Revamp

Dear Friends:

I am packing for a seriously awesome trip right now.  My clothes are packed into OCD approved little "packing squares".  I have piles of plug adapters and my camera batteries are charging and my guidebook is highlighted to within an inch of its life and my passport is out and I found my pack-now-fill-with-chocolate-later carry on and I am so. excited.  I love Europe.  It's been far too long since I put myself through some serious jet lag.  Bring it on.

But you know what else has been long in coming?

Some legit personal essays from yours truly.

See - once upon a time, this blog was meant to be a place for me to practice said form of writing with the intention of stock piling a set of essays with which to send into the publishing world or the grad school world or the internet world (check!) or whatever.  And after England 2007 I did pretty well.  I was full of ideas and had friends to share them with and I got writing scholarships and I was moving.  And then this thing called grown up life happened.  And now I spend more time reading the writing of other people than I do writing anything of my own, and it feels like most of what I write (while not a complete waste of time - right?) leans on the political/social commentary train more often than it does the interesting personal story train.  The second one is the train I love more.  Unfortunately, everything I've started in that area more or less revolves around my hot topics of the life of the perpetually single, teaching, and the perils of depression.  I have been suffering for creative ammunition because, frankly, I'm kind of tired about obsessing over those topics quite so much in my writing because I feel like I've exhausted all the angles and I am preeetty sure that you are tired of reading about my dating life, because, let's face it, no one cares about it.  Including me.  It's monotonous.

Also I've stopped doing what I used to be so much better with, which is observing and writing about others and my interactions with them (not in a mean gossipy way but in a human interest way).  My writing (in my journal and out of it) has been a basic travel log.  Boring.

So this is my promise to both you and to myself that in the next year, I am going to revisit the writing I love most of all and whip out some real, legitimate essays.  In the next two weeks (and later on my next exciting adventure) I am determined to find some creative muse that will give me ideas again.  It's time.

Patriotism

(Photo courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons)

It was a Sunday afternoon in mid June, 2007. I had been traveling through England for the last two months, living a dream. Two months of hiking and sheep and cadbury and trips to the West End had stopped a few days before and I was missing my friends terribly, wishing to be back in London instead of in France, which was crowded and not nearly as pretty as I wanted it to be. All the same, I wasn't ready to go home. A few more days and I would be back in America, biding my time until school started again in the fall, working at a temp job at my dad's company doing data base entry. After a summer spent hiking approximately 25 miles a week, sitting at a desk and staring at a computer screen doing mindless work sounded like torture. I was not looking forward to going home.

The weather mirrored my mood. It was sticky and raining like mad, limiting my ability to explore the beach. I stayed instead next to the seemingly unlimited rows of grave markers honoring those who had died on June 6th, 1944, ready to cover my head with my jacket and run for cover if (and when) the rain started up again.

Sure enough, I had only enough time to take some pictures before the downpour started again. The closest escape from the rain was a monument honoring American soldiers. I dashed toward it and stood underneath part of the monument where a map was displayed, depicting the battle. There were about twenty people there total - all American and (mercifully) speaking English. It was a strange kind of relief to have the luxury of eavesdropping again.

I looked at the map and back out at the rows of gravestones and wished that I felt something. I understood logically the reverence of a place like Normandy, but my England loving heart had never really understood the diehard patriotism of being an American. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy my country and I was certainly grateful for the freedoms I enjoyed, but I longed for the history and museums and culture of Europe, something very much lacking from my midwestern upbringing.

The clock chimed. When it had finished, the speakers around the monument started playing "The Star Spangled Banner". Almost in unison, every person standing around the monument, escaping the now drizzle of rain, turned and placed their hand over their heart to listen. All conversation stopped. I looked around at the group and then up at the monument, out at the graves, and back to the group, suddenly very honored and proud to belong to the country that I did. It was the first time that I ever remember feeling truly, honestly patriotic.

I don't think that my country is any more perfect than others around the world; and we do suffer from a severe lack of decent chocolate (though with Magnum Bars on sale now, maybe times are changing) - but I do honor and respect the freedoms that we have been given here. There is something truly wonderful about belonging to a country that was built with that purpose in mind. Though a large chunk of my heart will always belong in England, I can still say that I am proud to belong to this country.

Happy Fourth.

O, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand, Between their loved home and the war's desolation! Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation! Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto: "In God is our trust" And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave, O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Literary Elitists: Updated

Recently I had a friend ask me to write an article about "reading and writing". This hugely vague and broad topic in mind, I scoured past blog posts for something I might be able to revise into something worth reading. I came across a post I wrote in April of 2009 and sent it off, thinking that if the bare bones of what I wrote two years ago was worth reading then I'd take the time to update it.

Apparently it was really well worth my time as about a day and a half later I had an email from Orson Scott Card in my inbox asking if he could reference my post in a few places. Being the slightly obsessive person I am, I said yes - and then desperately wished that my revised version was available, because it's better, not written out of frustration, and includes two more years' experience.

So I am including that version here. You will also be able to find this version on author Kristen Randle's Website.

A few years ago as an undergrad I took a literature class that very nearly sucked all the life out of me. The class included a plethora of post-modern literature. It meant a semester with authors like Cormac McCarthy and Toni Morrison - authors that other people (re: not me) found genius because of their innovative writing techniques and mystical storytelling. It also included spending a huge amount of time with a professor who, while certainly very qualified in her field, drove me absolutely batty with her elitist views on literature. The books that I was even tempted to enjoy were so destroyed by class discussion that I started a countdown to the end of class.

Now, for you to appreciate any of this, you must understand that my favorite thing in the entire world to do is to talk about what I’m reading. As a student I was an overactive participant in every class discussion (including this professor’s.) As a teacher in my own class, my primary method of inspiring life-long reading in my students revolves around discussion. I still believe that talking about books is a fun and productive way for people to enter into the world conversation. For a teacher to out-discuss a book to me takes a huge amount of work. Somehow, by her focusing more on commentaries on the book rather than the book itself, I managed to leave her class every day with the mad desire to never touch another book again.

But then, at the end of the semester, we were assigned the book Mr. Pip by Lloyd Jones. It was one of those “kindred spirit” reads that so resonated with me that I simply could not bring myself to write what I had been writing all term to please my professor. Before, I had played the game and written exactly what I knew she would like. It was the kind of high brow writing I could do well, but didn’t enjoy. This time, this one last time, I wanted to write for myself just as I had read for myself. So I presented a plan to my professor. I reminded her that I had done spectacularly on all her other assignments and suggested that perhaps I could try a different style this time? Specifically a personal essay instead? My professor nodded, said that would be a fine idea, and I tripped off home to write.

I wrote about how the story of Mr. Pip had resonated so closely with my dearest reading experiences. Those times when you read a book that takes you away to the point where, upon returning “home”, you feel as though you’ve left it and aren’t quite sure what to do with yourself. I wrote particularly of my time with Anne of Green Gables, the dearest and most personal of my reading experiences. I wrote about how, like the main character in Pip who had grown obsessed with Great Expectations, I felt closer to Anne than nearly any “real” person. The resulting essay was a fairly sentimental tribute, perhaps, but I meant it. Throughout my college experience I had enjoyed analyzing the symbolic and historical significance of great works of fiction very much, but this time I wanted to honor it.

Knowing that my professor was often rather forgetful and was likely to need some reminding that she had, in fact, approved my experiment, I included a cover page to my essay. I thanked her for assigning the book and let her know how much I enjoyed it. Then, feeling more than a little cheeky and daring and fed-up after a long semester, I included the following quote:

The elitists are such boneheads they think literature exists to be admired. Wrong. Literature exists to create memories so true and important that we allow them to become part of ourselves, shaping our future actions because we remember that once someone we admired did this, and someone we hated and feared did that.

Literature matters only to the degree that it shapes and changes human behavior by making the audience wish to be better because they read it.

It becomes importantly bad only to the degree that it entices the audience to revel in actions and memories that debase the culture that embraces it.

Next to that, questions of how one literary work influences other literary works, or how the manner of writing measures up to the tastes of some elite group are so trivial that you marvel that someone who went to college could ever think they mattered more.

(Orson Scott Card, July 29, 2007, “Uncle Orson Reviews Everything”)

This was, admittedly, a very foolish and risky thing to do. My professor, after all, was a bonehead literary elitist. But given the subject matter of Mr. Pip I figured that, in spite of the jab, she had to be fair enough to see that the quote was actually supporting the lesson taught by the book she’d assigned me to read. If she had a soul at all - she had to see reason, right?

Wrong.

On the last day of class when my portfolio was returned, I pulled out my essay to see that it didn’t appear to even have been touched. There was no crease by the staple, at least. Only the cover page had any response to it. Next to the quote by Orson Scott Card was written, “Not true. This is a very silly remark. See if you can figure out why?”

I left class that day absolutely fuming. Even now, two years later and well out of this woman’s grasp, I still get frustrated thinking about it. I hated her for being such an elitist that she’d forgotten why people should read to begin with.

If you ask people why they read, I would imagine that very few people would tell you that they enjoy reading because they enjoy high faluting literary commentaries. That may be part of the reason. This essay, after all, is a commentary on literature. I don’t think literary analysis is bad at all - I think it’s what helps to keep a book alive and relevant. But if you talk to most readers about their favorite books, the analysis will only matter to them if they have connected to the book individually as well. If that book, as Card says, “shapes and changes human behavior by making the audience wish to be better because they read it.”

I’ve realized this even more now that I’m on the other side as a teacher myself. For the past two years I have been the one to present students with books they will be forced to read and then graded on. I’ve fought to make sure that I find books and plays that I love and have tried to pass that on to my students. Because I teach a combined English and History class, I also try to find books that will make particular connections that can link to their immediate reality. Studying To Kill a Mockingbird and Asian philosophy together, for example, provides a nice discussion on how to live your life in a way that is at peace with difficult decisions. It is rewarding to have class discussions where students do what the state educational system wants them to do - demonstrate understanding of important themes and symbols in literature. But the greatest compliment I receive as a teacher is something that could never be measured - it’s when I hear a student say they love a book I’ve assigned them to read. To hear a class refer to Atticus Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird), Reuven Malter (The Chosen), Jonas (The Giver) or Napoleon (Animal Farm) as examples of people they do or don’t want to be like. And these are all people (and a pig) who never technically walked the earth.

I remember being in second grade and coming to class every day with a pile of books as tall as I could carry. I would read one chapter from the book on the top of the pile and then put that book on the bottom and take the next one down and so on to maximize the number of books I could read at a time. I remember falling asleep with my mother’s copy of Anne of Green Gables when I was young, flipping through the pages long before I could read the words on them, aching to be old enough to read it. I remember getting my drivers license and going to the library for my first drive alone. I remember staying up until way past my bedtime reading books by flashlight. I remember the first time I read Jane Eyre. I remember finishing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and immediately starting the book again because I wasn’t ready to say good-bye yet. The first piece of furniture I ever bought for myself was - what else? - a bookshelf. I remember packing my emergency kit when I was young and agonizing over which book I loved most to save if I had no time to save them all.

That is why we read, isn’t it? Because we want to fall in love. Because stories matter. They take us away, they bring us back, they touch our souls and enlighten our minds. At their best, stories inspire us to be better than we could have been on our own steam.

I look across my bedroom and see Mr. Pip on one of my bookshelves now, situated in alphabetical order between The Turn of the Screw and Ella Enchanted, two completely different works of fiction. One I read to work out my brain and for the pleasure of words perfectly formed, one I read for the pleasure of a simple story well told. I wonder where Mr. Pip sits on the shelves of the office of this old professor of mine. I wonder - hope, really - that she has a book that she reads every year just because she wouldn’t feel complete if she didn’t. I hope, too, that she read a book this year not as a teacher preparing for students but as a human being that needs to be connected to other human beings - even if they are fictional.

Therapy Session

. . . How can a novelist achieve atonement, when, with her absolute power of deciding outcomes, she is also God?
Atonement, Ian McEwan

Recently I've decided that I should feel no shame in calling myself a writer. I used to think that the term only applied to people who were known for their writing. People who made money off of it. people who were bound between covers and sold to the public for consumption and critique. But, as it happens, I've got two of those three down. I have been published. Once, mind you, but my name was printed in a magazine and the magazine is read world wide. I am now archived online. A short little essay but, there it is. And I've been paid for my writing. Nearly $2000 total. Not bad.

As a result of this re-adjustment of myself, I've been thinking more and more about a writer's role, and, consequently, the trouble I have in being an essayist. Because you do play God, really. You make solid something imaginary - and when that solidification comes from real events - you can run into some trouble. This constant attacking of a subject from different angles in an attempt to try and find "truth" - whatever that is. The past is plastic. By organizing it and putting words into the mouths of the people I write into my narratives, I play God. I give them emotions and opinions they may not have. I structure events to make them more aesthetically pleasing. I leave out what doesn't "fit" or goes too far or is, perhaps, too revealing.

This becomes especially tricky when you are writing for therapy - when you're writing to come to terms with something you either don't understand or don't really like. If you aren't careful you box up something complex and label it to make it simple. You categorize to eliminate the gray matter that doesn't make sense. Writing about life - trying to find truth through words - it's not an easy thing to do.

The quote that this post comes from is a book called Atonement. I found it completely fascinating. It stole my life away, really. The story - the prose - everything about it drove me mad with wishes that usually went along the lines of "why can't I write like that?!!" It's an interesting concept really - what happens when we zero in on one moment of our lives - just one - probably a big one - something we did that changed other people - and break it apart? Look at how - for good or for evil - we've influenced generations of people? And if it was wrong. . . if what you did is now past repair and you can't go back - how do you find atonement in that?

"I saw it. I saw it with my own eyes."

I return from my several week hiatus of blogging rather exhausted from the first few weeks of a new semester, but also rather happy to be back in school. Aside from one very monotonous class where I listen to a man tangent for two hours twice a week, my classes are quite satisfactory. They are also quite time consuming, hence the lack of blogging. I return a conquering hero having not completed all my homework for the night, but enough that I can afford a small break.

As part of the scholarship I won for creative writing I am required to take a creative writing class. Shocking, I know. I had signed up to take a class from a professor I haven't studied under before but I walked into class on the first day and she said something to the effect of "if you are here to write anything other than poetry, this isn't the class for you." Well. I have no desire to write poetry any more than she would have the desire to read it. Poetry is not, has never been, and never will be my forte. I just don't appreciate it as much. No big deal. The world has many poets.

So I've managed to get myself into a creative non-fiction writing class taught by the same professor who led my study abroad to England last year. Much of this class feels like it's starting over for me on things I don't really need, simply because I've been writing creative non-fiction for long enough now that I don't really need the introduction. So I've been using much of the class time to just work on my own stuff.

Much of that is because some of the discussions in the class have started driving me a bit mad. (Prepare yourself, I'm about to sound elitist and snobbish.) One discussion in particular that was frustrating to me is one that we had last week about exactly what creative non-fiction means. Because even though it is marked as "non-fiction", there really isn't such a thing as absolute truth in memory. It doesn't exist. Our "earliest memories" may or may not be real. The way we tell an experience may be different than exactly what happened. We consciously and subconsciously re-write the past all the time.

This makes some of them feel dishonest. Because the past has to have some kind of existence somewhere, right? Everything is present before the Lord - if nothing else, He has to have a record of the absolute real truth.

But does that matter for me? As a writer, does it matter if I tell the exact absolute truth as I saw it with my own eyes or is it more important to try and capture some other "essence" of my "memories"?

The funny thing is that when I try and write about the conflict in what truth is absolute and what truth I construct for myself - it frustrates me. I can't really define it. All I can really say is that when I write, if something feels honest to me, then I run with it. Even if I know that it isn't exactly true. Take my England essays for example - there were times when I would downplay or exaggerate certain elements of a story in order to bring out other more important points. The point of an essay isn't to put a stamp on this inanimate thing you have in your head - to put words to something that is wordless - it's the same as adapting a book to film. You have these two different mediums - mind and word - and you have to find a way to reconcile the two.

It makes me wonder, though, whether God will take into account, somehow, what our memories tell us. I'm sure there are several stories in my mind that are somehow not right thanks to time and space and perspective shifts - but does that matter?

The longer I think about the word 'truth' the more I feel that there aren't many 'truths' out there that are 'absolute' in the conventional connotation of the word.

Lessons I've learned

This last week has been kind of a whirlwind. There is so much to say that I've decided it's time for another list post. Aren't we excited? Wahoo!

1. There is 100% chance that if you walk into a Junior High in Orem right now, you will hear someone singing High School Musical. How do I know this? Because for the last week I have been doing my pre-English teaching program for half days at Canyon View. It's been an experience, I can tell you. Six in the morning does not agree with me. This rotten combination of being a teacher and a student and an employee every day from six until eleven at night is horrid. The teaching experience itself is fun enough, though (minus the continual references to Zac Efron). It reminds me of a line in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix during the first DA meeting. There's a line in the narration that says something to the effect of "it was strange to be issuing orders, but even more strange to be seeing them followed". Yup. That's about right.

2. Romeo and Juliet is the most irritating play in the world. For six hours of the last week in CVJH I watched Romeo and Juliet pop their clogs six times. Ugh. It's so irritating. What on earth does that play solve? I have never understood why people think it's so romantic. I prefer the end to the parody play Romeo, you Idiot. In the end of that play everyone dies. It's wonderful! Just kill them off! Get rid of them! It's convenient, isn't it? The end of that show? It ends like a Jane Austen novel. You don't ever find out what happens in the end. Does the friar get away with it? Do the Capulets and Montegues ever send each other Christmas cards? It's so lame. If and when I end up teaching Shakespeare in High School, I will not teach Romeo and Juliet if I can get away with it. At least not to hormonal, emotionally driven 14 year olds. Midsummer Night's Dream it is for me. I will say though, the best part about all of it was in the modern version (from 1996) when Juliet shoots herself. One of the girls jumped about five feet in the air, I'm not kidding. And then going around and looking at all the venn diagrams they've made comparing the two versions and seeing things like "This Juliet is HOTT!" and "Romeo looks like Zac Efron" (I'm telling you, those girls have an Efron radar).

3. I have a new-found appreciation for sisterhood. Sometimes (being the liberal arts/humanities student I am), I get into a mode of independence that seems kind of popular for college girls to take. But there really is something unique and wonderful about being a woman. We have the ability to pull together in a time of crisis that is rather remarkable. This last weekend I received a rather frantic phone call from a friend half desperate for someone to just be there for her. I rushed home and spent the next eight or so hours trying to help her out - turns out her fiance had broken up with her. Over a text message no less. Within minutes we had reinforcements called in and a whole group of girls asking what they could do to help. Chocolate and cookies and Kleenex were pulled out of the woodwork. Somewhere among the tears and tragedy I took a few moments to really appreciate how good girls are at pulling together and dropping everything to help out during an emotional crisis. Girls can be pretty irritating and petty, but when it comes down to it, we don't like to watch other people hurt.

4. I also have wonderful parents. I'm lucky enough to be friends with my parents. I don't know how they managed to foster that kind of relationship between us, but I'm glad they did. There is a really healthy balance between friend and parent that they both manage to switch through at the right moments. They take care of me and let me fall on my face and make sure I have what I need (and don't need, sometimes).

5. I'm still mad about the end of Robin Hood. For different ways now. The annoying thing about the BBC is that they don't handle things in the same way as most American networks. When something happens in American television that's a bit drastic, within the next three days there will be huge press releases and interviews with the stars and plenty of information given to the public about the hows and whys of whatever happened. It's wonderful. Unlike the BBC. They have been resolutely silent on all things finale. The only thing they've said at all has come in the form of a quietly circulated email responding to a random selection of people who sent letters of annoyance. The letter more or less says four things: a. We're sorry you don't like it. Robin loves Marian, we know. So we had to do something drastic. (non sequitor much?); b. Don't worry. Guy will feel very badly for what he has done (as if I care. If they killed Marian off because of GUY's character arch that's the worst excuse in the world. The show isn't about him, morons.); c. We killed her off to make room for other characters and storylines (because Marian has been so intrusive on those extra characters and storylines before. Oh. Wait. She's usually been at the center of the introduction of those new storylines and characters.); and d. We hope you'll still watch season three and many more years of Robin Hood (yes. They said years. In the plural. Obviously they haven't noticed that they've already successfully massacred their own story. They really are that oblivious). In brighter news, I finally managed to get a friend of mine to return my season one on DVD. I've decided something: season one is the only real season. Season two is fine until episode seven. At this point, Marian is in the woods, people are happy. The rest of the season is like fan fiction. I'll skip to the parts that are good and worth watching, and assume that the last two episodes are a bunch of (insert appropriate expletive here). I've actually given the last episode a name. It is now fondly known as "the Scottish Apocrypha that shall not be named". Work that one out for yourself.

6. I started writing this about five hours ago. I stopped to do laundry and shower and eat something that might be called lunch and do nothing at all productive. I've been in sweats all day. I spent three hours watching television and I really hate most television. So much for being productive on the holiday.

7. I saw Juno this weekend. I highly recommend it. My favorite line was "Because doctors are sadists who think they're God and like to watch lesser people suffer". (or something like that). It's the first time in a long time I've been to a movie that genuinely took me by surprise with the humor.

8. I'm still working on that piece from England with all the journal entries that I posted on here earlier. It's getting better. I have no idea what I'm going to do with it, though. I mean, I'm enjoying writing it. It's been a long time since I've written something that consumed me so much. But there is absolutely zero market for young-adult travel writing, and who the heck would want to read about my trip anyway? I mean, I don't think I'm a horrible writer. I find myself semi-entertaining most of the time (it's because I don't sleep and everything is funnier when you haven't slept). But who would want to waste that much time reading something I've done? I don't know. But I don't feel like giving up on it yet, so I'm going to keep forging ahead. If you hear of anyone who is interested in starting a market for travel writing, let me know. Then maybe when I'm famous people will pay to send me around the world so I can write about it! Gah. That would be the coolest job EVER.

The Mostly-Imagined Real Wanderings of a Kindred Soul Abroad

For my post-study abroad writing class we're all working on essays. My project has turned into a kind of beast but I'm rather proud of it so far. I'm taking every day of the trip and picking one moment from the day or one image of the day or one scene of the day that is particularly strong in my head and writing just that one image. I've got my journals and photos and letters from the trip for help. So far I'm about 15 days in (more than 40 to go) and I'm at 13 pages. Yes. It's going to be a beast! So what I thought I'd do is send some of these (shorter) entries out into the void. They're rather rough, but I'm hoping that in a more refined state they might actually appeal to an audience outside of myself and those who went on the trip who can appreciate it for sake of the trip. So I now present my ramblings...

27 April 2007-En-Route between Edinburgh and Glasgow

I’ve always wanted to ride on a train. Not the dinky ones at amusement parks but a real train. There’s something so much more romantic about traveling by train than by plane or by car, because no one does it any more. Trains are for Victorian “Gibson Girls” with their puffed sleeves and showy good looks and pompadour hair and students going to school for magic or something and I’m in love with this train. A little disappointed, though. I wanted my own little sliding door compartment, not an industrial bit of every day transport full of businessmen just going to work.

But I’m saved. A lady in a uniform comes down the aisle asking passengers if they want ‘anything off the trolley’ and I am put right back into my contented state. Do I want anything off the trolley?! Do I ever want anything off that trolley! This is my chance! To do something quintessentially British! In Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone Harry goes out to the trolley of the Hogwarts Express wanting to buy a Mars bar. Granted, he gets magical candy that tastes like bogies, but I can’t ask for everything all at once. Thus, in honor of that boy-wizard friend, I proudly hand over my 60p and munch on the English equivalent of a Milky Way. Romance has been satisfied.

I try not to stare too much at the people on the train, but it’s hard because of the family with kids next to me. There are two boys playing with some kind of fantasy card game (Pokemon? I don’t know the difference. I should, I have brothers) and another little baby just starting to blabber a few words. All three of those boys are speaking with little hobbity Scottish accents. Two days in a row my anti-tourist campaign is shattered because I can’t pretend that I’m not totally entertained by these kids and completely envious of the life they lead. A life that is more or less exactly like mine but with the coveted Scottish accent attached to it, thus making it about a trillion times cooler. Theoretically, obtaining a Scottish or English accent of some kind would be my key to casting off the burden of tourism. I look British enough thanks to my ancestors. If I don’t say anything no one will no the difference, but I bought the Mars Bar so my birds have flown on this train. I wonder if the couple thought I was foreign before I spoke.

30 April 2007-Coach to Wasdale

I have fallen in love. Madly in love. With a biscuit. Not just any biscuit, though. Oh no. This is the most incredible biscuit in the world. Biscuit, biscuit, biscuit. It’s even fun to say. Anyone in the world who has tasted Scottish shortbread would have to agree with me or be utterly insane. Shortbread is brilliant because the full flavor takes you by surprise after you suck on the little cookie morsels for a little while. There’s a splash of buttery goodness and a twist of sugar and I don’t know what else but I can’t stop eating them. It’s such a half-guilty pleasure. I think somewhere in my psyche I imagine that everyone on the coach can see how many of these little shortbread fingers I’ve eaten and they’re all criticizing me for it. Earlier I was sharing with the girls closest to me, but they’ve all had their fill by now and I’m still peckish. So when I decide I want another one I kind of duck to the side with my forehead resting on the window and my body shielding the box. Then I slowly pull the box open. The hard part is pulling the plastic cookie-tray out because that makes noise when you reach through the plastic wrapper of the plastic holder. Then, one cookie after another, I indulge my way through about a quarter of the box. That’s the amazing and terrifying part of the power of a good shortbread cookie: once you start eating them it’s hard to resist another. And another. Eight or so fingers of shortbread later, I am content.

3 May 2007-Helvelyn

Do you know what happens when a gaggle of hot, sweaty, tired girls get together and hike a mountain all day and then find a pool of deserted, inviting, seductive water in the middle of a valley? I do. Some kind of time and space warp occurs and every girl there is transformed into a desert traveler who has not seen water in years. Clothes fly everywhere, screaming ensues, water flies, and there’s giggling. Lots and lots of giggling.

Not from me. I like my clothes where they are, thanks. And I don’t like hiking wet so I’m not about to jump in clothed either. Or even partially clothed. The water is cold. And dirty. And there are probably fish somewhere in there. Leeches. The Loch Ness monster. No no . . . ground is safer. I turn away from the splashing, riotous crew of mermaids to continue on my quest towards ruining the landscape. My colored pencils are out again and having a marvelous time forgetting about depth perception and shading. I have one hand around my waist to keep my shirt firmly in place, lest some knavish sprite come and take my by surprise and toss me in with the rest of the herd.

One by one our modest group of girls starts to give in at various levels of embarrassment and nakedness. Some keep their knickers on, others opt for something less clothed. I opt for clothes. I have no desire to jump in. It isn’t even so much the naked part of all this that bothers me. I’ve been in theater for years. Dressing and undressing in front of girls (or boys) isn’t exactly new. I’m comfortable enough with myself. I don’t think I’m ugly. It’s everyone else that makes me nervous. What if they aren’t comfortable with me observing them? Everyone’s so different. Rolls here and there, in and out of their underwear, swimming in the water, only sitting on the bank . . . they’re all different kinds of druidy goddesses of the earth and if I go over there I will stare. Not to be pornographic, just to wonder at how people can be so different, I suppose. To look at their bodies and think about mine and what it means to be short with long fingers and brown hair and blue eyes and round and flat and whatever else I am.

22 May 2007-Portsmouth

There are some days on the year when I simply cannot be responsible. Today is one of those days. I am surrounded by history. Naval museums are everywhere. The HMS Victory is planted in the middle of some concrete for people to tour. I could, theoretically, learn hundreds of new facts about British Naval history . . . or I could turn into a five year old and spend the entire afternoon prancing around ships for sake of goofy pictures and end the day in a ball pit at a children’s play place in a restaurant. Which is precisely what I do.

Evelyn and I are quite giddy when we see the empty play set. “Do you think-“ “Would they kick us out-“ “Is there an age limit-“ we half run through the exhibit on ship building and knot tying to the back of the restaurant where a deserted play place stands in all of it’s welcoming glory. A kind of ghostly music is echoing off of the padded walls and plastic slides, calling me forward. Who am I to resist fate? Every sailor knows what happens when you resist fate. Ask Odysseus. I either give in to the temptation in my rightful mind or get sucked in and turn into some kind of monster. Evelyn and I look at each other. The gauntlet is dropped. We race to drop our bags and grab our cameras and rip off our shoes (not necessarily in that order). “You take pictures of me, and I’ll get pictures of you!” “Ok!” Run, run, run-up, crawl through the tube (were they always this small?), climb up the ladder (mind your head!), stop for a picture (I love being five!)! In and out and up and pause (flash), go and switch places and your turn and bury me in the balls, and take that picture again my eyes are closed and I am definitely too big for that but I’m going to try it anyway and go through those ropes and slide on that zip line and this play place is the most incredible thing I think I’ve ever seen. One day when I’m old and overly responsible I may look back on my tryst through plastic-ball world as an opportunity lost and mourn that I could have toured many grand historical monuments but . . . well never mind. I won’t regret this.

24 May 2007- Fox Inn-Lulworth Cove

It has been a long day. Up at four in the morning. Be angry about being up at such an un-godly hour. Coach to Stonehenge. Admire Stonehenge. Take pictures with Stonehenge. Coach to Stourhead. Search frantically for Pride and Prejudice filming location where Elizabeth rejects Darcy in the new movie. Take 800 pictures of (and with) Pride and Prejudice filming location in various states of emotional discomfort and longing over Darcy. Coach to Marnhull church. Walk to Tess’ Cottage. Hike to Milton Abbey. Get lost alone in Milton Abbey. Sing songs alone in Milton Abbey while everyone else is being responsible and not lost. Drive with John who has found the lost wandering me to the Inn (get lost twice. His fault, not mine). Discover that I’m sharing a room with Liz which is happy. Discover that the room we’re sharing does not involve hauling luggage up stairs which is also happy. Discover that the room we’re sharing contains several very big fluffy pillows and the room provides tea. Brilliant.

Time to tell the staff of the inn what I want for dinner so that they can have what everyone wants. The options are chicken, vegetarian lasagna, a soup and trout. Brilliant again. I am in the southern part of England, now is the perfect chance to try nice fish since I’m too cheap to buy it for dinner elsewhere! I can let the program pay for my fish! I sign up for trout.

Dinner goes well. Good food, good friends, good talk through the starters. Then the main course starts to arrive. I wait with eager anticipation and several appropriate sea-shanties running through my head until placed before me is Captain Ahab. Captain Ahab is my dinner. He (I’m assuming his gender. I’m not up on fish anatomy) is fully scaled and still in tact with eyes and scales and tail and fins.

If I had a cleaver I would be able to quote A Christmas Story. (He’s smiling at me! Chop). But Captain Ahab isn’t smiling at me. He is accusing me. I don’t have the heart to eat him while he watches. It’s a little indecent. I take some of my left over salad and put it over his eyes. May he rest in peace.

Captain Ahab is completely disgusting and without flavor in revenge.

What I did during Education Week...

The following are two little spats of England-style writing I did during Education Week-prepare yourself for nonsense. These are unedited stream-of-thought writing experiments.

22 August:

I'm ditching out on a class which is probably not a good sign since school hasn't started yet. I took one look at the crowded classroom and had a few thoughts consisting of "no way", "too many people" and "fire hazard". That would have been an interesting theory to test. Run into the room and yell fire. Instead I decided to do something else and now I'm writing nonsense on a piece of paper that was supposed to be filled with the key to getting my spiritual life back in order and my hand is cramped and I'm frustrated because I can't hand-write nearly as fast as I can type and this was so much easier (if more romantic?) than when I wrote on my computer, but for all that my cramped and awful writing is hardly romantic either. So there it is. I am solution-less. (What was the problem?)

Campus is a surreal kind of place this time of year. Normally this spot is crowded with people studying or making out or talking with friends only now it's just me and a mother with her two girls and none of us is studying or making out.

I just stopped. I killed my groove. I started staring off and thinking about unpacking and buying groceries since I have no food and how the JFSB courtyard is supposed to resemble the cloisters of places like Christ Church or Westminster and it kind of does only not enough to be a sanctuary and just enough to make me homesick (even though England is only my imaginary home now). If I ever go back it will probably only be for a few days or maybe two weeks but never for much longer and certainly not forever which makes me sad because I will never hike those moors again and all I want to do right now is pull my hair back, grab and apple when the hostel cafeteria staff lady isn't looking and hike 18 miles or so on the Pennine Way with 30 of the best people on this earth. England is all I can think about and dream about and it makes my writing redundant and my life unsatisfactory and I miss England. This cloister-knock off isn't English. It needs grass instead of stone, for one thing. And the table I'm sitting at shaded by an umbrella will have to go. Only stone benches. The fountain can stay but it will need to be less modern-arty and more Baroque. All the offices and classes need medieval-izing as well. All these trees in stone planters are way out (it's a little horrifying to think about). No. No-this place is nice but the vending machines don't have Cadbury and my purse has quarters and dimes in it and I have make-up on and I'm not in England any more and the trip I worked for and dreamed about and anticipated is gone in the blink of an eye. Two months ago today, actually, I was on an airplane. Absurd. I relate all the days now to what I was doing in England at the time. Life is supposed to be greener on the other side, but in this case it actually is.

August 23rd

I heard two girls in the Wilk today using very fake British accents and it made me mad. Considering that I could hardly claim to be an authority on all things British (though heaven knows I've tried), particularly with accents, I probably shouldn't talk but they were fake and I was offended and my thought was "I could do better". Pride. And there really is a difference between the movement and action and gesture habits between Brits and Americans. Something less of a strut and more poise...or maybe a different kind of strut (because there is definitely still a strut).

See. It's all I write about. I swear it's not all I think about-I think about many things. But turning on my writing brain seems to generate my England brain on auto pilot and once I start it's the death of me. I wish I could rewind and do it again. But it won't do to dwell on it. From where I sit now I won't ever get my fill of England. Unless I moved there and got a job and had to pay taxes and things-but I won't go back in the way I did and that hurts almost more than the thought of going back. Two weeks isn't enough! And the odds of really living there aren't really great. Maybe I'll go to grad school there.

I found out today that after two years my parents are dismantling my room and painting it and giving it to my younger brother. I think I'd have been alright with it if it had been my sister. She belongs to a room of girlish little dreams and goals and ambitions but now those dreams are being painted over and Wendy has officially been kicked out of the nursery. That part of my life is being packed away into boxes. I don't know if I even want to go home for Christmas because my room-my beloved room with the beautiful window and canopied bed-won't ever be mine again. It will have dirty moldy towels on the floors and footballs in the corners.