Life of a Creative Writing Grad Student [and knitter]

The occasional opining of a sleep-deprived grad student, with cheese.

Friday, July 23, 2004

Return of the Dungeon Horticulturist

This will be short. Lucky me. It's Friday, for crying out loud, and I'm not done with my paper yet. I am done with the presentation, gave it at 2. I bombed, in my mind, but apparently I asked one really great discussion question, one that no one could answer and that kept us going until break. Then my turn was over, so there is no answer to my question. This is important to you all for one reason. Since the class couldn't generate an answer, and because there is no answer that people agree on that the prof knows about, my paper is to come up with the answer. Can you all say "damn it!" with me? If the brilliant buggers in theory land are grasping at straws here, what chance do I have? I'll tell you what chance. The same chance I have of getting anything like a clear answer about something until the second week of August. The same chance I have of ... I don't know, you come up with something impossible.

About that answer thing. This is taken, verbatim, from class.

Prof: [I can't remember what she asked, it was long and no one understood it after she repeated it a third time.]

Guy: [clearly as confused as the rest of us, but trying to get an understanding of the question] But wait a minute. Are we talking about taking the thing as a whole, or are we dividing it into sentences or something smaller like that?

Prof: [very excited by this development, leaning forward and grinning as she makes a gesture of exclamation with her index finger] Exactly!

Guy: [blinking with mouth open, before muttering to those around him] But that was a question. You weren't supposed to say "exactly."

End scene from class of doom.

You see what I mean? My brain is tired. I can't think of an answer to my paper's question. And to top it all, the other professor is ecstatic about my obsession with frogs (that's the topic I chose, desperate, huh?), and wants me to come out to his place in the country some night this next week and go frog hunting with his daughter. I can put it in my story/paper. My question, to which, I might add, I got nothing that resembled a satisfactory answer, was as follows: "Just when am I going to have time to get lost in the middle of nowhere on the outskirts of a nowhere town when I have all this other stuff I have to do?" I don't know how that will work out. More on that later.

In the meantime, it's the freaking weekend, and whether I'm allowed one or not, I'm going to bed now, and sleeping in until eight. My body needs the recovery time. Good night all. End.

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