War and Peace, but isn't going to make it through Anna Karenina.

My current life as reader and writer reminds me that time is short, getting shorter, and that the choices of things to read keep exploding. Do I want to fill the gaping holes in my knowledge or just enjoy reading pleasure? I'm not headed off to college, not that I can foresee right now--do I really need to put myself on a self-improvement-by-reading campaign?

I will certainly not be as disciplined as my teenage reading self was. But every so often, yes, I need to return to classic literature. Even if it takes me many more weeks to read a classic than it would have taken my teenage self.