Fishing

Yesterday, I decided to take a break from academia and go fishing. Cam and I jumped in the pickup and headed out to a farm pond. I fished. Cam jumped in the water and dug for stuff in the bank. I broke open some cattails and threw the fuzz at him. He shook water on me. Then he'd run off while I sat on the bank, and I watched my bobber sit perfectly still in the calm water. I never caught any fish, and the weather was pretty miserable. Still, it was better than being at school, and by the time I got home, I felt pretty good about things.

I've realized that I'm much more healthy when I'm outside, even if the weather sucks. Something about the outdoors keeps me in balance, and it makes me realize that I'm alive. It grounds me and keeps me in contact with the spiritual side of my life. Yesterday, I never thought about what new problems landed in my inbox over the course of the day. I didn't think about my responsibilities as a teacher and a student. I didn't grade anything, and I didn't do any assignments for the courses I'm taking. I just enjoyed nature with a friendly yellow dog. I watched the clouds, listened to the wind rattle the drying plants, and hoped that I'd get to have fish for supper. By the end of the day, the headache that's been with me the past week or so disappeared. The knots in my back loosened. I felt good.

I need to do some schoolwork this afternoon. The thought of it has already brought my headache back. I checked my email a few minutes ago and had a mini panic attack just after logging in.

I don't think it's meant to be this way. I don't think God intended for us to be inside all day. Take this room for instance. There are no windows. There are eleven computers. There are seventeen florescent tubes that provide all the light. The only sounds come from the computers humming and the heating system pushing hot air through the building. There are no birds. There is no sunshine or rain or wind or snow. There's no dirt. No rocks. Nowhere to dig, should the inspiration strike. There are thirty-six 110-volt electrical outlets, though. There's even one 220-volt outlet, just in case the English department wanted to install an oven or clothes dryer or power washer in this computer lab. Maybe they should. Soak the place. Then cover the floor with dirt. Plant some seeds. Tear off the roof. Let the sun and moon shine in.

Maybe my headache would go away again.

Random Observations

I'm sick right now, so my thoughts are random, unconnected, and, most of all, awesome.

1. John McCain looks uncomfortable being alive.
2. His middle name is Sidney. Just like Sidney Prescott, the main female character from the Scream trilogy. So to make the Obama-is-a-terrorist-because-his-middle-name-is-Hussein argument and apply it to John McCain, I'll go ahead and say it: John McCain is a hot brunette who is adept at not getting killed. (Counterpoint: If you are a member of his family, though, you're screwed).
3. Charles Grassley is a weird-looking dude. I bet he would look awesome dressed up as a vampire.
4. It's a pretty nice day out today, but I'm spending most of it inside.
   
5. I'm dizzy.
6. My toaster is broken. It has devastated me.
7. I haven't seen a movie in a theater for a while.
8. I think the dog is a little bit racist.
9. I've never kicked a successful field goal, even a practice one. Maybe Amy will hold the ball for me sometime.
10. Madonna is getting divorced? She was married?
11. I don't believe that zombies are real.
12. The book of Genesis reads like post-apocolyptic literature. I think that says a lot.
13. I need a catchphrase.
14. My stomach is killing me. I wish I could make some toast.
15. I still want to build a bomb-shelter, but now I want to make it into an underground fortress of elaborate tunnels connecting several armories.

That's all for now.

Teaching Gripes

Some gripes for you, in numerical order.

1. I hate grading papers.
2. I don't like getting emails from students asking questions that I've previously addressed in class.
3. Whatever it is, it's probably on the syllabus.
4. My office hours are not the same as class. If you missed class, we're not going to have a one-on-one tutoring session.
5. Sharing an office with fifty other people is never fun, especially when they have super-loud conversations out in the open.
6. Related item: If you want to talk to one another, just sit down so the cubicle walls block some of the conversation. Or go in the hallway. There's nobody out there trying to work.
7. Don't start a conversation with "Hey, can you do me a favor?" when you really want me to do you a favor. I'm likely to "forget" to do it.
8. If you emailed me and I ignored you, either take a hint or call me via the telephone. I'm more likely to respond to calls. Or first class letters. Or personal visits.
9. Bring your books to class.
10. Seriously, every time.
11. I'm not joking. Bring them.
12. Did you check the syllabus?
13. If your email looks like a txt msg omg im wnt rply wtf im yr english instructor thnk u.
14. Don't be a bigot in my class. This includes racism, sexism, and ethnocentrism. If it might be offensive, assume it is.
15. Related item: "Gay" is not an all-purpose adjective for anything you dislike.
16. I don't grade things when I'm in a bad mood; thus, you will not be getting your assignments back tomorrow.
17. Cite your sources. Correctly, please.
18. You have free access to one of the best research libraries in the world. Wikipedia, therefore, won't count as a source for your paper.
19. Don't show up late.
20. Don't leave early.
21. Don't expect an A without putting in a lot more work than you did in high school.
22. You've wanted to be treated like an adult for a while, right? Well, now you are. Expect adult consequences.

That's it for now. I feel a little better. See you in class tomorrow.

I want to build a bomb shelter.

Today, I spent some time doing internet research (thank you, Google) on bomb shelters capable of surviving a nuclear blast. I don't honestly think that I'm in any danger of being killed by a nuclear attack in central Iowa, but having my own bomb shelter really appeals to me. If I just want to get away from everything for a while, I could go down there and hang out, play solitaire, draw, maybe write if inspiration strikes.

I wonder if the library has some old literature from the US Department of Civil Defense about how to build one. I might check on that tomorrow. It will probably be more fun than actually doing work.

What do you do for a living?

Hi, I'm Joe. I'm 29 years old, and I'm a writer. There, I said it. I'm a writer.

I've been trying to say it for a long time. When I was a kid, people would ask, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I thought it was a trick question. Like there were right answers and wrong answers. Possible right answers: cowboy, astronaut, doctor, baseball player, veterinarian, farmer, football coach, fighter pilot, stock broker, lawyer, president, scuba diver, mountain climber, paratrooper, mathematician, marine biologist, physicist, chemist, or any type of mad scientist. Possible wrong answers included, but were not limited to, writer.

So I always said, "I don't know" or chose something off the list.

But I knew I wanted to be a writer.

Later, when I graduated from high school and was off to college, people asked, "What are you going to study?" It was a loaded question again. So I chose "business" because I thought it meant that I would get a degree and make some money, which is what everyone wanted me to do. Business. I'm still not even sure if that's a real major. Busy-ness.

Yes, I'd be a business major, and make money. Maybe I'd still write on the side, but it had to be a secret hobby, as if being a writer was comparable to being a heroin addict.

I hated busy-ness, though, and decided to switch. I'd be a journalism major! I could write--feed my addiction--and still have a respectable job! I could work my way up from a beat writer to a feature writer to an editor to a publisher! Yes, I would make money! I would start my own magazine! It would be a success!

But as it turns out, journalism isn't that much fun either, especially when you spend all night sculpting your words into what you think is a piece of art only to have an editor tell you the next morning that it's too long. Four column inches need to be cut. You'll re-work it, you say, but the deadline is in ten minutes, she says. Here, just give it, I'll do it, she says, and she huffs off, taking your work with her.

The next day, you see it on page 12, next to an ad that touts a popular campus bar's drink specials. You gaze at where it says, "By Your Name." You're proud to see your name in print. It makes you feel important. This article, you think, wouldn't be in here if it weren't for you. Then you read the article. You notice something wrong right away. It's different. It's not what you wrote. Sure, it's your research. It's the quotes that you gathered from your contacts. But it isn't your language. It's crap, pure and simple! And it's attached to your name! Reverse plagiarism! You've been had, and you won't stand for it!

That afternoon, you go into your editor's office. You don't knock. You catch her in the act of hacking away at some other poor soul's hard work. You're disgusted. You yell. You make wild gesticulations with waving arms so people behind the glass can tell what's going on. You storm out before security has a chance to arrive.

And you realize that you're not a journalist.

But how did this get to being about you? Let's get back to me.

Anyway, journalism wasn't my cup of tea, so to speak, so I switched majors to English. Surely, I could write as an English major, I thought.

My advisor, on the other hand, informed me that one cannot make money and write at the same time. She said that with and English degree, I had two options. I could drive a cab or be a teacher.

Seriously, she told me that.

In what seemed like no time, I was four years into an unrewarding teaching career. I did paperwork all day. I lost hair. I lived alone and drank too much. I wrote occasionally. I didn't think about getting published. As a last-ditch effort, I applied to some writing programs, though. I wasn't sure I'd get in. Part of me hoped I wouldn't. I could abandon my dream of being a writer.

After I was accepted, I didn't know how to react. I had a comfortable career. I was a good teacher. Sure, I didn't like it, but that's how life is. You're not supposed to like your job. But I knew I had to try, so I quit to go back to school. I'm learning to write. I'm trying to convince myself that I'm a writer, I've always been a writer, I'll always be a writer, despite what I happen to do for money.

Now, when people ask me what I do for a living, I ignore the fact that it's a loaded question. They mean to ask me what I do for money, but since they don't say so, I answer the question as they actually posed it. I tell them what I do for a living.

I write.

I'm a writer.