Dad tried to make chocolate pudding but he put the dry ingredients in the pot first and the cocoa powder burned on the bottome of the pan, giving the pudding a distinct burnt taste. Callan didn't seem to mind too much.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Our Boss' son made this fences back in the summer so we could corral the kids out in the PARKING LOT!!!! where we let them play every day (Notice that the kids are all currently on the wrong side of the fence, and one of the fences is tipped over in the background. We were actually on our way inside).
Friday, March 24, 2006
World Baseball Classic: a very rough draft of my first attempt at a Sports OpEd piece
I don’t know if anyone has been paying attention to the World baseball classic this past week, but here in Japan it has been all over the news, mostly because Japan won the contest, and secondarily because this country is in love with baseball.
Melissa and Callan and I have been routing for the Japan team since they played America early last week. In case you haven’t heard, Japan should have won the game, but because of a terrible call by an American umpire, Japan’s eighth inning go ahead score was over turned and America ended up winning in the 9th inning with a base hit up the middle by Alexander Rodriguez.
I can’t decide what embarrassed me more, the poor call by the American umpire, or the way that the American players made fools of themselves. Not only are they overly muscled steroid pumping freaks who think playing in the major leagues makes them divine, but they incessantly chew gum, scratch themselves, and strut on and off the field like fighting cocks. I watched the Americans bat, and every time a strike was called after a pitch, the American batter would pull skeptical face as if to say the umpire was full of it and “how dare he call a strike on me. Doesn’t he know who I am? Doesn’t he know I make more in two minutes than he makes in a year?”
If I were a member of the America team I would have felt sick after the game against Japan, knowing that I didn’t deserve the win. One player actually called it a lucky break, I think he said, ‘the call went our way,” as if there was real question as to whether the third base runner had really tag up early or not. Well the replays don’t lie, and the runner didn’t leave early and America went home with a stolen victory.
Still it is of little consequence because America lost to Mexico, which sent Japan to the semifinals against Korea, where the Japan team played flawlessly. The victory over Korea brought them to the finals against Cuba, and there Japan showed the world that the Major leagues do not hold a corner on Baseball greatness.
However, it is still difficult to get the image of the American team out of my head. Is that how the rest of the world sees us, as gum chewing playground bullies whose money and preeminence has made us fat, lazy, and feeling entitled?
The Japanese players walk onto the field emanating an aura of reverence for the field, for the ball park, for the fans. Whether they are at heart the sportsman they appear to be may be difficult to decide, but at least the give the appearance of having a sense of humility and reverence for the sport. Where the Americans seemed like the power glutted blubbering gods of Mt. Olympus, the Japanese players seemed more like the humble prophet of the desert. They may not eat locust and honey, but they very well may be ushering in a new dispensation of athletes whose cleats the Americans won’t be worthy to lace up.
Melissa and Callan and I have been routing for the Japan team since they played America early last week. In case you haven’t heard, Japan should have won the game, but because of a terrible call by an American umpire, Japan’s eighth inning go ahead score was over turned and America ended up winning in the 9th inning with a base hit up the middle by Alexander Rodriguez.
I can’t decide what embarrassed me more, the poor call by the American umpire, or the way that the American players made fools of themselves. Not only are they overly muscled steroid pumping freaks who think playing in the major leagues makes them divine, but they incessantly chew gum, scratch themselves, and strut on and off the field like fighting cocks. I watched the Americans bat, and every time a strike was called after a pitch, the American batter would pull skeptical face as if to say the umpire was full of it and “how dare he call a strike on me. Doesn’t he know who I am? Doesn’t he know I make more in two minutes than he makes in a year?”
If I were a member of the America team I would have felt sick after the game against Japan, knowing that I didn’t deserve the win. One player actually called it a lucky break, I think he said, ‘the call went our way,” as if there was real question as to whether the third base runner had really tag up early or not. Well the replays don’t lie, and the runner didn’t leave early and America went home with a stolen victory.
Still it is of little consequence because America lost to Mexico, which sent Japan to the semifinals against Korea, where the Japan team played flawlessly. The victory over Korea brought them to the finals against Cuba, and there Japan showed the world that the Major leagues do not hold a corner on Baseball greatness.
However, it is still difficult to get the image of the American team out of my head. Is that how the rest of the world sees us, as gum chewing playground bullies whose money and preeminence has made us fat, lazy, and feeling entitled?
The Japanese players walk onto the field emanating an aura of reverence for the field, for the ball park, for the fans. Whether they are at heart the sportsman they appear to be may be difficult to decide, but at least the give the appearance of having a sense of humility and reverence for the sport. Where the Americans seemed like the power glutted blubbering gods of Mt. Olympus, the Japanese players seemed more like the humble prophet of the desert. They may not eat locust and honey, but they very well may be ushering in a new dispensation of athletes whose cleats the Americans won’t be worthy to lace up.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Monday, March 20, 2006
A conversation between Callan and Dad today while running errands in town:
Callan: (pointing at a ‘Homerun’ pachinko gambling parlor with a large baseball on its sign) “Dadda, I wanna go in there. They have a baseball.”
Dad: “Son, that’s not a place to play baseball, that’s a gambling hall where people go to waste their money.”
Callan: “I want to go there!”
Dad: “Why?”
Callan: “I wanna go there to waste my money!”
Dad: “Son, that’s not a place to play baseball, that’s a gambling hall where people go to waste their money.”
Callan: “I want to go there!”
Dad: “Why?”
Callan: “I wanna go there to waste my money!”
Friday, March 17, 2006
Finding a use for our toilet remote
I can’t believe this story has slipped my memory for so long, but it has been more than a month since Grandma and Grandpa Franklin visited and I just remembered how grandpa helped me find a good use for our toilet’s remote control.
First a side note…
You all remember the remote control for the toilet that I described back in August or September when we first got here (if you don’t, feel free to check out the archives). You may also remember that since Callan has been practicing using the big toilet we have had to remove the remote from its holder attached to the wall next to the toilet so that curious Callan doesn’t push any unfortunate buttons while he is getting used to doing his business on a real toilet (removing the remote was, unfortunately, something we thought of after Callan had already pushed one of the buttons during a trial toilet session and sprayed warm bidet water up his back and all over the bathroom. Thankfully the experience was not scaring and he is still interested in using the real toilet, although it could have been disastrous and could have set us up for a lifetime of changing diapers). So the remote has been sitting on our dresser for two or three months now, out of reach of Callan, collecting dust.
…Now back to Grandma and Grandpa Franklin
On the Friday they arrived we were all getting ready to head out for the day and Grandpa Franklin said he had to use the bathroom. As he walked toward the bathroom I joked with him about not hitting any of the wrong buttons while he was in there. Then out of nowhere, the image of the remote sitting on our dresser popped into my mind, and an evil, sinister idea began to form. I couldn’t resist. I retrieved the remote from dresser and tip-toed toward the bathroom. I tried to aim the remote through the crack in the door, but it wouldn’t work. In order to make the signal reach, I would have to crack the door ever so slightly, which of course I knew would get dad’s attention, but I also knew he would be otherwise disposed, and he would not be able to stand up to shut the door. So that’s what I did. I cracked the door just wide enough to shoot the remotes beam into the small bathroom and, just like that, the bidet came on.
Now, to the reader who thinks me cruel, you must know two things. First, this is the same father who on more than one occasion encouraged me to play ‘apple foot’ as a toddler which involved me chomping on the footwear of various members of the family, the same father who was known to burst in on his tiny children during their bath armed with a camera and some cheesy line about showing pictures to our future girlfriends, and the same father who at least once, with the help of my younger brother Tom, placed a pile of shaving cream on my hand while I was sleeping and then tickled my nose with a feather, only to stand over me and laugh as I wiped shaving cream all over my groggy face. He certainly was not unworthy of such a prank. The second thing you should know is that I only turned the bidet on long enough for Dad’s eyes to bug out, and then I turned it right off. Who says those remotes aren’t handy?
First a side note…
You all remember the remote control for the toilet that I described back in August or September when we first got here (if you don’t, feel free to check out the archives). You may also remember that since Callan has been practicing using the big toilet we have had to remove the remote from its holder attached to the wall next to the toilet so that curious Callan doesn’t push any unfortunate buttons while he is getting used to doing his business on a real toilet (removing the remote was, unfortunately, something we thought of after Callan had already pushed one of the buttons during a trial toilet session and sprayed warm bidet water up his back and all over the bathroom. Thankfully the experience was not scaring and he is still interested in using the real toilet, although it could have been disastrous and could have set us up for a lifetime of changing diapers). So the remote has been sitting on our dresser for two or three months now, out of reach of Callan, collecting dust.
…Now back to Grandma and Grandpa Franklin
On the Friday they arrived we were all getting ready to head out for the day and Grandpa Franklin said he had to use the bathroom. As he walked toward the bathroom I joked with him about not hitting any of the wrong buttons while he was in there. Then out of nowhere, the image of the remote sitting on our dresser popped into my mind, and an evil, sinister idea began to form. I couldn’t resist. I retrieved the remote from dresser and tip-toed toward the bathroom. I tried to aim the remote through the crack in the door, but it wouldn’t work. In order to make the signal reach, I would have to crack the door ever so slightly, which of course I knew would get dad’s attention, but I also knew he would be otherwise disposed, and he would not be able to stand up to shut the door. So that’s what I did. I cracked the door just wide enough to shoot the remotes beam into the small bathroom and, just like that, the bidet came on.
Now, to the reader who thinks me cruel, you must know two things. First, this is the same father who on more than one occasion encouraged me to play ‘apple foot’ as a toddler which involved me chomping on the footwear of various members of the family, the same father who was known to burst in on his tiny children during their bath armed with a camera and some cheesy line about showing pictures to our future girlfriends, and the same father who at least once, with the help of my younger brother Tom, placed a pile of shaving cream on my hand while I was sleeping and then tickled my nose with a feather, only to stand over me and laugh as I wiped shaving cream all over my groggy face. He certainly was not unworthy of such a prank. The second thing you should know is that I only turned the bidet on long enough for Dad’s eyes to bug out, and then I turned it right off. Who says those remotes aren’t handy?
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
the deadline dash
I finally got to sleep last night about 3 o’clock after finishing an essay for two contests with deadlines set for today, March 15th. Believe it or not, the long night was less a result of procrastination, and more the result of genuinely having too much to do. I was waking up every morning early and making steady progress on the project and then last weekend stuff just started piling up. Between taking care of Callan and Melissa and trying to get to work there hasn’t been a lot of time for writing. However, with the deadlines approaching, I had little choice but to call upon my ‘all-nighter’ skills from high school, and I sure needed them.
I got home from work last night at 8:10 pm and after feeding myself and Callan, cleaning the house, and putting both Melissa and Callan to bed, I sat down at the computer. I started typing at 10:35pm, and as usual things started out slow. Writing is decidedly not like riding a bike. It’s more like lifting weights. If you’re out of practice, it’s really difficult to perform at your peak, and even when you’re keeping a regular routine, there’s still a lot of sweat and stink involved.
By eleven o’clock, I’d completed several thorough reads and had a fairly good idea of where I wanted things to go, and by one thirty I was working on the concluding paragraph. The writing session took me to an article in the Pittsburg post gazette, to the Creative Writing department website at University of Arizona, to an online anthology of Oscar Wilde’s work, and of course to the Wikipedia article about Michael De Montaigne.
At 2:30 am I called Grandma Franklin in Las Vegas to notify her that I was once again sending her a last minute draft for editing. Then I addressed two envelopes, one to the Bellingham Review and one to the Florida Review, both of which have fairly lucrative (and not coincidentally fairly prestigious) writing contests, and finally went to bed.
At 7:15 Callan woke up and made a b-line for the refrigerator, which meant I was up too and right behind him (for good reason too, the last time I laid in bed while he got up to get something out of the fridge, I ended up mopping an entire carton of milk up off the floor). We had eggs for breakfast and then we both got dressed, said goodbye to Mom, and headed out the door for the bilingual kindergarten.
The problem was that today I failed to remember that I was supposed to be in Takamatsu (one hour away) by 9:30AM to teach at a kindergarten and by the time I remembered it was 9:15 and we were just about to start the first lesson at MIA. I called the school and moved the time back forty five minutes, Called Deron to see if he would mind taking Callan back home for me, and got back into my car and went to Takamatsu.
I arrived at the kindergarten at 10:15, taught two half-hour lessons and then got back in my car and sped back to Marugame for my 12:15 class, stopping at McDonald’s on the way home for a couple of cheeseburgers.
After Seiko’s lesson I came home and had just under an hour to read Grandma Franklin’s corrections and suggestions, finalize the essay, write a cover letter, and stuff the envelopes before leaving for my 2:30pm class back at MIA. I was five minutes late, but managed to get everything finished at the house, sort of. I forgot to bring my American check book and so I couldn’t write checks for the entrance fees for each contest. I had to teach until 4:35 and only had twenty five minutes after the lesson to mail the letters before the post office closed. There was no way to get home in time to make the postmark deadline. Instead, I asked Deron’s wife to write two checks for me, which she did, and I mailed the two envelopes at 4:48 pm today.
I got home at five, had dinner with Melissa and Callan, and then taught two more classes from 6:30p to 8:10p. Fatigue had set in by my last lesson and I was having more trouble than usual staying awake during the lesson (that’s a problem when you are the one who is supposed to be teaching). My student even said, in English, ‘Joe is sleepy.’
Callan and I made a snack run to the grocery store at 8:45 and he went to bed shortly after we got home. Melissa and I watched a little Japanese television (as if there were some other kind to watch here), and read a few verses from the Book of Mormon, and now she is off to bed. I just finished a bowl of ‘choco pie’ rice cereal (like coca crispies) and the covers are calling my name.
I got home from work last night at 8:10 pm and after feeding myself and Callan, cleaning the house, and putting both Melissa and Callan to bed, I sat down at the computer. I started typing at 10:35pm, and as usual things started out slow. Writing is decidedly not like riding a bike. It’s more like lifting weights. If you’re out of practice, it’s really difficult to perform at your peak, and even when you’re keeping a regular routine, there’s still a lot of sweat and stink involved.
By eleven o’clock, I’d completed several thorough reads and had a fairly good idea of where I wanted things to go, and by one thirty I was working on the concluding paragraph. The writing session took me to an article in the Pittsburg post gazette, to the Creative Writing department website at University of Arizona, to an online anthology of Oscar Wilde’s work, and of course to the Wikipedia article about Michael De Montaigne.
At 2:30 am I called Grandma Franklin in Las Vegas to notify her that I was once again sending her a last minute draft for editing. Then I addressed two envelopes, one to the Bellingham Review and one to the Florida Review, both of which have fairly lucrative (and not coincidentally fairly prestigious) writing contests, and finally went to bed.
At 7:15 Callan woke up and made a b-line for the refrigerator, which meant I was up too and right behind him (for good reason too, the last time I laid in bed while he got up to get something out of the fridge, I ended up mopping an entire carton of milk up off the floor). We had eggs for breakfast and then we both got dressed, said goodbye to Mom, and headed out the door for the bilingual kindergarten.
The problem was that today I failed to remember that I was supposed to be in Takamatsu (one hour away) by 9:30AM to teach at a kindergarten and by the time I remembered it was 9:15 and we were just about to start the first lesson at MIA. I called the school and moved the time back forty five minutes, Called Deron to see if he would mind taking Callan back home for me, and got back into my car and went to Takamatsu.
I arrived at the kindergarten at 10:15, taught two half-hour lessons and then got back in my car and sped back to Marugame for my 12:15 class, stopping at McDonald’s on the way home for a couple of cheeseburgers.
After Seiko’s lesson I came home and had just under an hour to read Grandma Franklin’s corrections and suggestions, finalize the essay, write a cover letter, and stuff the envelopes before leaving for my 2:30pm class back at MIA. I was five minutes late, but managed to get everything finished at the house, sort of. I forgot to bring my American check book and so I couldn’t write checks for the entrance fees for each contest. I had to teach until 4:35 and only had twenty five minutes after the lesson to mail the letters before the post office closed. There was no way to get home in time to make the postmark deadline. Instead, I asked Deron’s wife to write two checks for me, which she did, and I mailed the two envelopes at 4:48 pm today.
I got home at five, had dinner with Melissa and Callan, and then taught two more classes from 6:30p to 8:10p. Fatigue had set in by my last lesson and I was having more trouble than usual staying awake during the lesson (that’s a problem when you are the one who is supposed to be teaching). My student even said, in English, ‘Joe is sleepy.’
Callan and I made a snack run to the grocery store at 8:45 and he went to bed shortly after we got home. Melissa and I watched a little Japanese television (as if there were some other kind to watch here), and read a few verses from the Book of Mormon, and now she is off to bed. I just finished a bowl of ‘choco pie’ rice cereal (like coca crispies) and the covers are calling my name.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Sunday Weekly Update
It was the Joe show at Church this Sunday, and I am really glad it is not that way every week. Melissa stayed home sick so I taught our primary class. It was also our week for sharing time, so I did that too. Then in sacrament meeting, in addition to translating the meeting, I sang in the choir and gave a talk on the blessings of Sabbath day observance. Two of the single sisters in the branch sat with Callan during all of sacrament meeting which he liked very much, and he even made a get well card for Melissa during nursery.
After Church Callan and I went to Deron and Lori’s house to help them decipher their Japanese internet set up instructions, and made it home by three. Callan fell asleep in the car so I carried him into his room and he slept until 4:45. Then I woke him back up and we went back into town to pick up or friend Chugh, the ship inspector from India, who was coming with us to our Boss’ house for dinner. About twenty people were there and we had Japanese curry and fried chicken, fruit salad, Indian curry, and a lot of dessert (all the Americans, including myself, brought desserts. We had apple cobbler, ice cream, and two types of brownies).
Callan ate a bowl of curry, some orange slices, four strawberries, some ice cream, fruit salad, and half a cup of melon soda. The other half ended up in my lap about mid way through dinner. We excused ourselves at about seven and went back home to keep sick-o mom company. She really is not doing very well.
More than the physical ickiness she is experiencing (which is marked I assure you), the psychological impact of not being able to do anything except sit on a couch and hold a throw up bowl has been the most difficult. Tonight after putting Callan to bed, I called Brother Morimura who lives across the street and asked him to come over and help me give Melissa a priesthood blessing. Tomorrow, if she is not feeling any better we are going to go to the Doctor’s office for some suggestions.
After Church Callan and I went to Deron and Lori’s house to help them decipher their Japanese internet set up instructions, and made it home by three. Callan fell asleep in the car so I carried him into his room and he slept until 4:45. Then I woke him back up and we went back into town to pick up or friend Chugh, the ship inspector from India, who was coming with us to our Boss’ house for dinner. About twenty people were there and we had Japanese curry and fried chicken, fruit salad, Indian curry, and a lot of dessert (all the Americans, including myself, brought desserts. We had apple cobbler, ice cream, and two types of brownies).
Callan ate a bowl of curry, some orange slices, four strawberries, some ice cream, fruit salad, and half a cup of melon soda. The other half ended up in my lap about mid way through dinner. We excused ourselves at about seven and went back home to keep sick-o mom company. She really is not doing very well.
More than the physical ickiness she is experiencing (which is marked I assure you), the psychological impact of not being able to do anything except sit on a couch and hold a throw up bowl has been the most difficult. Tonight after putting Callan to bed, I called Brother Morimura who lives across the street and asked him to come over and help me give Melissa a priesthood blessing. Tomorrow, if she is not feeling any better we are going to go to the Doctor’s office for some suggestions.
I learned a new Grandpa Franklinism while they were here, and it inspired this comic, written on a hotel notepad by Joey while we were in Hiroshima. Thanks to Grandpa Franklin, every time we drive past a coke vending machine, Callan says with glee, "There, buy special drink for Grandpa." Special drinks, for a very special grandpa. We love him.
While Grandma Franklin and Melissa were using the bathroom, Joey and Callan wandered off to take a closer look at this cool horse statue. We took a bunch of pictures and got so distracted that we didn't notice Melissa and grandma Franklin come out of the bathroom. They didn't notice us either and assumed we were down the path with Grandpa Franklin.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
To apply or not to apply, that is the question
March is here, were at the five month mark, and the weather is teasing us with brief glimpses of spring. Though the mornings are still cold and the evenings are still frigid, the sun shines during the day and competes with the winter breeze that comes in off the coast. The other day I ventured to wear a short sleeved shirt to work (okay, so everything else was still went and hanging in the sun room), and all my students were very surprised. Japanese people rarely wear short sleeves in June, let alone March.
Callan is becoming a real baseball player right before our eyes. Last week we took him to the park and he batted while Dad pitched and Mom played catcher. Then Callan pitched for each of us and then batted again. He jumps on grounders, chases after loose balls, and can even throw a pitch in the general vicinity of the bat so mom and I can hit.
At the park today with Mom, Callan was trying very hard to tell some other kids that he wanted to play baseball with them. When words did not work, he carried his bat and ball over to them and handed them a bat. The two girls, who where a few years older than Callan, gladly played a few pitches with him, and Callan told Dad all about it when he got home from work.
Melissa made whole wheat veggie pizza tonight with tomato sauce, broccoli, red peppers and mozzarella cheese. It was great.
Mom and Dad Franklin brought a book about graduate school for Joey when they came and he is currently a hundred pages into it, and is learning more than he ever thought he would about graduate degrees.
I think the most difficult aspect of the entire graduate school world is that you no longer have the luxury of dabbling. As an undergrad I dabbled in history, in communications, in economics, in public relations, in creative writing. Going to graduate school means deciding what I want to focus my studies on. It means dedicating the five years, if not the rest of my life, to this one field. It means I am doing a lot of soul searching. Do I really want to be a writer? Do I want to teach college? Do I want to be an editor (anyone who reads this blog may wonder if that is even a possibility given the gross spelling/grammatical errors)?
More than that, I think the reality that sub-par work just won’t cut it is what scares me the most. Entering an MFA or PhD program in creative writing means that I am attempting to claim a position as an equal among the writers of the world. Maybe not the canonized Thoreaus and Whites, and Dillard’s, but at least the published, the paid, the respected. It means I will be jumping in the ocean without a life jacket, treading water purified and defiled alike by the blood and sweat of genius writers whose crumpled notes at the bottom of their waste bins, spat upon, and toppled by banana peels and cigarette butts, are infinitely more profound, more interesting, (not to mention better spelled) than anything I have written that might be chosen by some drunk editor with a vendetta against the profitability of his own publication. It means that writing isn’t just something I do in the dark of night when the family is asleep, or in a fit of passionate rage after a disagreement with my wife. It means I have an office, dedicated to reading good literature, the best literature, a computer with an ergonomically split keyboard, a book shelf full of anthologies, due dates, an advisor, and the haunting mantra of all academics: Publish or parish!
I am researching graduate schools, reviewing program descriptions, learning the difference between the MA, the MA with creative thesis option, the terminal MFA, the Ph.D. in English, The PhD in English with creative emphasis, and the PhD in Creative Writing. I am discovering that almost every MFA program is “among the oldest in the country,” and also that while some programs focus on “the quality of there faculty rather than the quantity,” other programs tout the benefit of having more than 70 ‘well-published’ faculty.
The programs with slick, easily navigatable web sites are always more inviting. The ones that look like high school web design projects are almost too painful to search through. If I were to choose my school based solely on the website, I would only apply to the University of Iowa. Although that might be a waste of time since they accept about 10 people a year to there program and all of them have already published books. I thought that going to school was where unpublished, or little published folks went to learn what the published folks already know.
Part of the whole selection process for choosing which schools to apply for has been to read the work of potential faculty at the schools I am considering. I haven’t decided if this is counter productive. I recently read an excerpt from “Sick of Nature” by David Gessner, an environmental activist, essayist, instructor from the Wilmington campus of the University of North Carolina. His nature prose, which is at times akin to Bill Bryson or David Sedaris guide is anything but traditional nature writing, and it’s fluid suddenness is knee-shaking. Here’s a quote from his book that I read on his website. (warning: “sh” word coming up in this paragraph)
I am sick of nature. Sick of trees, sick of birds, sick of the ocean. It's been almost four years now, four years of sitting quietly in my study and sipping tea and contemplating the migratory patterns of the semipalmated plover. Four years of writing essays praised as "quiet" by quiet magazines. Four years of having neighborhood children ask their fathers why the man down the street comes to the post office dressed in his pajamas ("Doesn't he work, Daddy?") or having those same fathers wonder why, when the man actually does dress, he dons the eccentric costume of an English bird watcher, complete with binoculars. Four years of being constrained by the gentle straightjacket of genre; that is, four years of writing about the world without being able to say the word "shit." (While talking a lot of scat.) And let's not forget four years of being the official "nature guy" among my circle of friends. Of going on walks and having them pick up every leaf and newt and turd and asking "what's this?" and, when I (defenseless unless armed with my field guides and even then a bumbler) admit I don't know, having to shrug and watch the sinking disappointment in their eyes.
“I can’t write like this,” I tell myself after reading the clip. This is like fine china, and I’m a cheap origami cup folded out of old newspaper. No, not even that good. The folded newspaper would have published writing on it. Gessner’s ability to combine bits and pieces of detail about his work, about his interactions with his community, about his own insecurity, without ever riffing too heavily on what he’s trying to get at is writing that I dream about. It’s the kind of writing that makes you say, Hey I could do that, even though you know you never could. I have no idea what a semipalmated plover is, but it sounds as dull as he wants us to think it might be. I doubt the alliteration is an accident either. The revelation of his own inadequacy, which would reveal me for a fraud, makes the reader love Gessner for his honesty.
And this is the kind of guy I’m supposed to approach and say, “Hey, by the way, I’d like to apply to your program next year, your stuff is really good, and well, do you think you could put in a good word for me next year when the committee gets together over pizza to laugh at a stack of convoluted personal statements, inflated grades, and hopeless wanna-be writing samples?” The sane part of me says, ‘There’s no way you can do this, no way you can scoff at the establishment by presuming you might be able to stand in even the shadow of the same light that these writers stand in.
Some of the websites I have come across have been less than hopeful. The University of Arizona’s creative writing website has a section entitled “Some thoughts on the program.” It is written by the C.E. Poverman, an accomplished fiction writer and Professor at the University.
The ‘thoughts,’ begin like this: “I would like to offer some thoughts on what the U of A Creative Writing Program and its degree can and cannot do for you.” He then proceeds to list several very academic, very practical, expectations about the benefits of an MFA degree, and then the harsh realities of life with an MFA. The few lucky ones get a job if they’ve published two books, while the rest “turn to secondary interests to support themselves; technical writing for places such as IBM; publicity; and so on. Some, after several years of going along in this way, return sobered to academia and seek more marketable degrees: a PhD in rhetoric and composition; a PhD in literature, and so on. They still want to write, but the exigencies of surviving in what is called a market economy have driven them to make themselves marketable. Some find that it is just wiser to retrain themselves. They go into law, psychology, or whatever else interests--and supports--them.
I imagine being in high school again, and listening to one of those ‘let’s just be friends conversations. The young girl whose overly friendly attitude has convinced another unsuspecting geek that he might have chance with her, now has to sit down and explain reality to her hopeless admirer. But instead of a girl, there is an MFA program and the academic world attached to it. And instead of the geek, there is the aspiring graduate student-writer, who must understand the reality of the program he is considering. I am perfectly aware of the likely-hood of success that lies at the end of this path, and scares me to death. The two biggest reasons to be scared are asleep right now in the next room. I’m not an idealistic, pencil chewing writer with Walden pond fantasies about solitude. I’m a Husband, a Dad, a scout leader, and I want to find a future that allows me to do what I do best to make a living for my family.
My sister said I should be an orthodontist, my dad suggested the military. I mentioned once to Douglas Thayer, a fiction writer and professor at Brigham Young University (who holds an MFA from University of Iowa and has been teaching for 45 years) that I was considering a PhD in English literature and creative writing and he said “What? Do you know how much literature professors make? 45,000 a year! Does your wife know about this?”
Why is everyone trying to scare me, and all the other students out there interested in writing, away from graduate studies in creative writing? Well, it’s because the reality is that most students don’t make it into a tenure track position. In his book “Getting what you came for,” (I forget the Authors name) says that about 20 percent of accepted graduate students in the humanities land decent teaching positions. That leaves the other 80 percent to get computer jobs or go into retail management. Mr. Poverman is right to ask people to consider twice what they hope to get out of an MFA. He is right to scare me, and everyone else who will apply. Creative writing isn’t cut out for everyone, it’s not cut out for most people. In fact it’s not cut out. Dentistry is cut out, even law is cut out. Creative writing is more allusive, so is the academic world. I think the chase is more exciting, more dangerous, more unpredictable.
If I am supposed to figure out what I do best, and learn to do it better, and then find a way to make a living doing it, then shouldn’t I be willing to bet on graduate school’s ability to help me establish a career as a writer, as an editor, as a critical thinker, as a communicator. If only twenty percent of accepted grad students land teaching positions, than my goals is to simply be in that twenty percent. And if I’m not, then I put my talents to use elsewhere, in publishing, in journalism, in editing, in public relations, in scribbling notes on bathroom walls.
So I say thanks to Mr. Poverman for his reality check, for his words of discouragement, and his slightly patronizing tone. He has successfully scared me, and spurred me on. He has brought me to my knees, and kicked me in the rear. It is not enough to think about writing, or to even dabble in it. I must live it. Not in the recluse, typewriter monkey fashion that Mr. Poverman seems so worried about, not because I don’t ‘care about reality,’ not because ‘all I want to do is write,’ not because ‘I can’t be bothered thinking beyond that one necessity,’ not because writings claim is ‘too singular, noble, and imperative to be sullied by other considerations,’ but because it is what I do BEST. It’s the sharpest, most easily drawn arrow in my quiver, and it makes little sense to not seek ways to use it. It would be foolish to go into graduate school planning on not making it. But it would also be foolish to not have a plan B. It would be foolish to go into a career path I will hate, for the sake of money or stability, and it would also be foolish to disregard the exigencies of money and stability for some lofty dream of publishing the next great book. Thank heaven for Mr. Poverman for helping me keep my feet on the ground, and thank heaven for faith, that reminds me there are clouds in which to occasionally place my head.
Callan is becoming a real baseball player right before our eyes. Last week we took him to the park and he batted while Dad pitched and Mom played catcher. Then Callan pitched for each of us and then batted again. He jumps on grounders, chases after loose balls, and can even throw a pitch in the general vicinity of the bat so mom and I can hit.
At the park today with Mom, Callan was trying very hard to tell some other kids that he wanted to play baseball with them. When words did not work, he carried his bat and ball over to them and handed them a bat. The two girls, who where a few years older than Callan, gladly played a few pitches with him, and Callan told Dad all about it when he got home from work.
Melissa made whole wheat veggie pizza tonight with tomato sauce, broccoli, red peppers and mozzarella cheese. It was great.
Mom and Dad Franklin brought a book about graduate school for Joey when they came and he is currently a hundred pages into it, and is learning more than he ever thought he would about graduate degrees.
I think the most difficult aspect of the entire graduate school world is that you no longer have the luxury of dabbling. As an undergrad I dabbled in history, in communications, in economics, in public relations, in creative writing. Going to graduate school means deciding what I want to focus my studies on. It means dedicating the five years, if not the rest of my life, to this one field. It means I am doing a lot of soul searching. Do I really want to be a writer? Do I want to teach college? Do I want to be an editor (anyone who reads this blog may wonder if that is even a possibility given the gross spelling/grammatical errors)?
More than that, I think the reality that sub-par work just won’t cut it is what scares me the most. Entering an MFA or PhD program in creative writing means that I am attempting to claim a position as an equal among the writers of the world. Maybe not the canonized Thoreaus and Whites, and Dillard’s, but at least the published, the paid, the respected. It means I will be jumping in the ocean without a life jacket, treading water purified and defiled alike by the blood and sweat of genius writers whose crumpled notes at the bottom of their waste bins, spat upon, and toppled by banana peels and cigarette butts, are infinitely more profound, more interesting, (not to mention better spelled) than anything I have written that might be chosen by some drunk editor with a vendetta against the profitability of his own publication. It means that writing isn’t just something I do in the dark of night when the family is asleep, or in a fit of passionate rage after a disagreement with my wife. It means I have an office, dedicated to reading good literature, the best literature, a computer with an ergonomically split keyboard, a book shelf full of anthologies, due dates, an advisor, and the haunting mantra of all academics: Publish or parish!
I am researching graduate schools, reviewing program descriptions, learning the difference between the MA, the MA with creative thesis option, the terminal MFA, the Ph.D. in English, The PhD in English with creative emphasis, and the PhD in Creative Writing. I am discovering that almost every MFA program is “among the oldest in the country,” and also that while some programs focus on “the quality of there faculty rather than the quantity,” other programs tout the benefit of having more than 70 ‘well-published’ faculty.
The programs with slick, easily navigatable web sites are always more inviting. The ones that look like high school web design projects are almost too painful to search through. If I were to choose my school based solely on the website, I would only apply to the University of Iowa. Although that might be a waste of time since they accept about 10 people a year to there program and all of them have already published books. I thought that going to school was where unpublished, or little published folks went to learn what the published folks already know.
Part of the whole selection process for choosing which schools to apply for has been to read the work of potential faculty at the schools I am considering. I haven’t decided if this is counter productive. I recently read an excerpt from “Sick of Nature” by David Gessner, an environmental activist, essayist, instructor from the Wilmington campus of the University of North Carolina. His nature prose, which is at times akin to Bill Bryson or David Sedaris guide is anything but traditional nature writing, and it’s fluid suddenness is knee-shaking. Here’s a quote from his book that I read on his website. (warning: “sh” word coming up in this paragraph)
I am sick of nature. Sick of trees, sick of birds, sick of the ocean. It's been almost four years now, four years of sitting quietly in my study and sipping tea and contemplating the migratory patterns of the semipalmated plover. Four years of writing essays praised as "quiet" by quiet magazines. Four years of having neighborhood children ask their fathers why the man down the street comes to the post office dressed in his pajamas ("Doesn't he work, Daddy?") or having those same fathers wonder why, when the man actually does dress, he dons the eccentric costume of an English bird watcher, complete with binoculars. Four years of being constrained by the gentle straightjacket of genre; that is, four years of writing about the world without being able to say the word "shit." (While talking a lot of scat.) And let's not forget four years of being the official "nature guy" among my circle of friends. Of going on walks and having them pick up every leaf and newt and turd and asking "what's this?" and, when I (defenseless unless armed with my field guides and even then a bumbler) admit I don't know, having to shrug and watch the sinking disappointment in their eyes.
“I can’t write like this,” I tell myself after reading the clip. This is like fine china, and I’m a cheap origami cup folded out of old newspaper. No, not even that good. The folded newspaper would have published writing on it. Gessner’s ability to combine bits and pieces of detail about his work, about his interactions with his community, about his own insecurity, without ever riffing too heavily on what he’s trying to get at is writing that I dream about. It’s the kind of writing that makes you say, Hey I could do that, even though you know you never could. I have no idea what a semipalmated plover is, but it sounds as dull as he wants us to think it might be. I doubt the alliteration is an accident either. The revelation of his own inadequacy, which would reveal me for a fraud, makes the reader love Gessner for his honesty.
And this is the kind of guy I’m supposed to approach and say, “Hey, by the way, I’d like to apply to your program next year, your stuff is really good, and well, do you think you could put in a good word for me next year when the committee gets together over pizza to laugh at a stack of convoluted personal statements, inflated grades, and hopeless wanna-be writing samples?” The sane part of me says, ‘There’s no way you can do this, no way you can scoff at the establishment by presuming you might be able to stand in even the shadow of the same light that these writers stand in.
Some of the websites I have come across have been less than hopeful. The University of Arizona’s creative writing website has a section entitled “Some thoughts on the program.” It is written by the C.E. Poverman, an accomplished fiction writer and Professor at the University.
The ‘thoughts,’ begin like this: “I would like to offer some thoughts on what the U of A Creative Writing Program and its degree can and cannot do for you.” He then proceeds to list several very academic, very practical, expectations about the benefits of an MFA degree, and then the harsh realities of life with an MFA. The few lucky ones get a job if they’ve published two books, while the rest “turn to secondary interests to support themselves; technical writing for places such as IBM; publicity; and so on. Some, after several years of going along in this way, return sobered to academia and seek more marketable degrees: a PhD in rhetoric and composition; a PhD in literature, and so on. They still want to write, but the exigencies of surviving in what is called a market economy have driven them to make themselves marketable. Some find that it is just wiser to retrain themselves. They go into law, psychology, or whatever else interests--and supports--them.
I imagine being in high school again, and listening to one of those ‘let’s just be friends conversations. The young girl whose overly friendly attitude has convinced another unsuspecting geek that he might have chance with her, now has to sit down and explain reality to her hopeless admirer. But instead of a girl, there is an MFA program and the academic world attached to it. And instead of the geek, there is the aspiring graduate student-writer, who must understand the reality of the program he is considering. I am perfectly aware of the likely-hood of success that lies at the end of this path, and scares me to death. The two biggest reasons to be scared are asleep right now in the next room. I’m not an idealistic, pencil chewing writer with Walden pond fantasies about solitude. I’m a Husband, a Dad, a scout leader, and I want to find a future that allows me to do what I do best to make a living for my family.
My sister said I should be an orthodontist, my dad suggested the military. I mentioned once to Douglas Thayer, a fiction writer and professor at Brigham Young University (who holds an MFA from University of Iowa and has been teaching for 45 years) that I was considering a PhD in English literature and creative writing and he said “What? Do you know how much literature professors make? 45,000 a year! Does your wife know about this?”
Why is everyone trying to scare me, and all the other students out there interested in writing, away from graduate studies in creative writing? Well, it’s because the reality is that most students don’t make it into a tenure track position. In his book “Getting what you came for,” (I forget the Authors name) says that about 20 percent of accepted graduate students in the humanities land decent teaching positions. That leaves the other 80 percent to get computer jobs or go into retail management. Mr. Poverman is right to ask people to consider twice what they hope to get out of an MFA. He is right to scare me, and everyone else who will apply. Creative writing isn’t cut out for everyone, it’s not cut out for most people. In fact it’s not cut out. Dentistry is cut out, even law is cut out. Creative writing is more allusive, so is the academic world. I think the chase is more exciting, more dangerous, more unpredictable.
If I am supposed to figure out what I do best, and learn to do it better, and then find a way to make a living doing it, then shouldn’t I be willing to bet on graduate school’s ability to help me establish a career as a writer, as an editor, as a critical thinker, as a communicator. If only twenty percent of accepted grad students land teaching positions, than my goals is to simply be in that twenty percent. And if I’m not, then I put my talents to use elsewhere, in publishing, in journalism, in editing, in public relations, in scribbling notes on bathroom walls.
So I say thanks to Mr. Poverman for his reality check, for his words of discouragement, and his slightly patronizing tone. He has successfully scared me, and spurred me on. He has brought me to my knees, and kicked me in the rear. It is not enough to think about writing, or to even dabble in it. I must live it. Not in the recluse, typewriter monkey fashion that Mr. Poverman seems so worried about, not because I don’t ‘care about reality,’ not because ‘all I want to do is write,’ not because ‘I can’t be bothered thinking beyond that one necessity,’ not because writings claim is ‘too singular, noble, and imperative to be sullied by other considerations,’ but because it is what I do BEST. It’s the sharpest, most easily drawn arrow in my quiver, and it makes little sense to not seek ways to use it. It would be foolish to go into graduate school planning on not making it. But it would also be foolish to not have a plan B. It would be foolish to go into a career path I will hate, for the sake of money or stability, and it would also be foolish to disregard the exigencies of money and stability for some lofty dream of publishing the next great book. Thank heaven for Mr. Poverman for helping me keep my feet on the ground, and thank heaven for faith, that reminds me there are clouds in which to occasionally place my head.
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