Julia Cameron is pissing me off, and it's not entirely her fault. Really, I'm just not her target audience. The Artist's Way and The Vein of Gold are for artists, and I'm not an artist. I knew this, but I decided to have a look anyway, because I wanted to read something on creativity that I could apply to my academic work, and because books on academic creativity and the writing process don’t seem to exist.

One reason for this, I would guess, is that many professors and graduate students don’t believe in things like academic creativity. After all, their job is to tell the truth about things: to hypothesize, get lost in the stacks, learn the first names of everyone who works in the Interlibrary Loan office, and then write the truth about what they have learned. Doing so requires that they craft a narrative, but they craft it in a way that makes it seem as devoid of craft--as free of subjectivity--as possible.

I’ve never dealt much with such scholars. The people I’ve worked with are much more likely to describe academic writing as a form of storytelling. You can’t just tell any story, of course, but you can—and should—approach your task having thought seriously about both your story and your role as a narrator. The difference between telling the truth and telling a true story isn’t always obvious, but whether or not the products of our efforts look alike, the differences in the ways we think and talk about what we do are significant. They help shape the goals of our teaching and the methods we use in the classroom; they help shape the professional standards we set in academic communities; and they help shape the methodologies we use when we examine and interpret evidence.

These are not new observations; scholars have done interesting work on many of these topics. Unfortunately, these scholars don’t seem to have developed the desire to tell stories about academic storytelling as a mode of production. I’m interested not so much in the finished products, but in the essays we haven't yet written: I want to know more about the relationship between our concepts of ourselves as storytellers and the early incarnations of the stories themselves. I want to know more about the kind of mental work we’re doing when we sit at a desk and begin to press keys (or despair when our fingers don't want to make words). I want to know more about how we choose to piece together our narratives. I also want to know more about those times when we get lost in the middle of them--about the moments when we can’t manage to thread a needle, let alone weave a tapestry.

Since I’m talking about what I’d like to see, not what I’ve seen, I will also take a moment to point out that these books I haven’t yet read delve into what might be termed self-help for academic storytellers. They might include strategies to help writers organize information or manage time, but they also address what is in many ways a more daunting question: what do we do if our problems aren't practical? What are some of the psychological techniques academic writers use to buoy themselves while they're organizing, drafting, and revising? Conversely, what are some of the most common ways we sabotage ourselves? How do we recognize self-sabotage when it's happening, and what can we do to either avoid it or work through it?

Some of these kinds of issues are addressed in more general books on writing that already exist. Many of these books are excellent; I might be tempted to claim that Anne Lamott's advice has been more helpful to me over the years than Strunk and White's. Still, it's obvious at various points in these books that the author wasn't imagining an audience of neurotic Phi Beta Kappas whose to-do lists include items such as "read Brenda Ueland book," "go see Derrida movie," and "buy hair shirt." It’s fine that the author didn't imagine such an audience; no one expected her to. Still, I wonder what she would say if she did have such an audience in mind.

I also wonder what she would say about Julia Cameron. I bet she would be tactful, but you know what? I can't help but hope that she would secretly make gagging noises when she came across sentences like the following: "This contact with the first--or authentic, or original--self can feel as magical as encountering a deer in a mountain clearing" (8). I bet my authentic self drinks only the freshest of spring water.

"I could tell you that I've been a working artist,” Cameron tells us a couple of pages later, “but that would not be true. What I have been is a playing artist" (10). Here, I would be pleased if my imaginary author flipped Julia Cameron a great, big, imaginary bird.

I don't hope these things because I'm spiteful--or not just because I'm spiteful, anyway--but because it makes me uncomfortable when people imply that artists who don't feel like they're playing all the time aren't in close enough touch with their "original" selves to feel the love. It annoys me when people infantilize creativity, and it incenses me when someone attempts to counter all possible objections by claiming that I’m just being resistant. Resistant to magical moments at the mountain with Bambi.

So maybe the fact that Julia Cameron is pissing me off is partially her fault, after all. It’s just as well. My Inner Eight Year-Old doesn’t know a thing about seventeenth-century English drama, though I will admit that if my committee agreed to sign off on her chapters, I'd be more than happy to let her borrow my notes.

deadflowers through mousetrout:

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

for deadflowers

for devilettenyc

for doctorgogol

for general_jinjur

for girltalk

for gopherbomb

for grammardog

for grapesoda

for jaclyn

for jmichiko

for komos

for low_delta

for

for

for

for

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

nacowafer through syz:

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

for nacowafer

for omy

for o_w_t_fairies

for papoose

for prema

for rockstarbob

for schpahky

for setch

for sinnie

for slit

for springheel_jack

for sun_king

for syz

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

theodicy through wretchmuffin:

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

for theodicy

for theotoky

for unquietmind

for vaxjo

for verdandi

for viedma

for vulgarlad (photo courtesy of twinstar)

for waning_estrogen

for wickedflea

for wisdom_seeker

for wretchmuffin

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

Yesterday, I proposed an experiment to some friends: if they left me their email address, I'd send them a photo that reminded me of them in some way, along with a brief explanation of why I sent that particular photo. Over fifty people left addresses for me, and I've responded by sending a wide variety of photos: some are serious, some ridiculous; some are general, and some quite particular. I've posted those photos in a series of four entries, beginning with the batch below. I intentionally left one person out, because I sent her photos that I know she would not want included in a public post; if I left anyone else out, it was a mistake, so please let me know about it.

I've omitted the brief explanation I sent to each person along with the photos. In some cases, the absence of the text won't make much of a difference. In others, the photo won't make much sense without it, particularly since some of the shots are essentially visual inside jokes. I'm fine with that either way.

There was only one rule I gave myself that I absolutely would not break: no two people could get the same photo. I tried to stick with photos I had taken myself, but I broke that rule twice. I also tried to use only photos I hadn't posted anywhere previously, but I broke that rule a handful of times.

It's been interesting, and quite a bit harder than I thought it would be. So, without further ado...

absolution through daikan:

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

for absolution

for ada, part I

for ada, part II

for alchemi

for ayun

for beatnikside

for bigraoul

for bizetsy

for bohunk

for bookfoole

for byeenuj

for

for

for

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

the final batch

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

for kelly

for lexophile

for mipplet

for plural

for ravengirl, part I

for ravengirl, part II

for savonarola

for sean

for sun_set_bravely

for twinstar, part I

for twinstar, part II

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5

And with that, my friends, I officially wrap this project up. My apologies if you were still planning to ask for a photo, but it's time to put this one to bed. Thanks, everyone!

Calfornia: what a wacky state! Look at all those people driving their shiny Hummers on the four-oh-five! Look at all those boobies what don't bounce! Look at all those folks running for governor!

People, I actually have to vote in this election. Not only that, whether I vote "yes" or "no" on the recall, I still have to pick someone I think should be governor if the recall passes. Let's review my choices.

Well, there's Bill Simon, Cruz Bustamante, or Peter Ueberroth. Who, you ask? Exactly! Bo-ring!
	Then, there's the Terminator, who seems to appeal to everyone's desire to have a cyborg for governor. He's not actually a cyborg, you say? Yeah, right. Austria, my ass.
Fresh from her most recent Ricki Lake appearance, Arianna Huffington has somehow managed to convince numerous people that she's radical because the Republicans don't like her anymore. Huffington, author of The Female Woman, is also a robot.
	Other candidates who have thrown their proverbial hats into the ring include the cast of The Surreal Life, minus Jerri, because nobody's gonna vote for that bitch,
Flo from Mel's Diner,
	... and the midget from Freaks, who's getting a raw deal, because people keep confusing him with Larry Flynt.

I don't know why they should even bother sending out voter guides.

You know, I am a relatively coordinated person. I move fairly well, and I pick up on things like dance steps quickly--not as quickly as some, but more quickly than most. In high school and college, I was even part of a couple of different groups of people who got together and then danced in front of larger groups of people. (That was intentionally vague.) More recently, I've been taking Advanced Step Aerobics classes. Ballys has six or seven different gyms within reasonable driving distance of my house, so I've tried a whole slew of different classes with 20 or so different instructors.

My favorite of these classes, by far, is a class that meets on Fridays and is taught by a woman named Keila. I like the class because it's fast, it's hard, the choreography is complex, and Keila is funny. Many of the people who show up every week have been doing so for ages; I've been going to that particular class for about a year now.

I do not feel like a chump when I take this class. Some people do; nearly every week, there's a handful of new faces in addition to the core group of participants, and nearly every week, one or two of those people walks out after ten minutes because they weren't expecting the Advanced Step class to be quite so advanced. That makes sense, as the choreography for most Advanced Step classes really isn't as involved as the choreography for Keila's class.

To recap: what we've established so far is that, according to me, I'm a relatively coordinated person, and support for that claim can be found both in historical precedent and in current practice. We have also established that I regularly take classes that I think can be objectively described as difficult, and I do not feel like a chump when I take them.

The Monday class I've recently started attending has changed all that. The Monday class has transformed me into the Queen of Chumpmania. The Monday class has made me that girl who always bumped into her partner when the sadistic gym teacher made everyone square dance. The one who could never figure out how many times to clap while singing "Bingo." The one who could always be counted on to screw up her blocking in the school play, no matter how small a part you gave her.

The class is called Multi Step. It has two different incarnations: one is called Inline Step, and the other is called either Four Square or Multi Step. Inline Step is fine. It's hard, but it's fine. The steps are all arranged in rows, and it's basically an Advanced Step class in which everyone moves across their row, left to right. When you get to the far right step, you run back to the left-hand side of the room and join in again. It can be easy to miss a cue to move to the next step, but I felt like I pretty much had it by the second time I took the class on an Inline night.

The Four Square nights, on the other hand, are scary. You have a "home" step, and you make extensive use of the four steps in front of you, in back of you, and to your left and right. Moreover, there are moves like the "diagonal corner pivot," which involves hopping diagonally across one step, hopping diagonally across the next step, pivoting on the step after that, and then hopping your way back following the same diagonal line. This is all well and good if you get it, but here's the problem: if you don't get it, you are in someone else's way. If you miss a hop turn, suddenly everyone else is halfway across the room, and you're left swearing at yourself and trying to calculate where they're going to end up, becuse if you don't move there, you'll be in the way. Again. If you know a step but can't execute it immediately when the instructor calls it--if you stop to think for point-five seconds--you'll find yourself at the wrong platform, shoulder-to-shoulder with an unfortunate neighbor who actually knows what they're doing.

I am going to love it eventually. I can tell. But before I can love it, I'm going to have to keep my chump crown well-polished for at least another two or three classes. Nearly everyone at these sessions is a regular; new people almost always walk out. I hate humble pie, but I don't fucking walk out. I don't blame anyone else for doing so, but dammit, I am a relatively coordinated person, and I can do this. So I will.

I really do hate that pie, though.

My name is Shasta. I was born in 1971 to a pair of San Francisco hippies; my mother worked for the Grateful Dead at the time, and my father was--and still is--a luthier. When I was 5, my parents divorced, and my mom, little brother, and I moved to Dallas. As it turns out, the integration of hippie families from San Francisco into Dallas community life is not especially seamless.

Since my parents' divorce, I've had three different stepfathers, but the first two weren't my stepfathers for long. My current stepdad has been married to my mother since the mid '80s, and when I say "dad," I'm usually talking about him. I have four brothers who range in age from 33 to 8: one is a full brother, two are half brothers, and one is a stepbrother. No sisters.

I moved a great deal as a child, both within and among cities. The one I ended up thinking of as my hometown was Seattle, where I moved when I was 12. I actually rather liked high school, which is, I realize, an unfashionable thing to say, but it's true. I liked college, too. I started out and finished up as an English major, though in between, I flirted with the idea of studying drama, comparative religion, or communications. I had enough credits in drama courses to count as a minor at most schools, but the University of Washington didn't allow students to declare minors. I graduated at 21 and took a job as a receptionist for a real estate company; the year I worked there seemed very long.

At 22, I moved to Southern California and started graduate school. I have master's degrees in English and history, and I am currently writing a doctoral dissertation on female cross-dressing in seventeenth-century English drama. School was much easier when I was set on pursuing a traditional academic career. Now, I'm not really sure what I want. This uncertainty, combined with certain temperamental flaws and the fact that researching and writing 250 pages on an obscure topic is inherently difficult, has been a major source of emotional turmoil for me over the last couple of years.

I am married to a man I met in grad school; he's completing a Ph.D. in math and works full-time as a software engineer. We balance each other out: he helps me to be more grounded when I need to be grounded, and I help him remember how to play when he forgets. We have two labrador retriever mixes and an orange tabby cat; at the moment, we're also taking care of a second cat, who is happiest when you throw Q-Tips across the room and let him fetch them for you.

I don't know whether or not we'll ever have kids. Maybe. We'll see how I feel after I finish my dissertation.

I hate wearing fingernail polish, but my toenails are almost always painted. I am sometimes cynical, but I'm also idealistic. I believe in the knight but not the fairy tale. I love the road, but I do not love cars. I romanticize the idea of living in the country, but I know I could never be happy living far from a city. If you stand on the Santa Monica Pier with me at dusk, I will probably point to the sky and tell you that I love L.A., albeit in a Randy Newman kind of way.

I get restless sometimes, and I think I always will. I'm not so good at moderation. In anything, really. My short-term memory is excellent, but my long-term memory is terrible. Concepts and impressions stay; facts don't. I keep a journal in part because when I don't, huge chunks of my life disappear from my head. When I read my journal, I sometimes think I must seem totally insane. You may or may not be happy to know that most of the time, I feel mostly sane--the madwoman in my attic is really just kind of neurotic on occasion, and she's in no danger of setting anything on fire. Not intentionally, anyway, and those of you who happen to know about the time I burned up the microwave in seventh grade can just zip it.

I worry that I'll never do anything I'm truly proud of. I'd like to be great at something, but I suspect I'll have to settle for being good--sometimes very good--at several things. I can be counted on in a crisis. If I love you, I will dig you out of a Mexican prison with a spoon, but I'm not as reliable when circumstances are less dire. Which is most of the time.

I appreciate what's around me, but Orange County does feel soulless at times, and when I feel that most acutely, I miss things. I miss autumn air and autumn sweaters. I miss living near my family. I miss independent theaters and bookstores with hardwood floors.

And you, too. I also miss you.

We decided to ditch the lender that was "working" with us on our refi and go with a different company. The new guy says he can have our loan closed within two weeks if we don't run into any underwriting problems, and I think I actually believe him. Of course, it's possible that I'm just a colossal rube who will end up photocopying and FedExing the same damn stack of documents another three or four times, but today, I feel hopeful.

Much more fun than hanging out at Kinkos was visiting with Mike and Heather this weekend. They drove up from on Friday afternoon, a time when the drive from San Diego to Orange County feels only slightly shorter than the drive from Mexico to Canada, but they were none the worse for the wear. They're about to move, so we wanted to spend some time together before they leave Southern California, and we were overdue for a visit, anyway--Mike pointed out that their last trip up this way was nearly a year ago. It doesn't seem nearly so long to me, but I have no concept of time.

Since they're in the middle of the hectic, surrounded-by-boxes phase that precedes moving, Mike and Heather were, I think, looking forward to spending a bit of time relaxing. The evening was appropriately mellow. We ordered pizza and chatted. Jeff and I also had the pleasure of introducing our guests to both Hedwig and the Angry Inch and a few Adult Swim favorites, including the first "Mooninites" episode of "Aqua Teen Hunger Force," which I am convinced is one of the funniest fifteen-minute blocks in television history.

We ended up going to bed well after 3:00 am, so it was late morning before we finally rolled out of bed. By "we," I mean "everyone except Mike," who only got three hours of sleep, but was preternaturally fueled by large quantities of Mountain Dew. After a pancake breakfast, we lazed around, talking and playing games until the late afternoon. I even had a good time playing Trivial Pursuit, despite the fact that I'm terrible at Trivial Pursuit. You'd think I'd do well in the "literature" category, but my failure to love mystery novels and nineteenth-century Hallmark poets leaves me hamstrung. Thanks, Mike and Heather, for not mocking me mercilessly!

Today, I am determined to restore my study to some semblance of order, and to finish some reading for my dissertation. It's re-reading, actually, but it's one of my primary texts, so I need to know the play better than I do. At some point, I also need to fit in a nap, as I inexplicably woke up at 4:00 in the morning. Without coffee, I'd be lost.

I got a new computer to replace the Pentium II I bought in 1998, which was slowly cannibalizing itself. I also bought a peripheral or two. I now have a working CD burner, a working floppy disk drive, and a working scanner. Also, Photoshop doesn't take three years to load--it only takes about six months. I'm still in the process of reinstalling programs and importing data; I'm hoping to finish up that process tonight or tomorrow. I owe some of you emails, and you should get them soon. If you don't, either 1) I've screwed something up; or 2) there's Bombay Sapphire in the freezer, Noilly Pratt in the liquor cabinet, and olives in the fridge. There's also lemon if you'd prefer yours with a twist.

In the meantime, here are some old photos for you, digitized with the help of my spiffy new scanner.

1986-ish. I'm the one in the middle. The one with the Billy Joel t-shirt. Which I bought at a Billy Joel concert.

My bad hair and I are here pictured hanging out on my friend Judy's waterbed. You know that sweater is sweet.

It took like a year for that damned perm to grow out.

Senior year. I am indeed holding myself up on that sign, because standing on the ground behind it would have cut everything but my forehead out of the picture. Note mangled bangs. They were a result of my decision to "fix" them with a pair of school scissors between second and third period.

Here, we are about to head to the Space Needle for dinner before prom. I think I must have thought I'd get there more quickly if I just closed my eyes.

I'm skipping a whole slew of years, here, but I'm not feeling a need for continuity at the moment. Besides, it isn't even a photo. It is a portrait of me, skillfully rendered by a friend after we had spent six or seven straight days writing seminar papers, smoking, and pretending that 45-minute naps were just as good as seven or eight hours of sleep.