For the (no) love of books

As I spoke with industry specialists and authors about the publishing industry this last year, an unsettling feeling seemed to always follow me out the door. I couldn't quite put my fingers on it; after all, I had finally decided that I wanted to pursue my passion for literature (or really, just BOOKS). Naturally, this was done in the publishing industry. But after another disheartening conversation with a first time author, I discovered that the industry is not actually about furthering knowledge and delving deeper into margins and the meaning behind similes and juxtapositions. Publishing houses are BUSINESSES, not a hub for book lovers and poets to gather in one place and share that underlining understanding that they are all united in the vast world of trolls and Twitter abusers.
This realization broke my heart.
And subsequently led me to switching tracks in English to pursue my teaching certificate and master's in education so that I can teach high school English. The only way to change the way that this generation thinks (from one of "That's a stupid book" to "I could read all day") starts at the hearth.
My sweet fifth grade teacher always applauded my lame attempts at composing short stories. Her confidence gave my little feet wings. We read fabulous books, painted and studied American history. That year was pivotal for my feeble brain. That year was the year that I truly realized my passions and future lay in the sphere of literature and creative writing. That was the year I stomped home and informed my mother that I was going to be a writer, all because Mrs. Rodolf had faith in me.
Teachers are not to be overlooked. They possess the love and influence that every professional should be jealous of and admire. They are the mothers of failing children, the lovers of the heartbroken and lost. They are the encouragers of a promise for the new day.

RE: Your Major Is Pointless

There was a lot of tension in my house after I informed my parents I would be majoring in English. I had always been told I could do whatever I wanted, SHOOT FOR THE STARS REBECCA THEY EXIST ONLY FOR YOU blah blah blah. At the ripe and tender age of six, I knew I wanted to be a journalist while other girls wanted to be dazzling blonde princesses in looming towers (I'm sorry, castles sound dank. In the non-sexual dank kind of way). I wanted to write. I may not have been old enough to hold a pencil correctly or properly read the Bob books (weren't those just the best? *warm fuzzies*), but I sure as hell knew that the written word was my thang. Not boys in tights named Charming. 

I began my collegiate career as most freshman do: confused. I was signing up for whatever classes were clustered in the same building so that I could immediately go back to my dorm room and sleep. I wound up in a British Lit class for this very reason. I mean, there was a Panda Express next door. It didn't get much better. Joke was on me because it actually did get better. My professor was every liberal arts major's dream: she didn't wear a bra, showed up looking like she had been crouched over a desk all night writing 70 pages of her memoir, loved Virginia Woolf and rode a Huffy bike around campus. She was pretty rad. More importantly, she instilled in me the value of an education. We delved into texts and explored the concept of literature as it's own professor. 

After a few minor slip-ups (including nursing, business school HA HA and communications), I found myself standing at the door of the liberal arts building on campus. Dun dun dun. Oddly, I felt at ease. It was a natural progression, a big switch from the Unknown, Slightly Confused Hobos majors over on the Lost Side of campus (directions included on the campus map, located conveniently next to McDonald's and the Counseling Center). I felt ecstatic. I knew that I had made the right decision. This was my homeland. My place. My people. More *warm fuzzies* floated around.

Mom and Dad were a tad indignant at first. It was half battle of wills, half "I dunno, she's your daughter, you tell her!". We reached a compromise - I could major in English. It would be referred to as my "passion" degree. But I had to find an alternative, something to back me up in case all went wry. So I went for the business minor as my "practical" degree (i'm starting to see the irony in this as I type). The business minor was quickly dropped for my secondary teaching certification program because, lezzbehonest, what even is business? Plus, becoming a professor and canceling class all the time to bring inexplicable joy to hungover college students sounded way more entertaining. 

Anyways. I digress. My point is that I'VE HEARD IT ALL PEOPLE. I've been on every side of every major and every argument in regards to who belongs where and who is utterly useless. And it's not that I left the biomedical sciences field because it was difficult, but because it wasn't me. Science and math are not my God-given talents. And that's a-okay. If we are being real, and I feel that we can be, O great people of the Internet, then we have to face the facts: we can all be counted as useless in one way or another. Is it not to be argued that the true math braniacs don't need schooling anyways? Thomas Edison didn't even make it to junior high. If we are truly gifted in certain areas, then why do we need schooling to begin? 

DOWN WITH THE INSTITUTION!

Jk. I know that's wrong. And slightly fascist. 

My point is, we attend universities to further our knowledge. I have to take classes as prerequisites in all subject areas before I can graduate. You could say they are smart over at those universities; they know you need to be well-versed in knowledge before catapulting you into the real world with scary bosses and bad paper coffee cups. But we are still allowed the freedom to focus on honing our skills and sharpening our tools. If we didn't have liberal arts majors, then where would all the teachers and editors and screenwriters and international developers and Starbucks baristas (jokes, jokes) be? Not around, I can tell you that.

So please. Let's not call to revolution the idea that liberal arts needs to die a slow and gory death on the battlefield of education. It's really not necessary, and you know, kind of rude. 

Hmm

As I read through blog posts and friends' research papers this last year, it began to dawn on me that it is not our natural tendency to write as we speak. Even as I pen this, I'm double-checking myself to make sure an incorrect or poorly written sentence doesn't float in mysteriously. It's a tricky process.
When we speak, we riddle ourselves with fragments and run-on sentences. When we write, we employ the improper use of "there, their, they're" and "your, you're". It assails my eyes every time I witness this casualty of a perfectly beautiful word in the English language on Facebook or Twitter. Come on people. Speak the sentence aloud if you absolutely must.
A good friend of mine from high school recently received an email from our former newspaper adviser, which was a shock in and of itself. When we opened the email, we almost died from laughter and astonishment. The guy couldn't string even ONE coherent sentence together throughout the entire message. Commas inserted themselves where they most certainly were not wanted, first person seemed to mix in with third person narrative and the occasional "your" was mistaken for "you're". It killed me to realize that this kind of teacher was out there, in the thousands, attempting to cultivate prose and grammar in young adolescent's minds. I mean, the irony is not lost that this guy tried to teach me how to write for four years of my ever evolving adolescence.
The written word is a funny thing.

Bummer Blasts

It seems that every time I want to sit down and write, and I mean really write, I'm at work. Which is a total bummer because that is kind of a roadblock when it comes to pulling out a journal and pen and penning intimate thoughts.
Anyways. I had some really deep and profound "something" I wanted to talk about, and now I can't remember. I got distracted when I realized I had started a blog called Confessions Of A {Not So} Techy Intern where I was going to make fun of office life and residing at the bottom of the food chain. Let that one slip through my fingers as well.
Ohhhhh well.

Lectio Divina

"divine reading"

The nerdy side of me enjoyed Latin this last semester a little too much. I found this phrase on le web and instantly fell in love. Sigh. I'll forever be stalking graffiti walls and the insides of books for romantic Latin phrases that precisely capture excellently what I wish to convey over every fiber of my being. It's simply too fabulous for words. If only I was brave enough to get a tattoo...

The other day I came to the realization that I am not, in fact, the only English major that wishes to open a coffee/bookstore when I graduate. Actually, EVERY English major out there seems to desire the exact same career. So scratch that plan. Although lately, I've been pinning cozy rooms and dark nooks that practically extend legitimate arms to you as you sit down in the overstuffed chair. This whole book thing really gets me. It really does.

(all sources from Pinterest)

Aren't they all gorgeous??

Yeah. That didn't work out.

So my New Year's Resolution flopped before it even began.
The picture thing didn't work out too hot.

IN RETALIATION against my lack of self-discipline, I mentally decided to start reading for fun again. Make time in my schedule, possibly even push aside reading in my English classes to read for ME.
That's what my childhood was filled with. Reading for fun, feeling my brain expand and letting the new worlds take form in my imagination. It's been great. I just finished The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides. Actually, you can say that I've been on a Jeffrey Eugenides spree. I also read The Marriage Plot by him. The guy is quite the genius, if we are being honest. His writing style is unique; he knows his stuff.

Kirsten Dunst in the film adaptation, as the sensual Lux Lisbon.
source - Tumblr

The reason I liked The Virgin Suicides was because it was different. He writes from the perspective of the neighborhood boys. You never know who is actually narrating, which elevates the mystery of the novel. Eugenides composes with passion, eccentric details and isn't afraid to startle you with something unsettling. I felt as if I was reading with a filter covering the pages of the book, keeping me at an arm's distant from the unfortunate Lisbon girls. That book proved to me why I am an English major - why my unhealthy obsession with the written word is acceptable.
So here's the deal. The books. They take over now, not the pictures. Because let's face it, every girl out there believes she is a fabulous photographer, all because she owns a DSLR and can edit the photo on Photoshop.


readreadreadreadreadreadreadreadreadreadreadread

La-ti-da, and a happy new schmear

Blah blah blah, happy new year, blah blah blah, *cliche and heartwarming holiday statement*, blah blah blah...
HAPPY NEW YEAR! My New Year's Resolution [even though I hate them, because, who I am kidding, the only resolution I've kept is to eat more!] in the year of our Lord 2012 is to survive the apocalypse. No but really, I think those Mayans were on crack-cocaine or SOMETHING because the only person calling this world to an end is Jesus. So here's to well wishes and hoping we all see December 23, 2012, y'all!

Alright. Enough with the New Year's sarcasm. I really am excited for this coming change. There will be lots of stress, but thankfully three completed semesters of college has prepared me for the oncoming fourth. So in honor of the newest season of life, I have taken on my own challenge to snag a picture for every day this year. There will be 366 [LEAP YEAR BABY] photos headed this way as I try to capture the essence of...well, of life. My happy, rather sappy, cliche little life.

So. January 1.
*I'm cheating and posting two photos. Pardon the overwhelming excitement. 

Went fishing *insert whistling* with a gaggle of friends before the New Year to celebrate togetherness and fabulous Texas weather. One of my friends hung my hammock across the dock and shimmied over the line to climb in. If only he had fallen in... despite my rather impatient personality, I immensely enjoyed the calm and the ripples. It was so nice to find a rock and plop down. Quite the way to end 2011, with friends all around and the promise of a squirming fish chomping on the chopped liver chilling on my hook. Simply, simply marvelous.