Into thy hands, O Lord, we commend the soul of they servant, James Burroughs (Papa), and beseech thee to grant him rest in the place of thy rest, where all thy blessed Saints repose, and where the light of thy countenance shineth forever. And we beseech thee also to grant our present lives may be godly, sober and blameless, that we too may be made worthy to enter into thy heavenly Kingdom with those we love but see no longer: for thou art the Resurrection, and the Life, and the Repose of thy departed servants, O Christ our God, and unto thee we ascribe glory: to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen.

***

I've been journaling, but I don't have time to post a lot right now. More, when we come home.

I hate not writing for so long, so here I am. I'm in Zimmerman Library (the main library at the University of New Mexico), and I have a stack of six books about Oscar Wilde on the desk waiting for me. In the next couple of hours I'll be - I hope - finishing up a paper for my English Lit class that's due tomorrow.

I'm writing about the significance of fractured identities in Wilde's famous "The Importance of Being Earnest." If it turns out to be any good, maybe I'll even post part of it. Lately I've found myself wanting to "publish" bits of my schoolwork that I'm particularly proud of.

I thought about writing on Stevenson's "Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde" for this topic, but I chose the play because I've never thought of it as anything more than a ridiculous, witty comedy. But, thanks to my English Lit class, I see it in a new light: a biting commentary on Victorian society and ideals, a practical mockery of traditional forms of theatre and character, as well as traditional ideas about romance. Well, I'm not sure about that last part. In my paper, I'm more arguing that Wilde is not saying that love and marriage in Victorian society is shallow and foolish; my thesis is, roughly, that Wilde respects love, marriage and commitment, but the strict standards of Victorian society stifle and hinder his character's achievement of them.

We'll see how it turns out.

In terms of publishable work, I got a pleasant surprise in the form of my graded short fiction story that I turned in for my creative writing class. My professor LOVED it; I got a 100%, and I'm not even sure if it's entirely possible for anyone to get a 100% on a paper, especially a piece of creative writing, but it's nonetheless flattering. Aside from some minor suggestions of paragraph placement, sentence editing and perhaps one or two paragraphs added in to expand on some ideas, my professor thought it was great. He told me I should submit it to be published when I'm done revising it, and that he can help me do so.

The shocking thing about all of this is that I felt like my short story was crap. Well, not complete crap, but I certainly wasn't intensely proud of it. It was really challenging to write; I feel that poetry comes much more naturally to me. But that's the funny thing I'm learning about being an artist, of any form; you never know how your work is going to be received, which is a good and a bad thing. I may hate a piece, but my professor turns around and adores it. On the flip side, though, that leaves the possibility for me to love a work of mine, and others to think it's not that great.

It's so tricky with writing. There's definitely a line between good writing and bad writing; if something's bad, you know it's bad. But on each side of that line, there's a very large gray area in which it's hard to say, especially, I find, when I'm critiquing my own writing.

And, of course, what constitutes "good" writing has changed throughout the centuries, as well as with different cultures. For example, when the Enlightenment swept through Europe in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, good writing was concise, rational, an adequate representation of life and society and, above all, a criticism of the foolish. Think Alexander Pope, Moliere, and, of course, Descartes, who famously split the mind from the body.

Then along come Blake, Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats, and the rest of the Romantics, and they turn the focus to the emotions, to nature, to spirituality, and that's the stuff that makes good writing.

So the fact that my creative writing professor loved my short story is both encouraging and discouraging. Well, it gives me pause, at least. Maybe it's just because I'm new at this, and I'm still developing myself as a writer, but I'm not sure what to make of the fact that art is so subjective in one sense, and yet in another sense it's entirely objective. Like I said, there is good art, and there is bad; it's trying to find the distinction that's the challenge.

There's so much I want to write about. My grandfather; my trip to Biola; marriage; writing. But I just don't have the time.

I have another ninety-four pages of "Mrs. Dalloway" to read, a five-page short story to revise, and revise, and try to twist into something halfway okay, and a five to seven page English paper that I haven't started, due in six days.

We've hit that point. That part in the semester where nobody really has a lot of energy anymore, nobody really cares that much about school anymore, and every assignment seems like just a little more than we can handle on any kind of normal sleep schedule.

By this time next week, I'll have time to write and blog and think about life again. But right now, I have no choice but to compartmentalize. I can't think about flowers for the wedding; I just have to get this work done.

The Challenge

So often when I write, especially on my blogs, everything is "me, me, me". It's kind of hard for it not to be that way. Earlier I was writing in my creative writing journal, and I noticed how many times I use the word "I" or "me"; "I thought," "I said," "as I was doing this," etc., etc. Man, if I was someone else reading my journal, I'd probably get bored. After all, my day-to-day life isn't that fascinating.

For this challenge, I'm going to write exclusively in the third person for one week. This challenge applies to my blog only (though obviously not to this entry), excluding "Wedding Thoughts" (how would that work?).

I'm just tired of only thinking in one way, of only looking at the world and other people through my narrow lens. We'll see what happens.

The Saints of April

Today's featured poem on "The Writer's Almanac."

I think it's beautiful.

The Saints of April

by Todd Davis

Coltsfoot gives way to dandelion,
plum to apple blossom. Cherry fills
our woods, white petals melting
like the last late snow. Dogwood's
stigmata shine with the blood
of this season. How holy
forsythia and redbud are
as they consume their own
flowers, green leaves running
down their crowns. Here is
the shapeliness of bodies
newly formed, the rich cloth
that covers frail bones and hides
roots that hold fervently
to this dark earth.

Diabetes Repair, I guess

Well, it finally happened.

As I'm sitting at my desk last night, getting ready to settle into working on a World Lit paper that's due tomorrow, I look down at my Macbook and notice a half-circle crack one on corner of it's white surface. The crack branches out and snakes its way almost all the way across the bottom of edge of my laptop, leaving a loose piece on one end that I can wobble easily.

I say "finally" because I have on a number of occasions dropped my backpack while my laptop was inside, or it's slid off of the seat and landed on the floor of my car with a thud while I was driving. Yesterday morning, as I was getting ready to go to my first class, I slung my backpack off of my shoulder and intended to set it gently on the tile floor. It slid out of my hand half-way there, though, and hit the floor, making me wince because I knew my laptop was inside. That impact must have done it, because I hadn't noticed these cracks before last night.

My mom isn't sure if my laptop is still covered under warranty. The only thing to do is take it into the Apple Store and see what can be done.

Sorry, little Mac.

So, you know how I said I didn't think it was a good idea to change the focus of my non-fiction essay the day before it's due?

Well.

I did. I sat in the coffee shop across the street from campus for over two hours, just writing. I knew when I walked in the door that I wasn't happy with my rough draft, and I knew I had to change it. Ten pages later, it still needs some polishing, but I'm much more satisfied with the general product. Let's hope my professor thinks the same.

Speaking of writing - my English lit professor just sent out an email announcing the topics for our next paper. Our last paper was due before spring break, and with this essay due tomorrow and another course paper for my World lit class due on Friday, I'm definitely getting burnt out with writing and staring at computer screens. I guess that's what I signed up for when I chose an English major, but in my first year and a half of college I never wrote more than one paper per semester.

I need another spring break. But someone said the other day that there's only seven weeks left in the term (which is crazy), so maybe there's hope.