Writing Goals for the Last Third of the Year

I spent part of yesterday morning in a bit of a funk, and I'm not sure why.  I had a good week and was looking forward to a more leisurely Saturday, the only day of the week that has the potential to be leisurely for me.

I have several theories about my funk, but the one that makes the most sense is that I had writing to do, and I dreaded it a bit.  I needed to write a sermon, which is almost always satisfying when finished, but rarely something I look forward to.  I have a final paper for CPE, which from yesterday morning's vantage point, seemed like pure drudgery.

So I practiced some self-care.  I went to the Saturday farmers market in Mills River, which always cheers me up.  I bought some cookies from a young entrepreneur.  I did some sketching.  My Zoom call which is a women's Bible study group made me happy. I watched an old cooking show (Vivian Howard's A Chef's Life), which was a Christmas special, for a bonus win.  These are classic self-care practices for me.

But of course, what really made me feel better was getting the writing tasks done.  I now have a sermon I like, and I made significant progress on my CPE paper.  Now let me think about the upcoming semester.  I want to establish some habits that can get me back to writing more of what I want to write:

--I want to write my sermon by Thursday, which means that I start thinking and planning by Tuesday.  I had this goal in the spring, but the seminary course work I needed to do often took priority.

--I want to return to my goal that I formulated in the first days of this year, writing one finished draft of a poem a week.

--Actually, that's not really my goal.  Here is that goal, as I wrote it in my January 1 blog post:  "I want to end the year with 52 poems written, finished poems. They may not be worth sending out, but they need to be finished. Fifty-two poems gives me space to catch up, and space to have a white hot streak that sets me ahead."

--Right now, I have 14 finished poems in the file.  So I am seriously behind.  But I still have 19.5 weeks in the year.  I could get to 52 poems in the file if I focus.

--I have a lot of rough drafts.  Many of them won't require much revision. So, I'll take a look through those drafts, as I am also writing new work.  I also want to get back to writing new poems.

--Let me finish with the words of Octavia Butler, from one of her early journals, before she won the MacArthur, which changed her writing life trajectory:  "So be it, See to it."

Whiffs of Apocalypse

It's been an apocalyptic week in the news.  But when is it not an apocalyptic week, if one is inclined that direction?  Let me capture a few whiffs of apocalypse that came my way in the past few days:

--My various social media timelines, all 2 of them, have been full of nearby flooding, in Chattanooga and Raleigh, cars swept away kind of flooding.  Consequently, my dreams have been full of flooding.  We've had a lot of rain, and at one point in the middle of the night, a branch dropped onto the deck with a loud thump, which woke us both up.  I watched the rain while my spouse went to investigate.  I thought about the Hurricane Helene stories of houses swept away, and worried a bit, even though we don't live close to a river.

--Yesterday my spouse was invited to be part of a Zoom session that talked about disaster preparedness.  He and I compared notes about the damages done by hurricanes to our various houses.  It's not a great way to start the day.  I am astounded at the amount of damage and disruption through the years.  On the one hand, what did I expect when we moved to South Florida?  On the other hand, I have this idea that most U.S. families will only experience this level of disruption once in their lives--one catastrophic amount of damage to a home per family.  Maybe I'm wrong.  We've had at least 4:  Hurricane Katrina, Hurricane Wilma, Hurricane Irma, and the December flood of 1999.  I'm not counting Hurricane Helene, since our home wasn't damaged--we were just inconvenienced for two months (no electricity for 2 weeks, had to boil water for 2 months, no reliable internet for 2 months)--wait, I am counting it now.

--After yesterday's discussion of hurricanes and destruction, I headed south to Spartanburg, only to find out that part of I-26 was closed.  There were electronic signs that said "Road closed after Exit 58, expect delays."  In the past, the sign said, "I-26 closed, detour to Hwy 25."  So I thought that maybe a road was closed near Exit 58 which was slowing down traffic.  But I was wrong.  I was able to follow others as we went the wrong way down the entrance ramp at Exit 58.  I had to backtrack 20 miles to Highway 25 because the old Spartanburg Highway is still closed after Hurricane Helene.  Happily, I left early, to get out of the way of my spouse's Zoom call, so I did get to class on time.

--It's also easy to see apocalypse in these days of Trump.  There's the takeover, if that's what it is, of the D.C. police force to crack down on crime--what crime exactly?  Hard to be sure.  There's the summit with Russia today in Alaska--is it a summit or peace negotiations or just an opening chat?  Hard to be sure.  There's the dismantling of so much that seemed to be good about government and the ignoring of what seems to be unraveling; I may never get on a plane again at this rate, between air traffic control issues, plane manufacturing issues, and disease issues.

--And of course, there's the lectionary Gospel reading for Sunday:  Luke 12:49-56.  In fact, all of the readings for this Sunday have more than a whiff of apocalypse.  It's interesting to write this week's sermon, after spending last week writing a sermon on the "Have no fear, little flock" teaching of Jesus.

Mary Wollstonecraft and Me

Yesterday was the first day of my British Literature survey class, and yesterday, in addition to doing the first day syllabus review, I talked about the revolutionary winds of the late 1700's.  I was doing some intro work to Mary Wollstonecraft, particularly her A Vindication of the Rights of Woman.

I talked about the ideas of human rights that were in their infancy in the 1700's and reminded students that we were not at a human rights for all moment of humanity.  No indeed--and along comes Mary Wollstonecraft to argue that women should have rights too, the same rights that people like William Godwin and Thomas Jefferson argued that men should have.  Not all men, of course:  white men, landowning men.

I talked about how now, her argument seems fairly obvious and/or straight forward and maybe even obvious:  educate women, and they'll be better mothers. Educate women, and they'll be better wives, companions to their husbands rather than mere ornaments. Nothing too shocking there.

And then I paused, a bit gut punched to realize how many rights for women have been rolled back in the past few years.  So I also talked about that. 

This morning, I'm thinking about Mary Wollstonecraft anew; I've written about her before in this blog post.  I'm remembering when one of my favorite grad school professors gave me a copy of the Norton edition of Vindication, along with a note that said she had an extra copy and thought of me.  I felt thrilled--a copy of my own, and proof that my professor might like me.  I may still have it in a box somewhere.

I'm thinking of all the times I've taught this work, through the years, and how long it's been since I taught it--the last time was probably in 2001.  At some point, I assumed I would likely never teach this literature again. I'm so glad that I was wrong.

First Day of Fall Semester, a More Tech-Free Fall Semester

Yesterday I drove down to Spartanburg Methodist College for the first day of classes.  I love the first days of fall semester--many of my students are brand new to college, so they are full of hope and good spirits.  I also have classes with students who are not new to college; they're in their second or third or fourth years.  Most of them return to fall semester well rested and ready/hopeful for a good year.  The first days of spring semester have a certain sparkle, but it's a little duller, a little more tinged with tiredness and fear.

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I have three classes back to back, and then I sit in the car for my hour drive home across the mountains.  Yesterday I stopped at the library to pick up the books on hold for me.  I limped across the parking lot; I limbered up quickly, but I always forget how hard teaching is on the body, hard in a different way than my summer chaplaincy training.

I still have an old-fashioned approach to first class days.  I hand out a syllabus and talk about the upcoming class.  I don't read the syllabus, but I like having it on paper.  I like having a handout.  Some years I experiment with a getting to know you exercise.  This year I won't be doing that on the first day of class, maybe not at all.  I just didn't have the brain space to create it.  But yesterday, I walked past other classrooms where people were doing interesting activities, with phones turned into clickers and interesting projections on the wall, which made me wonder if I should plan something interesting for the second day of class.

Yesterday I explained that we will be a mostly technology free classroom.  There are days when we'll use the technology, and we'll be seeing how our writing process changes.  We'll also be experimenting with AI, the large language models that inform ChatGPT and the AI tools now woven into so much of the internet and Microsoft Office.  

I expected some push back; so far, there has been none.  One woman who is older explained that if her phone buzzed, she'd need to go outside to take the call to make sure her child isn't at the school nurse, but she would take care of any issues quickly.  I said, "That's exactly the way I would want you to handle this."

As I was driving home from Williamsburg on Monday, I heard this episode of the NPR program On Point.  The guests talked about how we use our brain, and how we retain information.  The last part of the show included information about generative AI.  It was no surprise to me that experiments demonstrated that people who write information by hand retain it longer and in more useful ways.  Typing information on a keyboard or a touch screen isn't as effective.  Feeding a prompt into an AI search engine is not effective at all.

This morning, I'm listening to a New York Times conversation about AI in classrooms--excellent information presented by people who are either teaching or doing extensive research.  I am hoping that this link gets you to a gift article where you can read the transcript or listen.  The conversation does a great job at discussing what AI can and cannot do.

In my classes, I've designed the grading differently this semester.  We'll be doing lots of in class writing, as we have always done, but this year, the in person writing will count for more of their grade--40-60%.  They will use the in person writing to create three revisions which will be graded; they will turn in the daily writing and the revision.

Much of the in class writing will be done by hand, on paper.  They will generate a lot of rough drafts, and they will have an incentive to come to class.  It's an experiment, and we'll see how it works.  And it's not that far away from other semester-long experiments that I've done.

Whipsawed in August

It is the morning for the blog post that says that I am whipsawed.   I am often whipsawed in August, as whatever has been happening in the summer will transition to whatever will be happening in autumn.  This year, there's the additional element of my mom's health scare. She seems to be on the mend, and once again, we've avoided the more dire scenarios.  At some point, our luck will run out, but happily, not this year.

It's been strange taking an unexpected trip up to help my parents.  My unhelpful patterns try to reassert themselves during times of stress and anxiety, which I think is the norm for most people.  Happily, I know what to expect, so I bought pretzels for times of overeating:  not a lot of nutritional value, but not as much harm as other choices.  I've managed to continue in my abstinence experiment in terms of alcohol--hurrah for me.  I practiced prayer and deep breaths and gave myself permission to have some treats, like ice cream.  Well, that's not exactly true--I've been eating a daily bowl of ice cream since mid-June when I had the cold that didn't go away for weeks.

Today I drive down to Spartanburg for the first day of classes.  Wow.  I am ready for a change, but I'm also tired.

It's also strange to think in terms of chaplaincy training, which continues, despite my going back to teaching.  I have a big, final paper to write, which I'll start on once I finalize these syllabi.  I'm done with the syllabi for today's classes, but tomorrow's classes still need some work.

Speaking of syllabi, let me give myself permission for a shorter blog post this morning.  Let me see if I can get my syllabi for tomorrow's classes complete.

The Glory Days of Older Movies and Outer Space

In addition to taking trips down memory lane by way of song this week, I've also been watching old movies.  I thought we would have movie afternoons, but afternoons have been full of naps.  So watching movies in the evening has been a great way of turning our attention away from the national news and getting ourselves settled.

I wanted to choose movies that we've all seen before.  I thought it might help to have something that's not challenging us to keep track of new characters and different plotlines.  On Saturday, we watched Hannah and Her Sisters, which I saw with Mom and Dad in a movie theatre when it was first released in 1986.  Dad came home from a business trip where he had seen it and loved it so much that he wanted to watch it again.  So we did.

They had no memory of ever seeing it, but they were open to it.  They laughed at all the funny parts.  We all stayed awake through the whole movie--no small thing.  I tried not to think of revelations about the more sordid side of Woody Allen that were to come, a reason I can't watch Manhattan again.  There were a few lines that made me wince, but overall, it holds up well.

Mom said she didn't understand it, and Dad said it was a great movie.

Last night, we watched Apollo 13.  After the death of Jim Lovell this week, it seemed fitting.  Plus I figured the plot line would be easy to follow:  doomed spaceship and astronauts trying to get home.  I was right--we were rivetted.

In the past, I've written an extensive blog post about my sadness thinking about the space programs of the past and wondering why we let all of that slip away.  Last night as we watched the credits, I felt a similar sadness about great movie making of the past.  I saw Apollo 13 in a movie theatre when it was first released.  It has been a long time since I saw a movie in a movie theatre, and even longer since I saw a movie trailer and thought that I needed to see it on a big screen, not a small one.  

Most movies these days don't seem like they're worth the time or the money or the effort.  I know it's because I'm not the target audience for many of them--if I liked big budget super hero movies, I'd be writing a blog post about how we're in a golden age.

I look at our movie landscape in 2025, and I don't see big budget movies that will make multiple generations happy.  There's very little being released today that I can conceive of seeing with both my parents and my nephew--or even with my spouse.  Sigh.

But let me not lose myself to sadness today.  Let me be happy that we could stream this movie in ways we could not 30 years ago--and for the same price that a video rental cost in 1995--about $3.00.  Let me be happy that we could sit on a sofa and watch a great piece of filmmaking together.

Papa Don't Preach and the Other End of Age

My recent singing of Prince's "Raspberry Beret" with different words (which I wrote about in this post) led me to some additional thoughts:

--I needed to snap myself out of a morning funk, so I sang Madonna's "Papa Don't Preach"--softly because I was at my parents' house.  No, this is not one of my usual go-to songs to snap myself to a better mindset.  But I heard it on my long drive to Williamsburg on Tuesday night and it's stuck in my head.

--The line about keeping my baby led me to do some math.  If the speaker in that song had kept her baby in 1986, that baby would be 39 years old, and let's assume the mom would be 16 or 17 years older, so 55 or 56.  I thought of the papa in the story, who likely now needs some assistance in his twilight years.  I thought of a short story, but that's been done to death. 

--I'd love to create a poem, but again, not around the issue of elder care or teenage pregnancy.  I want to write about caring for aging parents when we're all just flabbergasted that we've become this old.  In their minds, they're my age.  In my mind, I'm 32.  In some ways, we're reverting back to my adolescent years, with lots of focus on who should be eating what.  There's body shaming, both the kind we did during my adolescence, and the shame that comes with aging bodies that know exactly how old they are and lose no opportunity to remind us.