in which I forget everything and begin nothing

I have a terrible memory. Sometimes my forgetfulness is an inconvenience, resulting in a missed credit card payment or a forgotten birthday. Sometimes it’s a professional embarrassment, because I really can’t remember the plot to any Dickens novel. (They all involve some sort of impoverished street urchin, right? And a blowhard middle-aged man with a […]

in which I don’t go bogging and regret it

When I was in elementary school I attended Girl Scout camp one summer and completely hated it. I was an introverted homebody as a kid and not designed for the instant kumbaya-style friendships that Hayley Mills movies train camp-goers to expect. The end of the summer found me not crying and swapping homemade lanyards with […]

in which I wait for Godot in a room smelling of guacamole, and I consider how to teach things I don’t know

I taught two courses as a graduate student: Global Modernism and Its Successors: An Introduction and Children’s Literature. Both were full of useful screw-ups, but let’s focus on the louder failure. Global Modernism and Its Successors, a course not of my choosing or design, was assigned to all aspiring English PhDs at my university. That […]

in which I have (research) commitment issues

When I was an undergraduate at American University, I wrote my honors capstone on nineteenth-century women’s poetry and the specter of infanticide. I had not yet learned to use words like “specter” to signal, aggressively, that I AM A SERIOUS ACADEMIC, so I probably communicated that idea with much less snobbery. I also hadn’t developed […]