(no subject)
A few weeks ago, I realized something that was rather terrifying:
I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life.
For so long, all I had thought to do, all I had wanted to do, what I lived to do, was to write. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to spend my life in front of a typewriter, blazing my way through books and drawing everything I could from them, learning from them and then creating my own stories. And for all that time, I loved writing for one reason. Everything in writing and in reading is so internal...so malleable and open, so completely intangible.
But now, the thought that there really isn't a physical representation of my efforts, and that my words can be bent and twisted to suit the needs of whoever reads them, depresses me. At the same time, though, the thought of not writing upsets me just as much, if not more so. And I know many people my age have no idea what they want to do with their lives, so it may not seem that big of a deal...but I did know. I knew exactly how I wanted my life to go, and I'd known for years. But then everything changed, and suddenly that security was ripped away from me.
Then I started reading Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveler... again, and I met a character who uses old books to make sculptures, and the wheels started turning. I thought that I could be a sculptor, and use pages from old books to make paper mache sculptures...but that wasn't enough. So I thought, maybe I could make my own paper by recycling old books and use that for paper mache...
But why stop there? Why not just make my own paper out of every fibre I can get my hands on? And why stop there, when I could take this paper, and turn it into a full-fledged book. And so my new plan is to transfer to either University of Maine at Machias, or Columbia College in Chicago, and to switch my major from English to Book Arts (Papermaking, Printing, Bookbinding, etc.)
I realized that writing novels was just not enough anymore. I have to make books. I want to create every single aspect of the book. The paper, the binding, the writing, the printing...I want it all to come from me.
And then today just sealed the deal. Last semester my English class was just so full of novels that concentrated on nothing but the miseries life offers up, and on attempting to evoke some sort of pity in the reader, and I got so sick of it. I strongly believe that misery cannout be asuaged by concentrating on it, even if that concentration is given to misery in an attempt to release it through writing. So, I was very much so looking forward to moving on to the next English course, and possibly studying something less depressing.
Then, Southern decided to finally assign a professor to my course...and so the general subject of "American Literature" was tightened into "Literature of the Mexican-US Border", and it was too late for me to switch out, since I've already loaded my schedule to the brim and nothing else could possibly fit in that time slot. I was willing to give it a shot, I guess, but the first class changed that. We read a poem I now forget the name of, and it was exactly what I expected from the course:
"Wah wah, life sucked in Mexico, and now that we're in America it still sucks because I'm still unwilling to take the necessary measures to make my life fulfilling and happy."
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against immigration, and I know there are millions of immigrants that greatly appreciate our country and take full advantage of the opportunities it offers them, and I know there are those who are unfortunate enough not to encounter these opportunities...but the ones who fall into that latter category and are hard-working and sturdy enough to keep at it and attempt to create their own opportunities never seem to feel the need to write about it, and so it seems literature is left with the misery and pity-fishing of those who are unwilling to take life by the reins and really do something about their situation. And, based on my studies in the field so far, I feel this applies to all genres of literature, and all of the situations these different genres/styles might discuss.
And so that was the final straw. I just can't deal with the misery anymore. It's far too depressing, and it frustrates me.
So if I do not get into UMM or Columbia I...I just don't know what I'll do, really. If I have to stay at Southern, then I will most certainly still be changing majors, and I'll find a way to pursue the Book Arts outside of school, or in a graduate program. But if that is the case, then I'm really not sure what I'll do for my major. I know it seems silly to change this late in the game, but I'm really not too far into my English degree anyway; I've mostly been trying to knock away core courses and GenEd requirements. As of right now, I'm considering maybe switching to Anthropology with a concentration in Linguistics, or maybe a Studio Arts major with a concentration in Jewelry/Metalsmithing.
But really...I don't know.
I better get in to UMM or Columbia. :S
I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life.
For so long, all I had thought to do, all I had wanted to do, what I lived to do, was to write. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to spend my life in front of a typewriter, blazing my way through books and drawing everything I could from them, learning from them and then creating my own stories. And for all that time, I loved writing for one reason. Everything in writing and in reading is so internal...so malleable and open, so completely intangible.
But now, the thought that there really isn't a physical representation of my efforts, and that my words can be bent and twisted to suit the needs of whoever reads them, depresses me. At the same time, though, the thought of not writing upsets me just as much, if not more so. And I know many people my age have no idea what they want to do with their lives, so it may not seem that big of a deal...but I did know. I knew exactly how I wanted my life to go, and I'd known for years. But then everything changed, and suddenly that security was ripped away from me.
Then I started reading Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveler... again, and I met a character who uses old books to make sculptures, and the wheels started turning. I thought that I could be a sculptor, and use pages from old books to make paper mache sculptures...but that wasn't enough. So I thought, maybe I could make my own paper by recycling old books and use that for paper mache...
But why stop there? Why not just make my own paper out of every fibre I can get my hands on? And why stop there, when I could take this paper, and turn it into a full-fledged book. And so my new plan is to transfer to either University of Maine at Machias, or Columbia College in Chicago, and to switch my major from English to Book Arts (Papermaking, Printing, Bookbinding, etc.)
I realized that writing novels was just not enough anymore. I have to make books. I want to create every single aspect of the book. The paper, the binding, the writing, the printing...I want it all to come from me.
And then today just sealed the deal. Last semester my English class was just so full of novels that concentrated on nothing but the miseries life offers up, and on attempting to evoke some sort of pity in the reader, and I got so sick of it. I strongly believe that misery cannout be asuaged by concentrating on it, even if that concentration is given to misery in an attempt to release it through writing. So, I was very much so looking forward to moving on to the next English course, and possibly studying something less depressing.
Then, Southern decided to finally assign a professor to my course...and so the general subject of "American Literature" was tightened into "Literature of the Mexican-US Border", and it was too late for me to switch out, since I've already loaded my schedule to the brim and nothing else could possibly fit in that time slot. I was willing to give it a shot, I guess, but the first class changed that. We read a poem I now forget the name of, and it was exactly what I expected from the course:
"Wah wah, life sucked in Mexico, and now that we're in America it still sucks because I'm still unwilling to take the necessary measures to make my life fulfilling and happy."
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against immigration, and I know there are millions of immigrants that greatly appreciate our country and take full advantage of the opportunities it offers them, and I know there are those who are unfortunate enough not to encounter these opportunities...but the ones who fall into that latter category and are hard-working and sturdy enough to keep at it and attempt to create their own opportunities never seem to feel the need to write about it, and so it seems literature is left with the misery and pity-fishing of those who are unwilling to take life by the reins and really do something about their situation. And, based on my studies in the field so far, I feel this applies to all genres of literature, and all of the situations these different genres/styles might discuss.
And so that was the final straw. I just can't deal with the misery anymore. It's far too depressing, and it frustrates me.
So if I do not get into UMM or Columbia I...I just don't know what I'll do, really. If I have to stay at Southern, then I will most certainly still be changing majors, and I'll find a way to pursue the Book Arts outside of school, or in a graduate program. But if that is the case, then I'm really not sure what I'll do for my major. I know it seems silly to change this late in the game, but I'm really not too far into my English degree anyway; I've mostly been trying to knock away core courses and GenEd requirements. As of right now, I'm considering maybe switching to Anthropology with a concentration in Linguistics, or maybe a Studio Arts major with a concentration in Jewelry/Metalsmithing.
But really...I don't know.
I better get in to UMM or Columbia. :S