Towle House

I Actually Like Summer in Indiana…

…which is basically happening right now: hot and humid.  I forgot how reckless I feel during Indiana summers.  I’m one of those people who feels more possibility when facing open fields than I do facing a city skyline.  I am very dedicated to my small-town posturing.  I have the urge to drive long distances on country roads with the windows down and music blaring.  The new album from The National is out today; they only make for good driving music 50% of the time.  I haven’t listened to this new album enough to decide how I feel about it yet.  Except for the song “Sea of Love,” which I already kind of adore. 

Things feel bleak and open-ended at the same time.  I’m applying for jobs all up and down the Eastern seaboard.  And a few here in Indiana.  It’s weird having no idea where I’m going to be living three months from now.

I’ve also been watching ASMR videos.  They are strange but do the job: relax me and make me complacent.  I’m trying to write about them and finding it difficult.  There is something to the materiality of ASMR sounds that needs to be interrogated, but possibly I’m in too deep to be the interrogator.   

Everything is feeling very tenuous.  Which is, if anything, making everything I read more poignant and overwhelming. 

Gatsby, a Cream Sweater

duckbeater:

BASICALLY WE LIKED IT! 

Evan has feelings: 

I think too of the way the characters’ faces are often fuzzy for their nimbédness; I don’t know if this is a product of translating from 3D to 2D, or a consequence of the filming procedures required for this complicated digitization; or someone on the lens-side dicking about; or if the glowing skin of these gorgeous creatures was really too much for my eye to accept. In any event, the contrast between crisp, cool character presentation and gauzy, blown-out un-seeing, was a rhythm I became attuned to throughout the spectacle, during cross-cutting, within the same scene, and seemed apiece with the characters’ mercurial, mercenary natures. Yourself and the other ladies were much taken with the “cream sweater” Gatsby dons in the middle of the flick. Fleshly, woolen, gorgeous—Leo DiCaprio does strike me as so much comelier in these scenes; indeed, he is more comely in the cream sweater than in any scenes he has ever done in any other movie. (And he was quite nubile in The Beach, where he was sun-dappled and harassed on a beach for the film’s duration.) But surely this comeliness owes something to the texture of the lens, the way the focus caresses Gatsby, draws us to the softness of the cream sweater and then swats us away, how the depth of focus draws our cheek to his breast (and his curves, his manliness in the cream sweater—such refinement, and yet such strength) and then pushes us out of doors. His golden skin. Glossed. Then fuzzed. I am getting a little hot now—a lot hot now—thinking about the cream sweater.


Beth has feelings:

Here’s where I take a moment and talk about the deeply personal way that I read this book and how I think Luhrmann or someone else might read it differently.  The movie is very interested in the tragedy of the love story.  This is clearly what Luhrmann is into, what he takes away from the book.  And that’s fine.  I have absolutely no interest in the love story, by the end.  For me, the ultimate melodrama of the book, its real feelings of defeat and triumph and terror, come in the way Nick filters his experiences.  The end of the book is defeated and, in my opinion, the most beautiful final pages of any book in the literary canon.  Because I over-identify with Nick as a Midwesterner and snob and someone who feels very much defined by socioeconomic class structure, I have to keep imagining what happens after that final line.  And for me, that means this man has to go back to the Midwest, carrying around an experience he can never fully explain or share.  I don’t think he’s marked by the tragedy of Gatsby.  He’s actually marked by loneliness.  I think, in the end, the movie doesn’t understand the total loneliness of this book.  It maybe gets Gatsby’s loneliness (and makes Daisy lonely despite the fact that she is basically a non-person in the book), but it ignores Nick’s.  He’s in a sanatorium, telling this story to a psychologist, being encouraged to write it down.  In the book, there’s the feeling that he’ll never get to tell this story, not really.  Not to anyone willing to listen anyway.  The movie misses a chance to bring that feeling of total loneliness upon the audience.  I am crushed by the loneliness of everyone in the book; in the movie, not so much.

Come explore more of our Midwestern feelings at Actuary Lit!

Evan and I wrote about The Great Gatsby over at Actuary. 

I’m reading John Durham Peters’s Speaking into the Air: A History of the Idea of Communication.  It is full of all sorts of revelatory ideas about the failure of pure communication and how all media (including and especially writing) is a tragic attempt to constantly speak with another figure who may as well be dead.  Despite my love of everything in this book, the writing is pretty straight-forward.  And then suddenly, here in the middle of a section about the Postal Services’ Office of Dead Letters, we get this lovely paragraph.  Peters gets poetic and consequently I’ve been walking around half-devastated all evening. 
P.S.  This means I probably should re-read Bartleby, unfortunately. 

I’m reading John Durham Peters’s Speaking into the Air: A History of the Idea of Communication.  It is full of all sorts of revelatory ideas about the failure of pure communication and how all media (including and especially writing) is a tragic attempt to constantly speak with another figure who may as well be dead.  Despite my love of everything in this book, the writing is pretty straight-forward.  And then suddenly, here in the middle of a section about the Postal Services’ Office of Dead Letters, we get this lovely paragraph.  Peters gets poetic and consequently I’ve been walking around half-devastated all evening. 

P.S.  This means I probably should re-read Bartleby, unfortunately. 

My Only Ghost Story, and It’s Not a Good One

I’m reading Deborah Blum’s Ghost Hunters, an account of several prominent 19th-century scientists and their obsession with psychical research.  It’s not so much about ghosts as it is about mediums and telepathy, but combined with my recent re-reading of Brenda Coultas’s ghost stories in The Marvelous Bones of Time, it’s got me thinking a lot about ghosts.

I’m not sure I actually believe in ghosts, although I like my world mostly mysterious and can certainly point to places that make me feel strange things.  I’ve only had one first-hand ghost-like experience, and while I cannot claim that it was, in fact, a ghost, it still happened.  So let me tell a super brief story about the time I saw a possible ghost. 

The summer after I graduated college, I stuck around campus to work in the library.  Mostly, I was putting off the inevitable, disappointing move back into my parent’s house for a few months.   The campus was mostly deserted, although two of my closest friends were both working there that summer, too.  My friend Amy was, like me, putting off adulthood by spending her summer in the music school library.  Keely, meanwhile, began an actual career in the school’s admission office.  It was a weird summer, a kind of last hurrah in which I spent half my time in absolute rapture and the other half in absolute despair.  Mostly, I read books and drank a lot of cherry pop (with actual cherry syrup in it!) at the local ice cream parlor.

Anyway, during what turned out to be the hottest weekend of an otherwise mild summer, Amy, Keely, and I decided to go camping.  DePauw has its own nature park: a sprawling, beautiful woods and prairies area situated around an abandoned quarry.  If you look down from the high edge of the quarry, you can actually see the remains of the road taken by the crew trucks beneath all the water and new-ish plant life.  In the last week of June 2009, DePauw sponsored a camp-out for the few remaining scragglers left on campus.  The park staff provided everything - tents, lanterns, food, scavenger hunts.  We only had to bring the sleeping bags, bug spray, and a personal stash of grape pop and Oreos. 

This story isn’t about camping, though.  It’s a ghost story. 

The evening of the camping trip, Amy, Keely, and I were lounging around the porch of the visitor’s center, a lovely covered patio full of rocking chairs and benches.  It was incredibly hot out, and later that night, a huge storm would hit just south of us.  In fact, we had been at the visitor’s center to use its bathrooms (the only respectable ones in the park) and check the weather report via sketchy Wi-Fi.  The sun was setting; the porch sat on a squat hill, so we were kind of looking down at trees and bushes, but not by much of an advantage.  The camping area was a little ways down the grassy path, probably a quarter mile or less.  It was far enough that we felt all alone, anyway. 

There is nothing particularly creepy about the DePauw Nature Park.  I always feel a bit eerie around areas of abandoned production (quarries, factories, et cetera), but that didn’t make it inherently strange.  Also, Greencastle, Indiana, has always struck me as a mysterious place of limestone and water and trains, all brimming with promise of unknowable things.  And yet, all of us felt a bit on edge for some reason.  The wood furniture and columns creaked loudly around us; the humidity made our skin prickle.  Let me set the scene: Amy was sitting in a rocker toward the back of the porch, closest to the empty ranger’s office.  Keely and I were sitting opposite of her, Keely lying on a bench, me tucked up in a rocker.  Keely had her digital camera on and was lazily pointing it in our directions, although she never did take more than a couple pictures.

The sun was setting, the sky just on the edge of getting dark.  Keely had her camera pointed in Amy’s direction, although she wasn’t paying attention to it.  We were all talking about something stupid.  At one point, I looked at Keely’s camera screen and said, “Hey, what’s that?  Keely, what IS that?”

For on Keely’s camera screen was Amy, in her rocking chair.  And next to her was a white mass, people-sized although not necessarily people-shaped.  More like a person wearing a sheet.  A Halloween costume.  Keely ignored my questions, and Amy hadn’t heard my urgent whisperings.  Finally, Keely looked down at her camera screen.  We both kind of shouted - neither of us is capable of screaming, really - and took off running.  Poor Amy, not aware of her invisible new neighbor, followed us a second or two later.  We all kind of collapsed in the grass, only thirty feet or so from the visitor center porch.  “What happened?” Amy asked.

We tried to explain it to her, and poor Amy was jealous she missed it herself.  I’m not sure if we actually saw what we saw, or if it was some kind of mass hysteria writ small.  Keely and I like to say that is was something wrong with the camera, that because we both saw it, it certainly just had to be some kind of weird light anomaly or something.  Mostly, we just felt stupid for yelling and running off like a couple of cliched girls.  

But that person-sized lump of white light sticks with me as the only moment in my life that I can point to and say “maybe.”

Winter Break, So Far

Down to the last week of winter break.  I have mostly wasted it through sleeping, watching movies, and petting my cat Winchester, who has taken up a recent habit of waking up from his naps feeling very affectionate and sitting in my lap, which is not a trait he’s known for.  I have barely touched my thesis, which is due in about a month and a half.  It’s falling apart, if I’m being honest.  It’s getting close to the end and unraveling the closer it gets.  I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how little I actually enjoy writing lately.  There’s a part of me that thinks if I just gave into the fact that I can enjoy reading without having to create books myself, I would be a much better, much happier person.  But I’ve wasted a lot of years writing at this point.  So it feels like a real wash.

I always get the blues in the winter, like most of my fellow Hoosiers.  Winter break is unproductive because I’m so restless, maybe.  I have so many things I want to do that instead I just end up reading a book or asking friends to lunch.  I am incredibly lazy when left to my own devices.  School starting again will be my saving grace, although I am dreading this semester for some unknown reason. 

Part of the problem could be the sudden explosion of engagement announcements showing up in my Facebook Newsfeed.  In the last six months, at least 15 facebook friends and two very close real-life friends have gotten engaged.  Last week, I helped my best friend begin looking at wedding dresses and reception halls.  I’m her maid-of-honor, and I already feel a duty to be both nurturing/upstanding AND miserable through the entire process.  A rom-com maid-of-honor.  I told my mom it was going to be a long 2013 if this engagement process kept pace.  She asked if I really wanted to be engaged or married that badly.  To be honest: definitely not.  I have absolutely no interest in being married right now.  I think what I’m envious of is the promise of eventual stability.  Being engaged is making a step toward a kind of stability that is completely foreign to me as I prepare to graduate in five months, with absolutely no job prospects and, to be truthful, no real interest in any career field.  In the summer of 2014, when both of my engaged friends have their weddings, I have no idea where I’ll be or what I’ll be doing or who I’ll know.  That is terrifying to me.  I don’t take well to uncertainties.

I warned my best friend that I will be crying like a baby at her wedding, even if I am standing in the front of the church (even stranger’s weddings make me cry, I told her).  After our brief excursion into wedding planning, we saw Les Miserables.  Despite knowing it was manipulating me, I felt very moved by the whole thing.  I cried twice, during Anne Hathaway’s big song and then again at the super-saccharine finale.  My friend said she would have probably cried if she hadn’t been in public.  I’m not sure how she can turn it off like that, to be honest.  If I’m going to cry, nothing’s going to stop me.  In the end, I loved Les Miserables.  I loved that it made me cry.  I might try reading Hugo’s novel. 

When I put together my New Year’s resolutions for 2013, I almost added “Stop reading books so emotionally” to the list.  Besides the fact that I can’t really change my brain chemistry enough to actually do that, I realize it’s a stupid concept in the first place.  I like reading books with all my nerves turned inside-out.  I like feeling like a cat’s whiskers constantly rubbing up against walls.  I’m re-reading The Raven Boys, by Maggie Stiefvater.  It’s a YA novel I loved when I listened to it on audio back in November.  There’s a friendship between two boarding-school teenage boys, Adam and Gansey, that rips me apart in this book (which is, technically, the first in an eventual series of four).  Late in the book, the two boys - wealthy, loyal Gansey and poor, proud Adam - get in a verbal fight in a hospital parking lot.  I can barely read it because it makes me hurt so much, the way I feel so attached to both these kids and how I understand where they’re both coming from.  This fictional friendship gets at issues of class and money that make me remember all too painfully how angry I was as a teenager, resenting money even while all I wanted was to have lots of it.  I guess I still feel this way, seeing as how dismayed I am over future job prospects and how badly I just want to have the money that will allow me to pay the bill for car repairs on my own.   

About Gansey and Adam: I worry about what will happen to them as the series continues.  I’m pretty sure they’re not both going to make it out alive, or at least, not whole. 

Ten Resolutions for 2013

Well, 2012 is coming to a close.  I can’t say it was a particularly good year.  School was fine, and nothing majorly disastrous happened.  But personally, it was one of the most unfulfilling years I can remember.  I’m hoping for a better 2013.  In that spirit, here’s my most pressing resolutions for the new year.  Some of these are very personal, but I’m putting them out there in the internet in hopes of actually sticking to them this year. 

1.  Lose 10 more pounds.  Every year, I vow to lose more weight.  And last year, I lost almost 15 pounds without even really trying.  To be honest, I’d be happy to lose just another 5, which would put me down to what I weighed my freshman year of college.  But here’s hoping to another 5 for shits and giggles. 

2.  Be more charitable.  Chalk it up to a working for the Notre Dame Writing Center, which includes community service as part of its mission, but this last year has taught me how important it is to me to be a valuable, open-minded member of a community.  This year, I hope to be giving of my time and money.

3.  Show my appreciation more often.  I’ve always tried to show my appreciation to those who’ve helped me, but I could always be better at it.  I should take more time out of my schedule to thank others, both those close and far.  I’m also vowing to actually donate a little money to my favorite podcasts this year, as I totally freeloaded off them last year, despite the fact that they single-handedly keep me sane.

4.  Stop falling for guys just because they’re nice to me.  This one speaks for itself and has been a problem for me my whole life.  Technically, this goes hand in hand with my next resolution.

5.  Work on my self-esteem issues.  I struggle to overcome my super-low self-esteem almost everyday, but my problems with depression (see below) this year have really made me realize that I need to be conscious about this problem and how many times I have let it undermine personal and professional goals.

6.  Stop letting depressive moods have reign.  This was a rough year, mentally.  And I think it’s time to stop being miserable but never doing anything about it.  It’s time to learn how to manage my moods a bit better.  Just as importantly, I need to be better at realizing when I can’t rely solely on myself and seeking out help when things get bad.  It’s time to get on with my life.

7.  Enjoy my last semester as an MFA student.  This one’s a lot more positive!  I will admit that my MFA experience has been, frankly, underwhelming.  There is a pretty good chance that when I graduate this year, I will be saying goodbye to creative writing as a field of study/interest.  But I’m not as sad about that fact as I would have been a year or two ago.  Instead, I just want to enjoy the last five months of taking classes, hanging out with other writers, and soaking in all the free criticism and editing.  I will always write poems and fiction for fun, even if I decide not to pursue it at any professional level.

8.  Finally watch Breaking Bad.  I can’t believe I’ve put it off this long.  Time for this nonsense to end.  This shall be the year of my Aaron Paul obsession!

9.  Read more Dostoevsky.  I read Crime and Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov as a teenager, and they went right over my head.  I’m older, wiser, and better-versed in Russian literature, so it’s time for me to read more Dostoevsky.  I’m especially eager to finally tackle The Idiot or (if I’m feeling super-ambitious) The Demons (aka The Possessed).  For years, I’ve been calling myself a Tolstoy Girl.  Let’s put that to the test.   

10.  Be a better friend.  I think I say this every year.  But every year, there’s room for improvement.  I can do much better at staying in touch, making time, and being more supportive.  And on the reverse, it’s time for me to start expecting the same from my friends in return.   

Research Proposal: Can writing centers serve as points of intervention for first-generation college students?

I wrote this research proposal for my Writing Center Theory and Practice class.  I hope to turn it into a full-blown project next semester:


Being a first-generation student means crossing boundaries.  When I left for college, I did not realize what an impact my first-generation status would have on my life for the next four years (not to mention the impact it would have on my graduate career).  Suddenly, I was an outsider.  My continuing-generation peers had access to a language and set of expectations that I did not have.  Unlike them, I did not know how to play the role of a college student, how to model myself according to the expectations and unsaid rules of academic life.  It was a new world.  I am not alone in having had this experience.  Research shows us that first-generation students have a tougher time adjusting to college life than continuing-generation students.  Many studies claim they have higher drop-out rates, lower GPAs, and less self-esteem than their peers.  There are many reasons for these problems: less familial or financial support, issues with academic preparedness, and problems with self-efficacy and study skills.  Several researchers have pointed out the ways in which collaborative learning environments or writing teachers can help first-generation students adjust to and succeed in college.  However, there is little research being done in the way of peer tutoring in writing.  Can writing centers serve as a point of intervention in the often-stressful lives of first-generation students?

With the rate of first-generation students enrolled in college increasing every year, more and more attention is being paid to the ways they operate within academia.  Most of the research has focused on their lack of academic preparedness, the hurdles inherent in not having grown up in households that promote collegiate perspectives, and the few resources available specifically for first-generation students.  Some research also shows the ways in which low GPAs and low self-esteem can combine to make college untenable for many first-generation students.  However, there is not as much information about what the actual college experience is like for the first-generation students who do stay in school.  In her excellent article, “Academic Literacy Perceptions and Performance: Comparing First-Generation and Continuing-Generation College Students,” Ann M. Penrose states:

“First-generation students differ little from their [continuing-generation] peers in initial expectations for success or in performance in college.  Where the two groups diverge is in the experiences they have as college students – their comfort level or quality of life, in this case intellectual and social life in the academic community.  In other words, what distinguishes FG from CG students is not whether they can succeed but the cost of their success.” (Penrose 447)

The haunting final sentence here echoes many of the concerns facing those who study first-generation students right now.  With so much research already supporting the fact that first-generations students struggle, the task is to understand the exact ways in which they struggle.  The current scholarship in the field attempts to reckon with this problem.  We know first-generation students have problems.  The question is how do we now make their lives easier in practice and not just in theory?

Several researchers and authors attempt to lay out a game plan to help first-generation students through campus support.  One way to do this, many scholars agree, is through collaborative learning efforts.  Jeff Davis, in his book The First-Generation Student Experience, is a major proponent of study groups meant to not only teach better study skills to first-generation students but to also provide them with a social outlet that lets them model themselves on their non-first-generation peers.  The idea is that first-generation students seek models of behavior that they believe are beneficial to continuing-generation students (Davis 42).  Peter Collier and David Morgan agree that behavior modeling and the teaching of study skills could help first generation students, as “university success requires mastery of the ‘college student’ role” (Collier 425). 

To take the importance of study groups one step further, I propose there are benefits to collaborative learning that are particularly relevant to first-generation students.  Part of this is certainly due to the first-generation student’s desire to model oneself appropriately to university behavior, examples best given through observing others (Davis 42); but it is also due to the fact that first-generation students may actually be more open to community-based learning based on their backgrounds (which are usually, though not always, working-class or low-income).  A recent psychology study shows that one of the disadvantages faced by first-generation students lies in the promotion of “independence” as an important value by American universities.  Continuing-generation studies, who usually grow up in middle-class families, are taught that independence is an important value, with time given over to individual hobbies or talents for the children in the family.  Meanwhile, working-class, first-generation students are more likely to have grown up in households extolling the virtues of “interdependence” (Stephens).  Therefore, “first-generation students are likely to experience the university culture’s focus on independence as a cultural mismatch – as relatively uncomfortable and a clear divergence from their previous experiences” (Stephens).  In light of this concept, collaborative learning may benefit first-generation students in ways previously ignored.  Mentoring, social interaction, and skills-learning are all important to first-generation students, and a collaborative learning environment may help them succeed because they are already attuned to its operations and advantages.

Along with collaborative learning, some research argues that first-generation students might benefit from careful attention from writing teachers.  Ann Penrose, in particular, notes that one of the most difficult aspects of college a student most overcome is the change in discourse.  First-generation students are especially vulnerable to learning a new, academic discourse.  “Because literary practices enact the values and customs of a community, they represent a critical site of vulnerability for those who are uncertain of their membership.  It is in written texts that newcomer’s outside status is most clearly and tangibly exposed” (Penrose 457).  Penrose goes on to explain that because first-generation students are more aware of the differences between the way they communicate at home and the way they communicate in college, they see the distance between discourses as being much larger than their continuing-generation peers.  Therefore, “writing teachers and researchers need to continue to explore pedagogies that will concentrate their efforts not just on validating personal identity or on demystifying the conventions of academic communities but also on helping students forge identities as members of those communities” (Penrose 459).  Helping first-generation students gain access to the discourse involved in academia can play a major role in their acclimation to college overall. 

So far, research supports the need for writing support and collaborative learning groups for first-generation students.  Reading this work makes me wonder if there is a way that writing centers can bridge the gap between these two concepts in order to provide a model of writing and learning in a college setting that will especially benefit first-generation students.  The collegiate experience expands far beyond the classroom and interactions with faculty members.  Many universities sponsor orientation or mentor groups for first-generation students in their freshman year.  However, there is a vital need for support systems that extend through a student’s entire college career.  Writing centers might be a successful model for support: teaching important skills, providing peer interaction, and helping first-generation students break through the barriers of academic discourse.  With so much research and anecdotal evidence showing that the socially-fostered (and often negative or doubting) mindsets of first-generation students may be the real culprits in their struggles with academia, it is necessary to help them adjust to the operations and unseen rules of the academy. 

Peer tutoring, such as our work here at the University of Notre Dame Writing Center, allows students to interact on multiple levels.  They are learning writing skills and consulting on specific problems in writing, of course.  But they are also communicating and interacting with students who have been successful at entering the halls of academic discourse.  Peer tutoring allows first-generation students access to the modeling Jeff Davis prescribes (see above) while taking off the pressure involved in institutional organizations and faculty interactions.  Better yet, writing centers are open-access.  They welcome students from every year of study and discipline.  They can come and go as frequently as seniors as they can as freshman.  At a time when many colleges are forced to slash budgets for institutional support of marginalized students, writing centers may be a cost-effective way at providing students with the kind of support that is needed for all four years or more of undergraduate study (and, depending on funding, during all the years of graduate study), while requiring only a handful of faculty or staff members to oversee it.  I am not suggesting that writing centers are cheap or easy to run, but they serve several important purposes on campus at once (skills-based tutoring, social interaction, mentoring/positive student reinforcement, etc.), allowing them to serve as points of intervention across several key components of college acclimation.

This research proposal provides an argument for the need for research into the effectiveness of writing centers in helping first-generation students adjust in college.  Because I am personally invested in this project as both a writing center tutor and a first-generation student, I want to continue my research in this area of study that has largely been ignored by scholars thus far.  There is quite a bit of research about the benefits of peer study groups and writing teachers, but how can we combine these two areas in a way that will allow writing centers to become more than just depositories for writing knowledge?  By continuing my research of academic and psychological studies related to first-generation students and by using anecdotal or survey evidence from first-generation students and writing tutors, I hope to make an argument for the ways in which a university writing center can serve as an intervening agent in the academic and campus lives of first-generation students.  I realize the research may not always go where I expect it to go, and I know that heartbreak can often lie in the path of studying the things about which we most care.  But I am willing to take that risk in pursuing this project. 

 

 

Works Cited:

Collier, Peter J. and David L. Morgan. “ ‘Is that Paper Really Due Today?’: Differences in First-Generation and Traditional College Students’ Understandings of Faculty Expectations.” Higher Education 55.4 (2008): 425-446. JSTOR. Web. 19 Nov. 2012

Davis, Jeff.  The First Generation Student Experience: Implications for Campus Practice and Strategies for Improving Persistence and Success. Sterling, VA: Stylus, 2010.  Digital.

Penrose, Ann M. “Academic Literacy Perceptions and Performance: Comparing First-Generation and Continuing-Generation College Students.” Research in the Teaching of English 36.4 (2002): 437-461. JSTOR. Web. 19 Nov. 2012.

Stephens, Nicole M., et al. “Unseen Disadvantage: How American Universities’ Focus on Independence Undermines the Academic Performance of First-Generation College Students.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 102.6 (2012): 1178-1197. EBSCOhost. Web. 20 Nov. 2012.

Evan does this adorable thing where he posts photos of current research, often with witty commentary from Evan himself.  So here is my version of such a thing, from Deborah Kaplan’s essay “‘Why would any woman want to read such stories?’: The Distinctions Between Genre Romances and Slash Fiction.”  Here, she compared Stargate: Atlantis slash fic with m/m romance novels.  At the end, she makes a statement that, perhaps (un)fortunately, applies to me, both as a romance reader and as an occasional slash partaker.  
Witty comment: She is not writing about Wincest, but she totally could be.  

Evan does this adorable thing where he posts photos of current research, often with witty commentary from Evan himself.  So here is my version of such a thing, from Deborah Kaplan’s essay “‘Why would any woman want to read such stories?’: The Distinctions Between Genre Romances and Slash Fiction.”  Here, she compared Stargate: Atlantis slash fic with m/m romance novels.  At the end, she makes a statement that, perhaps (un)fortunately, applies to me, both as a romance reader and as an occasional slash partaker.  

Witty comment: She is not writing about Wincest, but she totally could be.  

Digitial Humanities, Literary Studies, and Popular Romance

In my digital humanities graduate seminar, my classmates and I spend a lot of time talking about “the corpus,” in particular a collection of one-thousand-something American novels published between 1851-1875 that my professor uses for his own scholarly work.  While discussing the usefulness (and occasional un-usefulness) of topic modeling on Monday, we had a kind of crisis moment in regards to literary canon.  We hate it, we love it, we can’t figure out how to divorce ourselves from it.  Digital humanities, with its quantitative approach to qualitative subject matter, seems like a way to get out of the clutches of the dead white man canon.  But can we really go around and just dig out books with titles like The Spirit Rapper (literally, this is a book that exists in this corpus) and suddenly assume that they have any kind of cultural bearing?  Probably not. 

But neither can we assume that these books don’t have cultural bearing.  As one of my classmates pointed out, Moby Dick is canonized because of its exceptionalism, because it survives outside of what might be considered mainstream at the time.  These mid-19th-century American novels, full as they are of sentiment and religious angst and slave plantations, may be mundane in style and topic, but isn’t that in itself interesting?  Is literary “trash,” the popular if easily-forgotten flotsam of a particular time and culture, any less important than its more spectacular counterparts?  I don’t think it is.  If anything, a whole bunch of ”bad” books written on a similar topic in a relatively small smattering of years can tell us more about society within a given period than any Melville or Hawthorne novel.  Digital humanities may not have set out to suddenly save a bunch of books from the black hole of criticism; rather, DH is interested in trends and scales and visualizations of texts.  But there is something incredibly appealing to me about its recovery methods.  And like most things in my life, it all comes back to romance novels.

It’s not that romance is entirely ignored by academic/literary institutions (lovely journals like THIS exist).  But it’s ignored by about 99.3% of it.  Romance, remember, is the single highest-selling genre in all of publishing.  When the market tanked in 2008, romance was the only publishing area to actually MAKE money.  Romance is popular, and it is social.  The online romance-reading community is one of the most fervent (and, interestingly, one of the most accepting/kind) fan demographics out there in cyberland.  And yet when a literary canon for the 2010s is established fifty years or so from now, you won’t see a single romance title on it.  I guarantee it.  People might still be making Fifty Shades of Grey jokes (and admittedly it’s earned that right), but that’s about it.  So imagine my excitement over the possibility of what digital humanities might uncover when putting together a corpus of American novels from 2000-2025.  Won’t it be funny to see Nora Roberts and Loretta Chase standing right next to Jonathan Franzen or Dave Eggers (or whatever else the hip literati kids are reading these days)?  Maybe funny’s not the right word there.  Won’t it be earned?  Won’t it be representitive of actual socio-literary trends

It is not that I want to stand on a soapbox here and say that digitial humanities is going to force us to suddenly start studying romance novels.  I can almost guarantee that won’t happen.  But I do think the huge scale of published work that digital humanities scholars work with is capable of showing that literature, politics, and social concerns go beyond whatever book makes the front of the NYT Book Review. If I topic-model a corpus of 21st-century American texts on my holographic spaceship computer in 2120, I will be amazed to see the huge number of books about women’s sexual lives that make up this corpus.  (Side note: I like to imagine the words in that exact topic key.  I imagine it will look a lot like: “BDSM cock virgin plunder,” etc).  I’ll see that a book like Fifty Shades of Grey existed and was insanely popular AT THE EXACT SAME TIME in which a bunch of Republicans lost election based on their ignorant ideas about, yep, women’s sexual lives!  This is great.  This is thrilling.  This makes me excited to be an active reader of a genre that represents so intensely the ever-shifting, ever-challenging ideas about women, women’s bodies, and what women do with said bodies.   

So yeah.  Digital humanities might just go hand-in-hand with the study of popular romance in some way. Or at the very least, it might help make up for the fact that I spent an entire, sad week this last summer reading Fifty Shades of Grey

Rejected Titles for My Poetry Manifesto

Poetry Is Not a Romance Novel: Language Unserviced by Plot

Poetry Is Not an Episode of Justified: The Barrier between Language and Medium

Poetry Is Not a Penis: Gender and Object

Poetry Is Not a Marriage: The Lack of Compromise between Image and Form

Poetry Is Not a Sufjan Stevens Song: Deconstructing Sentimentality

Poetry Is Not a Backstreet Boy: Demythologizing the Young Male Genius

Poetry Is Not an Ice-Cream Sundae: The Need for Substance

Poetry Is Not a Protein Shake: The Lack of Need for Substance

Poetry Is Not an Ancestry.com Search: Removing the Anxiety of Influence

Poetry Is Not a Harry Potter Book: The Impossibility of Narrative

Poetry Is Not Jensen Ackles: The Problem with Beauty

Poetry Is Not Donald Trump: The Importance of Cutting Excess

Poetry Is Not a Phone Call to Your Mom: Removing Communication from the Equation