the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

i'm sure I ranted about this before

I'm enjoying my creative nonfiction workshop.

At the same time, I'm more convinced than ever that it does not matter how much I try to get into literary criticism and theory, I just...don't. I don't get it; I mean, I don't get why you would assume an unproven (and usually unprovable) framework through which to evaluate literature. Perhaps for this reason, I don't like it. Most of the time, I don't understand it at all, even if I push the "I believe" button on the aforementioned dubious framework (which I'm notoriously crappy at).

The most obvious example of is psychoanalitic criticism, which still enjoys a wide following. I find some of Freud's theories interesting and useful in understanding why we behave the way we do (such as the id, the ego, and the singl, uh...superego). But when we go into all that phallic stuff, I find nothing redeeming in it, apart from the lurid fascination it inspires. But I'm supposed to simply accept these ideas, then analyze literature based upon them.

Why, though? To what possible end?

In all fairness, I have an absolutely fabulous literature prof this semester. Because I'm bragging on her, I'll mention her by name: Mary Klages. Before she was my prof, I used some of her online writeups (which were for her undergrads, incidentally) on literary criticism/theory to help me grasp the material, if only feebly. Before I had her class, I knew she had a knack for taking the brutishly inaccessible (like, um, Derrida) and making it digestible. I very much looked forward to taking her class.

I have not been disappointed. She is brilliant; funny; has a broad, easily-accessible knowledge of her area of expertise (American literature); dynamic; interesting; and encouraging.

She gave me a deep and abiding appreciation for Uncle Tom's Cabin, y'all. That's what I'm saying. With me now?

She makes me wish I were the kind of graduate student she deserves. I've had other profs here whom I loved, and from whom I learned a great deal, but the prof who has this peculiar effect on me is rare.

I love literature. Literature encapsulates the best philosophy humankind has to offer, and it does it with stories. (Like, think of how much you wish I'd give a concrete example of what I'm talking about now. Yeah. You want stories.) Literature is closely allied with another favorite subject of mine--history. They influence one another: events change ideas and ideas influence events. I'm intrigued with literature from a historical standpoint, and I always have been.

Katherine Eggert, my prof last fall and then head of the English department (I find it amusing and quite brilliant that the profs trade off this responsibility every couple of years) had an effect on me that was similar to the one Mary is having now. However, I felt a bit more equipped to please Katherine. She is naturally intrigued--no...excited--about the history of her area of specialization and how it affected the literature. You might understand why I worshipped her.

So I do my homework for Mary's class and I already feel my inadequacy in seeking out the sort of connections I think she wants and expects of us. Then I go to class and realize, once again, that I'm surrounded by students who are into theory and criticism, and who articulate their observations in regard to the text at hand beautifully, and I feel my gut crumpling like a discarded soda can.

On the other hand, there's my creative nonfiction workshop. Really...this is my metier. I love it, and I love it while I'm doing it. I fit in, even though I'm surrounded by MFA students. My writing is comparable to theirs (except when I'm experimenting with forms, which isn't my thing, but it's a class; I'm supposed to take chances). My writing is even occasionally better than theirs. (Vain much? Yeah. Probably. Do I get any points for admitting it?)

But I'd never be able to get into an MFA program, remember. I don't write well enough. I have it from someone who is published who has read my work, and his word is.... Well. Not gospel. Obviously, I'm being facetious. His word is a source of bitterness to me, more than anything.

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