Graduate School: Overwhelming? Exciting? Deadly?

This is it, folks. I am finally about to begin my first semester of graduate school, and I have never before experienced such a tumultuous mindset: a unique mixture of nervousness, joy, dread, anticipation, eagerness…. Every feeling possible–it’s all here.

Anyone else who has been in my shoes has likely experienced similar sensations. From speaking with current and former grad students, I have ascertained that these next few years will be fraught with sleepless nights, caffeine overloads, and the passionate fervour of learning about what you love. For me, this means studying Victorian literature, reading about Shakespeare, and developing my own personal brand of theoretical criticism. It means delving into the inner recesses of gender theory and determining both abstract and practical applications for my findings. I will tackle my thesis head on and emerge victorious. I will attend conferences, present papers (hopefully), and not die from anxiety in the process. (This latter goal is perhaps the most significant one to accomplish.)

It also means I must engage in the most dreaded practice of all: networking. For an introvert like me, forcing conversation with strangers is not an ideal way to spend my precious free time. But it is a necessary evil, as I am slowing learning. I have already made strong connections with professors and peers as an undergraduate–why not take this process to the next level? This perhaps may be the biggest struggle for me, but I have aptly prepared for the challenge. 

Adding to my graduate-level workload are the additional tasks and activities in which I engage in my personal and professional life. I do have a part-time job, and though it does not appeal to my interests or passions, it pays the bills and takes up a sizable portion of my free time. More importantly, however, is the work I do for my internship with an author services partnership and the time I spend volunteering for animal welfare. And finally, I am vice president of a student-run organization on my university’s campus–Sigma Tau Delta, to be precise. 

I clearly have a lot of hard work and plenty of exciting ventures to look forward to, but I will welcome the challenges as they arrive. I will greet them in a friendly manner, and then I will destroy them. And I will look fabulous doing so.

Writing Survival Kit: What is in Yours?

A few days ago I encountered a writing prompt urging me to consider what I might place in my metaphorical writing “survival kit”–a list of those items without which writing, for me, would become difficult or cumbersome.

In my reflection, I first determined absolute necessities. Quite obviously, a pen and a paper, or a keyboard and some sort of writing platform, are required. On a personal level, I prefer setting pen to paper in the early stages of my writing projects; then aggressive typing commences, punctuated not infrequently by sighs of exasperation or shameless trips to the kitchen for superfluous sustenance–stress eating, I call it.

Open access to written books is of the utmost importance, supplementing the development of strong writing senses with powerful examples of greatness (and also fine proofs of inadvisable maneuvers). Voracious in spirit, my mind possesses a strong appetite for knowledge and improvement, and languishes when prevented from receiving its due nourishment. Along this same line of thinking, the internet must also be included in the kit for research purposes.

But these elements–writing utensils, books, and research provisions–merely form the basic structure of my writing arsenal. A “survival kit” is intended to also include emergency resources, such as will keep me sane when immersed within the deep and dangerous throes of writing. To formulate a proper survival kit, as intended by the prompt writer, I mull over these considerations (though if I have learned anything in college, it is that authorial intent is not to be surmised, nor can it ever be fully known). Small, healthy snacks, to replace my wayward tastes, go a long way toward fulfilling my “stress” needs without threatening my wellbeing or my physique.

My cat, Lola, always provides a much needed distraction, however wise this respite may be, and she certainly increases my degree of contentment.

If I am engaged in academic writing, as is more often the case than not, I absolutely require a pencil–and often a highlighter–for the marking of significant passages; as equally as important as the final result of the writing event is the planning that goes into it.

Music also helps, particularly the stylistic renderings of Chopin or Debussy. The presence of lyrics often clouds my thoughts, knocking the whole process off kilter. But the deep, sophisticated melodies of classical music rarely, if ever, fail to inspire. This is of significant relevance to the survival kit: how is one to develop and maintain inspiration, and ward off that legendary creature, Writer’s Block?

Adding to this sensual nature of the process is the calming presence of a lit candle, however faint the smell. Partial to fruity scents, I scatter strawberry-blended tealights amongst the material inhabitants of my apartment. Quaint lilac is another favorite, though some would deem it overpowering. Not I.

One element I hope to introduce to my writing survival kit is a means by which to eliminate time spent perusing social media that would be better utilized in the employment of reading, writing, or conducting research. Building a platform ought to supercede viewing pleasant images on Tumblr. (As I write these words, I immediately contemplate checking my email.) Fearing loss of control, I dare not entrust my computer to those programs designed to lock the user out of social networking–or else the internet entirely–for a predetermined period of time.

It seems I have reached the close of my list–this, at least, is where I ceased writing the prompt in my journal. I suspect more essential items will make themselves apparent in due course, but for now I address my readers. What comprises your writing survival kit?

What is Literature?

How do you all keep up with your blogs? For me, books get in the way, work gets in the way, life gets in the way. Ideally, I would love to construct a strong writing platform, but it seems I am too easily distracted–so pass along any pointers you have to offer. But I digress. This is not why I am writing today.

I am writing this post in an attempt to reinvest myself in the blog I once painstakingly curated. Thus, I have revised (and am currently revising) what I consider to be its main concept: rather than serving as a catchall for various and sundry thoughts that occurred to me at mere whim, my blog shall hopefully supplement my upcoming graduate-level studies in English literature and Gender Studies, as well as my current, though weak, ties to the publishing industry. (I recently began an internship at an author services company, which I view as a potential door-opener to a world in which I have always taken interest.)

For my first post along these lines, I ask the question, “What is literature?”

In an attempt to get a head start on classes, I have begun my readings for the fall semester early. First up: Jonathan Culler’s Literary Theory: A Very Short Introduction. In this brief text, Culler poses questions I had never before considered.

What quality of a text merits the title of literature? Are pieces which we now consider unquestionably significant thought to be so because of some inherent literary aspects, or do we follow the lead of greater minds that have already determined such things? Most importantly, what is the relationship between literature, history, and culture?

I do not pretend to possess the answers to these questions, nor will I attempt to answer them here. However, by putting them out there, by placing them on the radar–as I have now done–I hope to cultivate a more open-ended regard for what I have been taught to take for granted. In other words, this is just a taste of what is to come.

An Open Letter to the Writers of Mad Men

You people are insane.

But perhaps I should qualify that statement. I finally caught up with the most recent episodes, and all I can say is that I saw something I can never un-see. (I’m referring to the episode entitled “The Runaways.”)

Let me begin by saying your writing is phenomenal. Don Draper’s destructive character is compelling, and Betty’s transformation throughout the seasons has proven remarkable (I will always “ship” Don/Betty, I think). Though every figure on the show is damnable in his or her own right (though perhaps not Dawn), something about the quality of the writing and the amount of pain-staking, well-delivered details invested in the program have kept me eagerly anticipating the arrival of new episodes. From the beginning, I wanted to hate Don and his misogynist, self-centered, horribly debauched lifestyle–but I couldn’t, and I still can’t.

The macabre elements of the show, while disturbing at times, have always found their way into my subconscious thoughts and made themselves comfortable. Forever haunted by the image of Lane Price’s dangling body after a truly depressing series of events, I have committed myself to this show wholeheartedly. I’ve cried, I’ve mourned deaths and divorces, and I’ve hated nearly everyone. It’s been a wild ride, but one I certainly do not regret.

I have attempted to convey my admiration for the show and its writers, as well as my fervid appreciation of these past several years, and I hope I have done well on that score.

But it’s time to get real.

During the episode in question, “The Runaways,” you elected to depict something surprisingly gruesome–something I have seen discussed on social media alongside the hashtag “#nipplegate.” You know what I’m talking about. I experienced great discomfort the day I witnessed that scene.

In the interest of preventing a fundamental misunderstanding, I’m going to state outright that I love being made uncomfortable. I love storytelling mediums–novels, short stories, films, television shows–that do not fear pushing the limits and testing the boundaries of the craft. You people have done just that, and though you do not need my praise, I applaud you nonetheless (though I do so at a safe distance from that disturbing episode).

I have spent the past few days attempting to determine the thought processes that would lead to a story arc such as this, and thus far I have proven unsuccessful. It is the mark of a great mind that it is able to develop truly creative concepts that no one else would ever even consider. It seems weird to delineate Ginsberg’s tragedy in this fashion–praising the writing as a feat of genius–but now that the initial shock and disgust have worn off, I find myself impressed.

I guess what I am trying to say is thank you, writers of Mad Men, for never giving a shit what people think and delving into your uncharted creative terrain in a way that has elicited a compelling story told from a unique perspective.

-Liz Miller

The Cuckoo’s Calling

(I’ve been meaning to post this for some time now.)

I’ve been following the writings of J K Rowling from a very young age (I am an unashamed Harry Potter fanatic), but since ending the series, Rowling has embarked upon a rather “adult” path, and I must say I am enjoying it. I devoured The Casual Vacancy not long after its release and eagerly awaited her next foray into the land of mature literature. Needless to say, the announcement concerning her pseudonym, Robert Galbraith, while undoubtedly unfair to the author herself, shocked and delighted me upon my reception of the news.

That being said, it’s taken me some time to delve into The Cuckoo’s Calling. I blame my college education on that score–as an English major who already spends much of her time reading and writing, there are not many moments available for personal literary endeavors.

First of all, I must say that the first chapter (perhaps more aptly assessed as a prologue) is perfection in written form. I was immediately captivated by Rowling’s writing, quickly making myself comfortable inside the story. It truly is a beautiful piece of text.

Here’s a taste:

“So it was a suicide after all, and after a moment’s stunned hiatus, the story gained a weak second wind. They wrote that she was unbalanced, unstable, unsuited to the superstardom her wildness and her beauty had snared; that she had moved among an immoral moneyed class that had corrupted her; that the decadence of her new life had unhinged an already fragile personality. She became a morality tale fringed with Schadenfreude, and so many columnists made allusion to Icarus that Private Eye ran a special column.”

Though I am not traditionally a reader of crime fiction, I developed a quick taste for Cormoran Strike’s character and his temporary assistant, Robin, through their investigation of the violent death of ultra-famous model Lula Landry. Rowling, despite hinting at potential suspects, never once reveals the perpetrator prematurely. In the true fashion of a seasoned mystery writer (which she is not, but will someday certainly merit the distinction), she saves this unveiling for the novel’s final coup de grâce. While I will not reveal the identity of the murderer, I will say that I found it delightfully unexpected.

I think, for now, this is all I will say on the subject, as many reviewers have already visited the topic extensively. I offer only my personal thoughts, but perhaps I will think of a more substantial perspective in future.

American Gods: First Impressions

What am I reading?

It’s a strange book thus far, though interesting. Two chapters in, I haven’t quite figured out what’s going on, and I’m left with more questions than answers. Who is this mysterious Mr. Wednesday? What about Mad Sweeney? We don’t know that much about Shadow, to be honest, not even what led to his incarceration.

And I’m still concerned about the scene that closes the first chapter—the sex scene, if you know what I’m talking about.

Anyway, just some opening thoughts.

Lit Group

In case anyone might be interested, I’m starting a literature/writing/discussion group over on tumblr, and everyone is invited! Here’s the original post I made on my personal tumblr:

As I’m starting graduate school in the fall, I’m looking to establish a low-pressure medium in which I can both discuss my interests and improve upon my writing without the threat of grades looming above my head.

I’m thinking about starting a literary/creative writing “group” of sorts (for lack of a better term) to facilitate a non-academic setting whereby likeminded individuals might discuss literature (and art in general) or critique each others’ writing within a healthy environment. I haven’t fully developed the logistics of this project, as I want to determine who might be interested beforehand. Obviously, this will be informal and online, and I’ve opened it up only to tumblr for the time being.

Everyone is invited: from grad students, to undergraduates, to those not in college attendance (high school students, or anyone who opted out of college education). This could be interdisciplinary as well; a background in English literature is not required. All that is needed is a particular affection for the written word.

I’d love for this project to see the light of day, so please reblog if you think anyone might benefit from seeing this post.

I can be reached through my ask (livingxdeath) or my personal email (lizxmiller@gmail.com) for the time being—whichever you feel most comfortable with.

Would anyone be interested? Any suggestions?

If any of you operate on that site, WordPress friends, come find me at livingxdeath.tumblr.com.

The Horror of the Shade

“Invictus” by William Ernest Henley

Due to its brevity, I will reproduce the poem in full:

Out of the night that covers me,

      Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

      For my unconquerable soul.

 .

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

 .

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

      Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

      Finds and shall find me unafraid.

 .

It matters not how strait the gate,

      How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

      I am the captain of my soul.

.

I first noticed this poem scrawled across a wall at my university, and I’m finding that it’s beginning to exert a powerful impact upon my thoughts. But I’ll just let it speak for itself.

The Horrors of Deliverance

Primed from the beginning to hate James Dickey’s Deliverance (my mother immediately informed me she hated the novel in her youth), I will admit I did not approach the text with open arms, much less an open mind. I found the characters’ regard for nature appalling, and I read the rape scene with repugnance. The arrogance of these men set the tone from the beginning of my reading, and I have no qualms about saying that I, too, disliked the novel immensely. Class discussions–oh, yes, this was a course assignment–did nothing to assuage these feelings, and I expected my hostility to continue unabated.

But something about Deliverance infected my perhaps unconscious cogitations. At length, I found myself contemplating the text frequently, even long after the assignment had been completed. Something about the horrors of the novel had captivated my mentalities–aside from instigating a fearful uncertainty regarding canoe trips–and I began to realize the text might in fact make a significant comment upon the nature of humanity and humans’ relationship with our surrounding natural environment. Of course, I could make clichéd assertions about patriarchal oppression and violence (all of which would arguably be accurate qualifications), but I think I will take a more lighthearted and balanced approached.

What happens in Deliverance symbolically depicts a nature taking revenge upon individuals representative of the historical inflictors of destruction and conquest (which might indeed be viewed as the traditionally masculinized approach). This should, hopefully, call to mind more harmonious practices with which we might cohabit with nature before we have exhausted precious natural resources–precious, not because of their economic value, but because they are transient, fleeting, and beautiful. Because I have read this novel, I sincerely believe I have developed a positive, healthy regard for my environment–though I undoubtedly remain within mechanized society and must find means by which I can contribute to the overall wholeness of the world from this constricted milieu.

I am a firm believer that everything one reads honestly and thoughtfully stays with an individual for years to come, hopefully exerting beneficent impacts upon the reader. In this way, a horrific reading experience, as was the case with my reading of Deliverance, might be turned into a salient learning experience.

So thank you, James Dickey, even though your novel made me cringe with disgust.

From Sartor Resartus

I recently stumbled across these lines in a reading for a class assignment and thought I’d share them. Although I can’t say I agree with everything Carlyle espoused throughout his prolific writing career–nor can I say I approve of the immediate implications of this quote (the persuasion of men bit)–I do think he raises an interesting concern regarding the nature and function of literature.

What do we take away from the texts (or media, generally) we encounter and internalize?