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arguchik(mega-dose of advil on board, and no st john's wort...my headache has declared a truce, at least temporarily.)
today is rainy and gray. i love days like this. i can sit indoors and work without feeling tugged toward the door by seattle's normally gorgeous summer weather.
i feel like i'm finally getting into a productive writing groove. back in 1997, when i first started studying english in earnest (i took undergrad courses that year), i found a previously unknown reserve of focus and ambition within myself. i worked constantly, reading and writing in between walking my dog and running tons of mileage (and going to class, obviously). there was something about literary and cultural analysis that felt...right, and important, in a way that none of my previous work ever had. it still feels that way, but there are a lot of things causing dissonance and interference now that i didn't have to contend with back then. my beginner's enthusiasm combined with the exuberance of a recently overcome depressive funk drowned out the self-doubt, i think (it's the only explanation, since i have otherwise, always, been plagued by self-doubt). anyway, these interferences have nothing--yet everything--to do with the work itself. i feel too old; too white and midwestern; too distractable (by the weather, by the outdoors); too dense; too out of touch; and too lazy or not dedicated enough, when these things get in the way of working. what are all of these negative thoughts but cultural stereotypes rearing up and intimidating me (unnecessarily)? yet when i sit down to read or to write, i feel enchanted and inspired all over again--the elegance of a particular theorist's formulation; the complexity of forces impacting a seemingly simple and straigtforward cultural formation, complexity that careful analysis with particular theoretical tools can tease apart; and the pleasure of doing that work, teasing something apart that had seemed seamless...a feeling nonpareil. i also feel intimidated by the texts i'm reading, because what could i possibly have to offer in response to or in conjunction with these theorists, most of whom had already made a huge mark for themselves by the time they were my age; hell, by the time they were 10 or even 15 years my junior? (e.g. gayle rubin, who wrote "the traffic in women" at the age of 26; though she also completed her ph.d. at the age of 45 after a long detour, so her example should give me optimism too, right?) i mean, fuck it. who says a 40 year old woman is too old to do timely, interesting work? and why should i worry about that anyway? i should just do what feels right, say what i need to say, and see what happens.
the point...and i get it...is that i shouldn't be comparing myself with anyone else. everyone follows their own path, and it's never too late to do anything. furthermore, i can't worry about whether or not anyone else will find my work interesting; or whether or not my contributions will be "important." i will make the contributions i make. the most important thing right now is that it interest me, and that i trust my advisor, my committee, to steer me on the path toward making a meaningful contribution--or as meaningful a contribution as i'm able to make--to my chosen field. one thing is certain: my contribution will be nil if i keep talking myself out of doing the work at all.
learning to relax, to breathe through the anxiety. it's got to be about the work. if it's about anything else, the work will never come together. the thing that i've lost sight of, over the last couple of years, is the dialectic of doing this kind of work. the field; my advisor; my committee...these are important aspects of the dialectic, but i've been worrying so much about satisfying these voices or seeking approval and validation from them, that my own voice has not been exerting its weight or its pull within the dialectic. the result is that i have been feeling like a ventriloquist's dummy, spouting the jargon and the perspectives of others without the tempering action of my own perspective. my work has lacked clarity and focus because i've been too anxious about possibly choosing the wrong focus and then being abandoned by my advisor and my colleagues, dismissed as irrelevant and even ridiculous.
that might happen anyway, i realize. it might turn out that i don't have what it takes to succeed in this field. but i'll never know unless i exercise my voice for real, take it seriously, treat it with respect--within the dialectic, always; there's no escaping that, and i wouldn't want to anyway. it's immense, way bigger than i am; but it's important to remember that i am part of it, too.
today is rainy and gray. i love days like this. i can sit indoors and work without feeling tugged toward the door by seattle's normally gorgeous summer weather.
i feel like i'm finally getting into a productive writing groove. back in 1997, when i first started studying english in earnest (i took undergrad courses that year), i found a previously unknown reserve of focus and ambition within myself. i worked constantly, reading and writing in between walking my dog and running tons of mileage (and going to class, obviously). there was something about literary and cultural analysis that felt...right, and important, in a way that none of my previous work ever had. it still feels that way, but there are a lot of things causing dissonance and interference now that i didn't have to contend with back then. my beginner's enthusiasm combined with the exuberance of a recently overcome depressive funk drowned out the self-doubt, i think (it's the only explanation, since i have otherwise, always, been plagued by self-doubt). anyway, these interferences have nothing--yet everything--to do with the work itself. i feel too old; too white and midwestern; too distractable (by the weather, by the outdoors); too dense; too out of touch; and too lazy or not dedicated enough, when these things get in the way of working. what are all of these negative thoughts but cultural stereotypes rearing up and intimidating me (unnecessarily)? yet when i sit down to read or to write, i feel enchanted and inspired all over again--the elegance of a particular theorist's formulation; the complexity of forces impacting a seemingly simple and straigtforward cultural formation, complexity that careful analysis with particular theoretical tools can tease apart; and the pleasure of doing that work, teasing something apart that had seemed seamless...a feeling nonpareil. i also feel intimidated by the texts i'm reading, because what could i possibly have to offer in response to or in conjunction with these theorists, most of whom had already made a huge mark for themselves by the time they were my age; hell, by the time they were 10 or even 15 years my junior? (e.g. gayle rubin, who wrote "the traffic in women" at the age of 26; though she also completed her ph.d. at the age of 45 after a long detour, so her example should give me optimism too, right?) i mean, fuck it. who says a 40 year old woman is too old to do timely, interesting work? and why should i worry about that anyway? i should just do what feels right, say what i need to say, and see what happens.
the point...and i get it...is that i shouldn't be comparing myself with anyone else. everyone follows their own path, and it's never too late to do anything. furthermore, i can't worry about whether or not anyone else will find my work interesting; or whether or not my contributions will be "important." i will make the contributions i make. the most important thing right now is that it interest me, and that i trust my advisor, my committee, to steer me on the path toward making a meaningful contribution--or as meaningful a contribution as i'm able to make--to my chosen field. one thing is certain: my contribution will be nil if i keep talking myself out of doing the work at all.
learning to relax, to breathe through the anxiety. it's got to be about the work. if it's about anything else, the work will never come together. the thing that i've lost sight of, over the last couple of years, is the dialectic of doing this kind of work. the field; my advisor; my committee...these are important aspects of the dialectic, but i've been worrying so much about satisfying these voices or seeking approval and validation from them, that my own voice has not been exerting its weight or its pull within the dialectic. the result is that i have been feeling like a ventriloquist's dummy, spouting the jargon and the perspectives of others without the tempering action of my own perspective. my work has lacked clarity and focus because i've been too anxious about possibly choosing the wrong focus and then being abandoned by my advisor and my colleagues, dismissed as irrelevant and even ridiculous.
that might happen anyway, i realize. it might turn out that i don't have what it takes to succeed in this field. but i'll never know unless i exercise my voice for real, take it seriously, treat it with respect--within the dialectic, always; there's no escaping that, and i wouldn't want to anyway. it's immense, way bigger than i am; but it's important to remember that i am part of it, too.
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