Lit By Lightning

I’ve decided (again…) to revive my blog, and dedicate it to the pursuit of literature, eloquent, entertaining, and often both. Like a good English major, I love Steinbeck and Salinger, but curling up with “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” or a trashy mystery novel is also ridiculously important to me. So here, I’m going to discuss everything I read, whether it be for my final English classes of my senior year, or just for fun. Hopefully these books will offer me both something to fill this fairly empty 2nd semester of senior year, as well as a little bit of guidance for my aimless and undecided future.

First, though, some thoughts on my 4 years of English and the fruits of my labor:

The Life of a Senior English Major

For four years, I have been told, “Do what you love. Study your passion. Follow your dreams. You have time.”

Suddenly the chorus of well-wishes and encouragement that has happily pursued me like an upbeat marching band for my years of undergraduate work has switched to an ominous refrain: “So, what are you doing next year?” I receive this question everywhere I go, and nervously I respond, I have no idea.

I’m an English major. I’ve learned to accompany this statement with a sheepish grin and a shrug of my shoulders. I know, my self-deprecating smile says, it’s not very pragmatic, but I love it. People smile knowingly when I tell them; they’ve heard tell of those idealistic dreamers who would rather read a novel than learn how to manage a financial ledger or insert an IV. My roommates jokingly roll their eyes when, studying at the library, I pull James Joyce out of my purse and they heave 900 page medical textbooks onto the table. To them, my homework seems a pleasure.

And, I rejoice to say, it truly is. I can think of nothing I so love as walking into Powell’s Bookstore and searching for my newest classes’ list of books, so much more affordable and lightweight than the massive texts of my classmates’. I adore reading my “assignments” while curled up in bed and I cherish my time at local coffee-shops with only a novel and a laptop to weigh me down…. Until now.

“So,” classmates, parents, strangers ask me, “What are you doing next year?” That menacing refrain, you see, is beginning to be a more frightening companion than is a biology exam or a student-teacher’s classroom of first graders. Yes, I’ve spent four years with “tests” that consist of analyzing passages, with nurturing, poetry-reciting teachers, and with homework that has allowed me to fill my journals with “beautiful passages from [insert latest novel]”. I have no idea, however, where these 8 semesters and 13 English classes have led me. I am clueless.

It can be liberating, I suppose, to have the myriad of options that I have. I could be a high-school teacher or a book editor. I could work at a non-profit or join a business firm or write briefs for a law office. I could get a PHD in English, or a masters in Education, or even a graduate degree in women’s studies or history. But, and herein lies the problem, I do not know what I want to do. And, when faced with three housemates with established paths, a million suggestions from every stranger I encounter, and a job market so competitive that the Peace Corps is as picky as Harvard Law, this is utterly overwhelming.

Suddenly the hilarious lament from Broadway’s Avenue Q, “What do you do with a BA in English?” doesn’t seem so funny. What do you do?! I want to scream at Princeton, the young character who finds his calling at the end of the play by writing musicals. There are moments, here in the second semester of my senior year, that I want to chuck my Steinbeck and my Shakespeare across the room and go out and find a “real” major. So why, I have to ask, did I do this to myself?

So then I return to those comforting words of days far past. I did what I love. I can honestly proclaim that I adored every English class I ever took. I enjoyed every book I ever read in college, even those that I had to visit sparknotes.com a few times to comprehend. And I deeply believe that writing has become my greatest skill and greatest pleasure. But before I accept that my ill-advised course of study was worthwhile, I must also recognize that English was, in its own way, as informative as Engineering or Education. It is through novels that I have learned the ways of the world. I have studied political unrest in “Ulysses” and the corruption of power in “Heart of Darkness”. Virginia Wolff sparked my to the study of gender roles, “Great Expectations” got me to London on a semester abroad. And through it all, the vital art of writing has developed and flourished in my soul (who said this writing can’t be cheesy?).

I am terrified that I won’t figure out my future. There are days when I hate that four years of loving my education has had to end at this point of ominous ambiguity. But then, I remind myself, this can’t be the end. Because next year will come and with it new jobs and ambitions, perfect grammar, and, of course, books. And no matter where I end up I can be assured that I will have my constant companions. The angst of Holden Caulfield, the wit of Beatrice and Benedict, the wisdom of Atticus Fitch, the excitement of Jo March, and even the constant comfort of Mary Poppins will remain. Because of this, I will proudly proclaim that I choose correctly. I did what I love. And so should you.

I love this movie.

I finally got a sort-of-decent start on my thesis today and my excitement for it is renewed! I’m writing about the role of illusions in Tennessee Williams’ Glass Menagerie and A Streetcar Named Desire. We’ll see how long my interest lasts once I’m up to the required 30 pages…but I love the topic so far!

In other news, Kelsey, Sarah, and I were just googling people’s names (we’re super interesting…) and it turns out that our other roommates’ grandma is a world-renowned doll maker and there are at least five dolls of our roommate. Lesson: you never know what you don’t know about people!

Plato

fuckyeahdogs:

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Thornton Wilder, The Skin of Our Teeth

In high-school, I was devoted to livejournal to a point of unhealthy obsession. Upon starting college, I cut myself off.  So we’ll see how this goes!

I’ve felt ridiculously mature this weekend- in a lame but appealing way. On Thursday I went to a poetry reading at school and on Friday I went to the weirdest opera ever- Orphee by Philip Glass. It was minimalist opera, which meant no arias or fancy costumes and sets. Instead it was 2 and a half hours of erie, repetitive music and a disturbing story of a poet, obsessed with death, who is ultimately unable to reach it. I liked it, though I’m not going to start seeking out bizarre contemporary operas on a regular basis.

Then, to complete my weekend of cultural pursuits, I went to the University of Puget Sound to see my friend in a production of Thornton Wilder’s “The Skin of Our Teeth”. I absolutely loved it, and it was a fascinating perspective on the flexibility/unlinear-ness of time and the effect of humans on the environment/world. REALLY interesting and entertaining and thought-provoking and my friend, Georgina, made an awesome Gladys :)

On that note, I’m going to finish watching Fiddler on the Roof on demand and conclude my exciting Saturday night…I just got back so late from the play and I’m tired! Goodnight!