Sorry about the infrequency of posts. I’ve been finishing up thesis stuff over the last few weeks–last night I finally edited my twenty-fourth poem–hopefully, Sidney will like the changes and then all that will be left is figuring out an order and formatting the danged thing.

I’m a little disappointed to be just scrapping the minimum page number for the thesis. In truth, I’ve probably come up with somewhere around twice that number of drafts during my time here. But I’m incredibly proud of these 24 poems as a cohesive whole. It’s not one sequence, but it’s a unified body of work in theme and tone. That’s something, right?

For Valentine’s day, Pookie sent me chocolate covered strawberries and a very sweet note that made me cry.

Anyway, it’s schmaltzy to reflect on such things because of Valentine’s Day, but I’m really glad that Jordan’s in my life. I couldn’t have done a lot of what I’ve done in my life–coming here, I think, especially–without his encouragement. I can’t wait until the next stage of our adventure.

The Pool of Fire by John Christopher

My review

rating: 2 of 5 stars

John Christopher’s final entry in the core tripods trilogy stands out as an excellent example of the series’ flaws. This is a scattershot tale of military missions, of man’s drawn-out and plodding victory over the ruthless aliens who have ruled over the Earth for more than a century. Each mission is dryly recalled and poorly developed; the action does not build in any particular way, and because we’ve already encountered each of the settings in this third book before, even Christopher’s usually lush descriptions of scenery are absent. The human characters, again, are flat–and as in the second book, one of the most sympathetic personalities is that of an alien villain.

Meanwhile, the men here–and there are only men; not a single female character has been present since the first novel–are terrifically bland, occasionally violent, and overall unsavory. We are meant to sympathize with them wholly because they are human and seek freedom, but it’s largely unconvincing, particularly when the most sympathetic human character (nerdy scientist Beanpole, whose presence is refreshing in the cast of militaristic characters) starts to reiterate arguments against humanity’s freedom which were raised earlier by one of the alien overlords.

But most disappointing of all is the novel’s ending; the men win a very clean victory, totally exterminating the Masters. Deeper, more satisfying possibilities–learning to live in harmony with the aliens, some of whom have shown themselves to be moderate in the attitudes towards humans–are rendered totally impossible. Instead, we’re left with a bunch of violent men squabbling amongst themselves for leadership. For me, this felt like a very shallow victory.

Oh, and at one point, our hero refers to Asians as “little yellow men.” Maybe this sort of dialog is meant to help emphasize how the series hearkens back to nineteenth century boys’ adventure stories, but to me it really only underscored how horribly backwards all of the human characters seemed to be.

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The City of Gold and Lead by John Christopher

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars

The second book in the Tripods series starts much like the first–Will, a human boy, along with two companions, travels the European countryside, this time not seeking to escape the mysterious Tripods who rule over the Earth, but to join them–to infiltrate their city to gain information for a human resistance movement. The first half of the novel mirrors the first very closely, in both its rich descriptions of food and landscape and its pancake-flat depictions of our human protagonists.

However, a major shift occurs once Will reaches the city. Christopher’s descriptions of the alien landscape are incredibly vivid and inventive and, unlike his equally lush descriptions of Europe, actually pretty exciting. What’s more, some depth is finally introduced to one of his characters. Unfortunately, it’s an alien antagonist who is humanized. Will’s Master is sad, complex, and compelling. Christopher tells us time and time again how disgusting and revolting the character is, but that did little to curb the sympathy I felt for him as he proceeded to spill his heart (hearts?) to dull, dull Will, his only friend.

I’m fairly certain that this was not Christopher’s intended effect. But regardless, it made the sophomore entry in this series a riveting and involving read.

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On livejournal, JT Glover asked:

1. Do you consider yourself an artist?
2. If no, why not?
3. If yes, does this have an impact on your creative process?

I dislike the term “artist” and am wary, particularly, of those who do not consider themselves artists but use the term to refer to others. This might seem strange because I believe that my life’s work is creative–that I can make the largest positive contribution to my society writing or drawing or taking photographs or otherwise making “art”. But I’ve found, both at UF and generally, that people who use the term “artist” wield it like a double-edged sword.

It’s a compliment in some ways, sure. It means (fundamentally, literally) this person possesses skills that I do not. But there’s another, implicit meaning there–the implication seems to be that these skills are more like preternatural talents, in-born abilities. To some extent, this might be true, but I think that to see artistic skill as largely instinctive is to do injustice to the hard work that this involves.

I’ve felt this sharply in interacting with other students in the English department at the University of Florida. For one thing, there seems to be a perception of the MFA students as “lazy”. Sure, this is because (in part) we’re a largely social group. But in terms of coursework, we are busier than the MA and PhD students–we take more classes in a semester and many of us teach more. Of course, workshops aren’t really viewed as classes at all. We’re writing poems, or stories, and because (most of us) enjoy the process of creating words, we must not be working very hard. The creative projects that many of us do in our graduate-level seminars are scoffed at as an easy out. It must, people seem to think, be so much easier to create, say, ten pages of poetry relevant to critical readings on James Joyce than it is to write a paper on those readings.

(To this, I say: don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. It’s much tougher than it sounds.)

Similarly, I’m taking a class on Childhood and Creativity this semester. The professor (the totally brilliant and wonderful John Cech) has asked us to do a variety of creative projects rather than papers–we have to draw maps of our childhood spaces, create dolls, make music. When I tell people how much I love doing this, they largely react negatively: “I don’t take classes just because they’re easy,” they say. But the thing is, and this is difficult to express because I’ve enjoyed every one of these projects, it’s not easy. In terms of time and energy expended, they require as much from us, if not more. I was talking to an MA student at a party about the class, and he called our creative projects “an insult to the subject matter.” I can’t even tell you how angry this made me, the assumption that the only valuable way to explore a subject is through research, that creative work is inherently easy, and not worthwhile. I mean, what better way to explore the subject of creativity than through the act and art of creation?

And it is work. I have talent–at drawing, at writing–but I can’t help but feel like I’ve earned that talent, through countless hours working at figure drawing or studying poetry or moving around commas in a poem until I get it just right. Sure, I enjoy this work. I love it! It makes me feel happy and fulfilled. But when people refer to me as an “artist”, I cringe at the mystical qualities implied; I’ve rarely heard it used in a way that doesn’t imply inherent difference: “She’s an artist. I’m not.” And this makes me angry. Spend the time working on your art, whatever you want your art to be, and you’re sure to improve, to become an artist yourself. I didn’t spring from the head of Zeus in full artist’s regalia, whatever that would be. I’ve worked hard at it. Maybe our society doesn’t value hard work that’s fun–maybe we’re all supposed to resign ourselves to being drones in the hive of capitalism, or whatever. But that doesn’t sound worthwhile to me, that doesn’t sound right. Maybe that makes me an artist, but that doesn’t make me any different from you, Gentle Reader. You want to be an artist? Good. Put your nose to the grindstone and get to work.