tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557Wed, 06 Nov 2024 02:44:57 +0000dealing with the dissertationdealing with diapers and other squishy thingsmoments in motherhoodrandom goodness'nuff saidTraveling with a Toddler and other Trying ThingsHoliday Happinesssimple pleasuresTo Market to To Market....WHaaa???book reviewsrantFuture Fearslife on a university campuspolitics and shtuff#best09Family Foi·bles and Clandestine ConfessionsMiles to go before I sleepamazing stupidity and other interesting anticsmemepoliticosurprise surpriseyour eggo is preggoDishing about DiningRepeat the past? Of Course you can old sportmama powerrationalizing religionthe beauty of wordsthe write lifeboobs and Boobscrafty crafting and sewing stuff??haiku thatpoliticsteaching troubletoo old for this stuffFessing UpGrowing up DagoGuest Blog by JJust UsOh Happy DayWhat we can learn from Mrs. DallowayYA Savesbblogs of notecrafty crafting and sewing stuffhappinesshow's that for honestyintroductionkids saylast dancelinky heavenreadingscary cigarsshop till you dropthe terrible twostiredvirtual silencewhen crayons attackwordless wednesdaywritingSeven Miles to NowhereWriter. Mother. Wannabe Foodie.
<br>Not necessarily in that order.noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)Blogger240125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-1298145535683696463Sun, 16 Dec 2012 23:52:00 +00002012-12-16T15:52:01.854-08:00Newtown is Our TownThere is a scene in the play <i>Warhorse</i> where horses charge for the first time into the carnage that will become known as World War I. In that moment, the absolute change in the world is made clear. Where once a cavalry might have charged into a flurry of bullets fired from single-action riffles, the horses portrayed in the play encounter a new terror--the machine gun. Most do not make it through. They are mowed down in the unbelievable firepower released by those guns, and for the next scene their bodies lay inert and broken on the stage, while the other actors pretend that they are not there. It's a chilling scene, because it mirrors just how clueless the people back home were about the differences of this new war. How little they understood the ways that the world had changed.<br />
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Later in the play, a German officer gets hold of the main character--a horse called Joey--and saves him. Where another officer would have that horse charge senselessly into another barrage of machine gun fire, <i>this</i> officer knows the utter futility of that action. The utter waste of sending a horse into that sort of carnage. He seems the only one who realizes the futility of sending horses into modern warfare.<br />
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It's the moment when the history of war is confronted with the future--the moment when the deadly nature of technology is made startlingly visible.<br />
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I feel like we are at that sort of moment right now.<br />
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I'm having a hard time dealing with the tragedy in Newtown. It was hard enough to hear that it happened as I followed the news via Twitter on Friday, but it was devastating to hear that the children were all first graders--all 6 or 7 years old--the exact same age as my oldest. I look at him, so blissfully innocent of every danger, of the suffering of those people just a few states north of us. I think of him with his little friends, excited to go to school. Excited to be in a classroom with a young and energetic teacher. Excited to start each new day.<br />
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I look at him and I try not to imagine him huddled in a corner with his classmates--the little boys who defeated a dad playing Darth Vader at a recent birthday party. The little kids who were so sweet and gentle when he came to school with his arm in a splint, who ushered him around so that no one could jostle his injury. I think of all the little names drawn in crooked scrawls on that cast. I try not to imagine his small, lithe body torn apart by bullets meant for a battlefield. I try not to think about what I would do, how I would make it through that, and I fail every single time.<br />
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I <i>know</i> that I don't really know. That none of us save those twenty (twenty!) families in Newton. Those 12 families in Colorado. Those families of the 88 people who died in the last year in mass shootings. And the countless families of the countless people who have died from gunshots this year and every year before. I pray that I never do know.<br />
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And then I read responses of pro-gun advocates whose immediate response is to say that there should be more guns. That this is just a mental health issue. That guns don't kill people; people kill people.<br />
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True- People are at fault. But people can't put 3 to 11 bullets in each of the tiny bodies of 20 six year olds in less than 10 minutes with any old gun. Semi-automatic assault weapons do that.<br />
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And for what?<br />
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Why are these weapons necessary for the average citizen? And perhaps you will argue that they are not necessary, but they are a right. To that, my friend, I say bullshit. A driver's license isn't a right, but that sort of fire power is? That makes absolutely no sense.<br />
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Here's the thing--I'm not advocating a total gun ban. I don't think that such a thing is possible, nor do I think it could ever happen. America is a nation of guns. But--and this is a big but--there is not a legitimate reason for most ordinary citizens to have free access to the kind of weapon that was designed completely and solely for mass body counts.</div>
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Let's be clear here--when you are talking about semi-automatic weapons--about Glocks and Bushmasters and other guns capable of firing a large quantity of bullets without reloading, you are talking about an assault weapon. You are talking about the kind of firepower designed for battle. These are not the matches used by arsonists nor are they the knives used by the recent attacker in China. These are machines designed for the sole purpose of taking as many lives as possible in the shortest time possible. These are weapons designed not only to fire quickly, but for the shots to wreak devastation upon the bodies that they hit.</div>
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Which brings me back to the beginning. We are told that gun ownership is a right. Fine. It's in the Constitution. Fine. But our forefathers could not have predicted the sort of weapons we have today any more than those soldiers who rode horses into the first charges of WWI could have predicted the carnage the machine gun was capable of. To think about these sorts of assault weapons in the same way as we think about a simple revolver or the type of weapon necessary for hunting or other sport is ridiculous. To interpret the 2nd amendment without distinguishing between a single-shot, muzzle-loading rifle as our forefathers would have used and the type of gun that killed those children is irresponsible. It's like charging into battle on a horse when you're facing a tank.<br />
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Honestly, I don't understand why any law-abiding citizen needs that sort of firepower. You don't need that to shoot a deer. You don't need it to protect yourself from a home invasion (a simple revolver would do that well enough). You don't need it for target practice. You need it because you crave the thrill of holding something so powerful. You need it because there is something about holding an instrument capable of firing 5 bullets a second into the body of another human that appeals to you. And frankly, that makes me worried about you.<br />
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I know we can't prevent all violence. I know that someone with serious mental health problems who wants to kill will kill one way or another. But to say that's a reason for us to not consider ways to better limit and regulate the sorts of weapons that can do the sort of damage these types of weapons do is ridiculous. </div>
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The twenty innocent children who died in such a horrific way Friday deserved more than that. They are worth more than the thrill of firing a high-powered gun. Their lives were and are worth more than some mis-placed fear that the government will take away all the guns from good law-abiding citizens.</div>
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I look at my own six-year old and can't help but wonder how I would cope. I look at my sweet boy and know how lucky I am to have him safe. This time.</div>
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<br />2012/12/newtown-is-our-town.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-7257611289011240311Thu, 22 Mar 2012 15:18:00 +00002012-03-22T08:18:44.022-07:00meme7-7-7 meme<a href=" Broadbooks</a> tagged me for a meme and I thought it was kind of fun:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'goudy old style', 'minion pro', 'bell mt', serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">1. Go to p</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'goudy old style', 'minion pro', 'bell mt', serif; font-size: 19px; line-height: 24px;">age 77 of your current MS </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'goudy old style', 'minion pro', 'bell mt', serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">2. Go to line 7</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'goudy old style', 'minion pro', 'bell mt', serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'goudy old style', 'minion pro', 'bell mt', serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">3. Copy down the next 7 lines – sentences or paragraphs – and post them as they’re written. No cheating.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'goudy old style', 'minion pro', 'bell mt', serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'goudy old style', 'minion pro', 'bell mt', serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">4. Tag 7 authors</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'goudy old style', 'minion pro', 'bell mt', serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'goudy old style', 'minion pro', 'bell mt', serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">5. Let them know</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'goudy old style', 'minion pro', 'bell mt', serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'goudy old style', 'minion pro', 'bell mt', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">Here's mine:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 37px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">But everyone that day noticed the birds.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 37px;">As the mothers drove their children to school and the shopkeepers rolled up the gates on Main Street, they saw them. Even the most jaded and unobservant among them could not help but marvel at the way that the large oak in the town square shimmered with feathers brighter than the tender buds of leaves.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The tree came alive, shifting and swirling in the windless day as each of the tiny bodies fought for dominance on the branches above. As people paused to take in the strange and wondrous sight, the day slowed until it stopped. </span>2012/03/7-7-7-meme.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-1840426141323348657Wed, 06 Jul 2011 20:01:00 +00002011-07-06T13:01:05.616-07:00YA SavesChildren Are Not AdultsIn early June, Megan Cox Gurdon wrote what has become a much debated article for the <i>Wall Street Journal</i> about whether YA literature has become too dark. (You can read the original article <a href=";.) In the days and weeks that have followed, Twitter and the rest of the interwebs have exploded with discussions about the issue.<br />
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I haven't been sure what it is that I wanted to add, if anything, to the debate, but today, NPR had a feature about Ms. Cox Gurdon and her arguments, and for the first time I had a chance to hear the author of the article speak more about why she made the arguments. (You can listen to the interview <a href=";.) It made me, finally, want to respond.<br />
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During the interview, Ms. Cox Gurdon said one thing that caught my interest more than anything else. Considering her general condescension toward the genre and its authors, it should say something that this is what caught my attention. She said, "Children are not adults." Her point was that children do not have the ability yet to distinguish good from bad, moral from immoral, art from trash, and that it is the job of adults (parents) to help them make those distinctions.<br />
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I agree...to a point. I think that it should be the responsibility of parents to help their children make these decisions. How parents are supposed to help them if their resources include articles like the ones that Ms. Cox Gurdon wrote--articles with no substantive evidence to back up some of the claims that she made. Articles that rely more on anecdotal evidence and fear-mongering than on actual investigative reporting. Well, that's a different matter, I suppose.<br />
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My point is simply this: It is true that children, that teenagers are not adults, but it is also true that literature is not propaganda.<br />
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Many on both sides of the issue--those for and against what Ms. Cox Gurdon argued-- seem to miss this important fact.<br />
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Now I'm not saying that literature isn't powerful and that reading can't be a transformative act. Literature is immensely powerful. Every time we pick up a book and read, we change. We become someone we weren't before, someone who has now experienced things that he or she had not before. I've spent so many years of my life studying, teaching, and (now) writing literature, because I <i>do</i> believe in its power.<br />
<br />
But here's the thing: Literature cannot be prescriptive.<br />
<br />
In part, this is because literary language has a slipperiness to it that is nearly impossible to pin down. An author might have certain intentions about what a book is trying to say or trying to convey, but any literature teacher (or student) worth their salt can tell you that when you're interpreting a piece of literature, authorial intentions are a moot point all together. After all, how many racists were vindicated by Twain's use of a certain unmentionable word in <i>Huck Finn</i> when Twain's own <i>intention</i> in using the word was something else entirely?<br />
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More importantly, perhaps, literature cannot be prescriptive because reading is an intensely <i>private<b> </b></i>and <i>personal</i> activity. Without the reader, no book and no experience of reading can be complete. The reader finishes what the author began in authoring the book, and because each reader brings to the book his or her own sets of experiences and assumptions, no book will strike any two readers the same way.<br />
A book--whether we're talking YA or Romance or anything else--may save a reader or it may maim them, that much is true. But it may also do nothing at all. A book can change your life in any number of ways, but it does not do that simply by existing. To change a life, a book requires the reader's active involvement.<br />
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This is the real problem that I see with Ms. Cox Gurdon's argument <i>and</i> the arguments of so many of her opponents--they give the book itself a power that it just simply does not have.<br />
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For a book to injure a child in some way, the child has to finish reading it. And a child who cannot relate to some of these so-called "dark" subjects may not select those books or finish those books. But the opposite is true--for a reader to be saved by a book, it's the reader who is already actively searching for an answer. It's the reader who finds their own power within the pages of the book.<br />
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I think that what is most frustrating about Ms. Cox Gurdon's argument is that she claims that these "dark" books have the power to harm the teenagers who read them, as though teenagers are not savvy enough to see these stories as literature and not as propaganda. At the same time she accuses these books of ripping away the innocence of our children, she does no better by ripping away their agency as readers. <br />
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If YA does save--and I'm inclined to think that it might--it does not do so by preaching or instructing. If YA saves anyone, it does so by allowing teenage readers the power experience of interacting with beautiful, moving, and often challenging texts. YA saves by treating young adults not as the children that they might be, but as the adults they will eventually become.2011/07/children-are-not-adults.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-6450003964106480717Mon, 27 Jun 2011 19:29:00 +00002011-06-27T13:27:20.262-07:00the write lifeFinding My TribeSee, here's the thing--I've been struggling with the idea of being a writer. I think that deep, deep down, part of me still wants to be a professor. (Probably the bossy part of me that likes assigning homework and making up exams.) Ever since last September, when I started making a real, conscious effort to write a novel, I've been very reluctant to call myself a writer. I just didn't <i>feel</i> like a writer. I felt like an unemployed professor.<br />
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Since September, I've been trying to figure out at what point I could say I was a writer, rather than just a frustrated SAHM who still wanted the Ivory Tower. It didn't feel like one when I sent off my first dues payment to RWA or even when I finished my first "practice" novel. I'm not even sure that it was when I got decent feedback on that novel in a contest. It wasn't when I was obsessively focused on finishing the real novel--the one that I was thinking about the whole time I wrote the practice novel. Maybe I felt a little like a writer when I was querying or emailing fulls and partials, but mostly I just felt like a fraud. I was sure that at some point someone was going to realize I hadn't been writing fiction or wanting this badly enough for me or my work to be taken seriously. <br />
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I felt like since that other thing failed so miserably when it should have worked, I didn't see how this impossible thing could possibly work. I <i>thought</i> that I was supposed to be a professor. For the last eight years or so, my entire identity was wrapped around that dream, that single goal. I think that was part of the reason why it's been so hard to wrap myself around this new dream.<br />
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This past Saturday, my local RWA chapter, <a href=" Magic</a>, had a panel of YA authors that featured <a href=" Echols</a>, <a href=" Hawkins</a>, <a href=" Clement-Moore</a>, <a href=". Nelson</a>, and Chandra Sparks. They talked about their books, their lives as writers, and some of those quintessential moments that aspiring writers dream of. As they talked, I realized a couple of things. First-- there are a ridiculous number of insanely talented and very recognizably successful authors who live within a fairly short distance from where I now live. Apparently there's something in the water or air down here. <br />
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Second, and probably more significantly, as they talked I realized something that even getting an agent didn't make me realize--these really are my people.<br />
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Don't get me wrong--I was a pretty decent academic. I've got the CV to prove it, even if I don't have the job. But I always felt like being around academics was really, really hard. They're just so smart! All. The. Time. I am not smart all the time--at least not in that way. Being that kind of smart all the time requires an amount of brain power and focus that I'm not sure I have. No, I'm pretty positive I don't have it.<br />
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As I listened to the panel talk this past weekend, I realized that <i>these</i> were the kind of people I want to be friends with--and not in a creepy stalker way. These are the people I want as colleagues, and these are the people I want to be respected as a colleague by. When Rachel Hawkins talk about killing all the random smiling in her manuscripts, I knew exactly what she meant. I just got done doing the exact same thing. And when Jennifer Echols talked about being able to announce the first time she sold at one of the Southern Magic meetings, I understood what she was talking about. I had just been able to announce my new agent just moments before. They speak language that I understand--a language of books and literature that has nothing to do with being able to reference obscure German or French philosophers. A language that has everything to do with the difficulty of craft and the beauty of language. <br />
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More than any number of words written, or queries sent, or even offers of representation made, the writers I've come to know in the past few months are the reasons why I've started to feel more and more like a writer. And if I ever do become a published author, their books will have been the reason why.2011/06/finding-my-tribe.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-6173717192429337593Mon, 04 Apr 2011 17:51:00 +00002011-04-04T10:51:00.174-07:00the write lifeA Virtue I Don't Possess<div class="deleteBody"> <div class="postBody" style="color: #777777;"><span style="color: black;">So here's the thing-- I have the patience of a gnat. </span><br style="color: black;" /> <br style="color: black;" /><span style="color: black;"> No, really. I'm so bad that I tend to read the ends of books because I don't want to wait to see what happens. Sacrilege, I know.</span><br style="color: black;" /> <br style="color: black;" /><span style="color: black;"> I've never been much for waiting. In HS I got tired of waiting to get to college, so I started taking courses at Akron U during my senior year. I graduated from Kent in only 3 1/2 years. And then I went straight to grad school and got through that fairly quickly, too. Actually, I would have been done sooner, but the market tanked so I hung out for a while and pretended not to be done until J finished.</span><br style="color: black;" /> <br style="color: black;" /><span style="color: black;"> But the publishing industry is absolute torture for someone like me. I'm all about the instant gratification of knowing. I don't even care if it's bad news, as long as I know.</span><br style="color: black;" /> <br style="color: black;" /><span style="color: black;"> Right now I'm querying to agents, and let me tell you that as exciting as it is to still have 6 partials out there, the wait is k.i.l.l.i.n.g. me. </span><br />
<br style="color: black;" /><span style="color: black;"> So I'm trying to figure out what to write next. Mostly, though, I just think about what to do if all 6 of those partials turn out to be a bust.</span><br style="color: black;" /> <br style="color: black;" /><span style="color: black;"> Also I discovered Twitter, which is like crack for someone who likes to know things instantly. Thank goodness I don't have a smart phone.</span><br style="color: black;" /> <br style="color: black;" /><span style="color: black;"> So how do you keep waiting from killing you?</span></div></div>2011/04/virtue-i-dont-possess.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-6786246508682253603Fri, 01 Apr 2011 17:33:00 +00002011-04-01T10:33:36.221-07:00the write lifeUpon Penalty of DeathI'd like to preface this post with a warning. You really, <i>really</i> shouldn't tell me any of the following:<br />
<ul><li>Everything happens for a reason.</li>
<li>It's all part of God/Yahweh/Ganesh/whomever's plan.</li>
<li>You do have a job-- you're a mom.</li>
<li>Everything happens for a reason. (seriously- I hate that one.)</li>
</ul><br />
So it's been a while, eh? And while you've all been up to whatever it is you've been up to, I've been having a little bit of an identity crisis.<br />
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But I think I've worked my way through it finally. (insert applause here)<br />
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So the whole being a professor thing didn't turn out. And I'm not really cut out to be a housewife, no matter what the lady at the bank seems to think. So I've decided to go with something <i>really</i> realistic. That's right. I'm a writer!<br />
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Or at least that's what I'm telling myself until we run out of money and I'm forced to get a full-time job.<br />
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But seriously, I wrote a book. Okay, I wrote two books, but we're not going to count the first one since it was really just practice. The second one, though, we're totally going to count.<br />
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It's out in the world right now looking for an agent. I'm patiently (okay, not really patiently) waiting for it to send an email home to its mama and tell me it found a fabulous job.<br />
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(Did I mention I tend to go for careers that have little-to-no chance of taking off??)<br />
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But, hey, seven (out of you don't even want to know how many) people so far actually requested to see pages. <br />
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So stick around and we'll see what happens next.2011/04/upon-penalty-of-death.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-1260508229954264993Sun, 27 Mar 2011 23:47:00 +00002011-03-27T16:47:04.514-07:00kids sayRiiiight.Squeak: (out of the blue when we were driving home from preschool) God gave us things.<br />
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Me: Oh? Like what?<br />
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Squeak: Bushes.<br />
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Me: Bushes?<br />
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Squeak: And bridges.2011/03/riiiight.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-5222417385169057017Mon, 14 Mar 2011 23:31:00 +00002011-03-14T16:31:53.304-07:00writingThe Bookshelf in Your MindIn my past life, I taught literature. I was an Academic. I looked down my nose at the Nora Roberts and other Fluff that my mom read each summer. I read <i>real</i> Literature. I read the Greats. I forced my students to wade through the greats. And I loved it.<br />
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Then I hit a rough patch back in 2008 and I needed happily ever after instead of "Isn't it pretty to think so?" at the end of the books I read. Someone handed me <a href=";. Outlander lead to <a href=" Marie Moning</a> which led to <a href=" Balogh </a>which led to me bringing home 10 or more romances a week from my local library and devouring them. Eventually, I had to turn to <a href=" Roberts</a>. I didn't have much else left. And I fell in love with her, too.<br />
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At first I told myself (and my husband, who seemed kind of concerned with my sudden change in reading habits) that it was research. I was learning the genre so that I could understand how it worked. Partially, I was still experiencing a residual academic shame for the scantily clad couples on the covers of the book I was checking out each week. But I was also partially telling the truth. I really did want to figure out how those writers managed to take stories that seemed like the same plot over and over and make them fresh and engaging. I wanted to figure out what drew me to those stories.<br />
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<a href=" the rest of this post HERE.</a>2011/03/bookshelf-in-your-mind.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-1152686634816084164Sat, 10 Apr 2010 13:29:00 +00002010-04-10T06:29:06.019-07:00last danceWinding DownI have 11 more days in the classroom and just over a month until the big move. Then we're off on a 2300 mile trek across the mid-west and southeastern parts of the country. (400 miles of which will include the cat.) Yesterday, I submitted the final paperwork for the dissertation. Once I pay the $96 dollars to deposit, it will be officially done. Finally.<br />
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It's different than I thought it would be. I thought it would be a happy moment. Instead, I'm fairly indifferent. I have boxes of research that I don't know what to do with. Part of me thinks I should keep it, but another part of me knows that I'm never going to touch it again and probably shouldn't pay to move it. The thing is, I always thought that my dissertation would turn into the kind of book that people might read, that might be useful to students and other scholars. But then again, I'm sure everyone thinks that. Now, I know that isn't the case. I'm leaving academia and leaving that behind as well.<br />
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No one (beside my poor committee) will probably ever read the thing in its entirety, but there is one page that I do hope people get to read. Because while I am currently without career prospects, I am not without graditude.<br />
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS<br />
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Writing may be a solitary activity, but this project did not happen without support.<br />
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This project could not have been completed without the help of numerous libraries and librarians. I am grateful to the Special Collections Resource Center at Southern Illinois University, Carbondale for allowing me access to the Kay Bole and Caresse Crosby collections. Librarian David Koch was particularly kind and helpful in sharing his stories and answering my questions about these two literary women and their works. After his retirement, Melissa Hubbard made my work in the collections a pleasure. Sandra Spanier, of Penn State, helped direct me to the Kay Boyle papers, and other members of the Kay Boyle Society, including Thomas Austenfeld and Marilyn Elkins, were instrumental in pointing me to other sources for this project. Kay’s son, Ian Von Frackenstein, was generous enough to allow me to quote from his mother’s unpublished papers. I am indebted to the staff at the JFK Library for facilitating my access to Hemingway’s papers and manuscripts. Judith Baughman and Jeffery Makala at the University of South Carolina library helped me to access Matthew Bruccoli’s Fitzgerald collection remotely. The staff of the University of Virginia Library helped me to locate correspondence between Faulkner and his publishers. <br />
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I am also grateful to my committee for their assistance. Michael Rothberg, John Marsh, and Naomi Reed all read portions of this project at various times and added their expertise. Robert Dale Parker helped me formulate many of the ideas found in the Faulkner coda and Hemingway chapter. His keen eye and extensive notes helped me polish my writing. I am especially grateful for the guidance and support of Stephanie Foote. She always seemed to know where this project was going far before I did, but her guidance was never prescriptive. I’m grateful that she took a chance on a 20th century dissertation and allowed me the freedom to make this project my own. Her guidance was astute and made the final product here infinitely better. Any shards of brilliance contained within are directly the result of these scholars’ influence; any mistakes are, of course, my own.<br />
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Finally, I am grateful to those who had to live with me while this project was being completed. Aerin Hyun helped keep me sane when I dreamed of throwing in the towel and going back to retail. Mary Rose Cottingham’s excitement for completed chapters and publications was infectious. Max and then Harry kept me grounded. By being perfection themselves, they let me know that there was more to life than obsessing over the perfection of this project. Because they were my babies, this was always my work, and their presence in my life made the work here better. And last, but never least, Jason— my biggest cheerleader, who has been with me since day one of this project—the economist who now knows more about Fitzgerald and Hemingway than anyone should. I am grateful that he put up with trips to the deer-infested wilds of Southern Illinois and for holding down the fort while I flew off to Boston. None of this would have meant anything without him.<br />
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Stick around....something new is coming.2010/04/winding-down.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-3887535903326947540Mon, 08 Mar 2010 16:44:00 +00002010-03-08T08:44:42.070-08:00A Farewell to Arms...er, uh...stuff.There's a for sale sign in front of our house.<br />
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That was harder to take in than we thought it would be. Our little house isn't really ours any more. Starting Wednesday, people will parade through it to measure it up and decide if they want it. <br />
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I'm not really ready for this.<br />
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In order to get the house ready, I've started to sell books. Granted, they're books that I don't want to ever have to read again. bu-bye to Jameson and Adorno, to Veblen and Butler. They've been sitting on my shelf for the better part of 10 years now. I don't really want them--they're stuffy and difficult. They're not what you curl up with at night before bed. (At least they're not what <i>I</i> curl up with at night.)<br />
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I don't want them-- I just want what they represent. Selling them was a bit similar to selling the Camaro. I knew it had to go, but the idea of and then the sight of it driving away gave me a bit of a panic attack. Selling them means that it's really over. They were my reference books--the tools of my academic trade. Now they're going to grace the shelves of some young grad student (I didn't recognize the names of any of the people buying them in my department) who hasn't figured out yet that things have shifted in major and important ways in our discipline.<br />
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They're going to be someone else's future.<br />
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I'm replacing them with a single book- <i>The Writer's Market</i>. Because it's time for a new trade.<br />
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But hell if I know how that's gonna work.<br />
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PS- Stay tuned- The new blog is in the works.2010/03/farewell-to-armser-uhstuff.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-1094921012480678307Thu, 25 Feb 2010 03:51:00 +00002010-02-24T19:53:10.027-08:00Ch-Ch-Ch-ChangesBig changes are happening. Big changes are coming.<br /><br />Once I figure out a new title, I'll start a new blog.<br /><br />I think it should have the word Dixie in the title. Ideas?2010/02/ch-ch-ch-changes.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-3403448449187559413Fri, 11 Dec 2009 02:16:00 +00002009-12-10T18:36:06.433-08:00#best09Best Album of 2009<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 398px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413801771809533794" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413797495326480642" border="0" /></a>2009/12/best-album-of-2009.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-8459527212502599170Thu, 10 Dec 2009 04:06:00 +00002009-12-09T20:17:49.524-08:00#best09Biggest Challenge of 2009I could say that the biggest challenge was 3 months of morning sickness. I could say that it was being pregnant for a full 40 weeks. Or dealing with a three year old. <br /><br />But the biggest challenge of 2009 has been dealing with the hand I've been dealt. That hand, it seems, does not include a) a job as a professor or b) a new Camaro.<br /><br />We decided to have another baby last year when it was clear I wouldn't be getting a job, and for the last year I <span style="font-style: italic;">thought</span> I was doing quite a good job of getting over that fact and mourning the career that should have been.<br /><br />And it really, really should have been. I have a great project, multiple publications, and teaching awards. In a real market, I should get interviews. I should get offers.<br /><br />That, it seems is not to be.<br /><br />There's still the outside chance that I'll creep in through the back door. That J will somehow wrangle me into something when he negotiates his offer.<br /><br />It's just not the same, though. I've never wanted to ride on anyone's coattails. I've never wanted anything handed to me, and I've worked my ass off these last eight years to be good at what I do--good enough that I <span style="font-style: italic;">should </span>be hire-able.<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></span></span><br /><br />I'd make a damn good professor.<br /><br />J has 6 interviews already this December, and with each call he gets I realize more and more that I didn't really mourn completely, that I didn't really finish dealing with this. I want to be excited for him--I <span style="font-style: italic;">am</span> excited for him--but every time he gets another interview, my stomach sinks and I feel like curling up into a ball and crying. <br /><br />Apparently, I am not as ok with the whole situation as I thought. Apparently, I was just distracted by morning sickness, 40 weeks of pregnancy, a dissertation defense, and an increasingly whiny 3- year-old.<br /><br />Apparently, this is an on-going challenge. One that doesn't seem to have any end in sight.<br /><br />The problem is that I'm a planner. I decide what I want; I figure out how to get it; I make a bunch of lists and a bunch of plans; I follow through. It's what I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span>. I'm really not good at dealing with failing.<br /><br />The biggest challenge of 2009 is to re-envision my future and who I am. It's not been going so well the last month or so.2009/12/biggest-challenge-of-2009.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-3956992768876369247Tue, 08 Dec 2009 01:10:00 +00002009-12-07T17:13:08.467-08:00#best09Best Blog Find of 2009I actually have two:<br /><br /><a href=" Family Photos</a><br /><br />and<br /><a href=" />My Parents Were Awesome</a><br /><br /><br />One makes me laugh on a regular basis. One just makes me smile.2009/12/best-blog-find-of-2009.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-3988627732521205076Sun, 06 Dec 2009 20:55:00 +00002009-12-06T13:30:16.675-08:00#best09Best Trip of 2009*I've wanted to drive down Highway 1 for a while now, but something about doing it in a blue Mustang makes it even better.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 501px; height: 230px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412231504113298898" border="0" /></a><br />Last December I had flights and hotels booked to my convention back in July or August. <br /><br />I assumed I would get interviews (and we all know what happens when we assume). The interviews never happened, but the tickets were non-refundable. J's convention was the following weekend in the same city, so we turned what should have been a depressing week into one of the best trips of the year.<br /><br />We started in San Francisco, and when a problem with the rental car company meant that we got to drive a Mustang for the price of a compact, we knew it was going to be a great trip.<br /><br />We headed down to San Luis Opisbo, where my baby brother lives. We saw the Misson<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 246px; height: 184px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412232223072657330" border="0" /></a><br />We ate at the Madonna Inn and I ventured into the men's room to see their waterfall urinals:<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 186px; height: 247px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412232689156671954" border="0" /></a></div>We rented a boat and saw the sunset at <a href=" Bay</a>, we saw the Monarch Butterflies, we went to Paso Robles and went <a href=" tasting</a>. And X got to have a great time with Uncle D.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 324px; height: 433px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412234418640863266" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />But it was still 2008.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We left Uncle D and kept driving down to LA- Little Man was not amused. (And Judy Garland had freakishly small feet.)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />After 2 hours in LA traffic.....<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We saw 2009 in here:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412235432962928706" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412235684606486738" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We spent two days in the Magic Kingdom seeing it through 2-year-old eyes. We rode the Tea-Cups and the Elephants, we saw the Haunted Mansion transformed into Jack Skellington's house, we watched it snow, on demand in Southern California.<br /><br />And then we headed North once again, back to San Francisco for J's convention. Little Man and I saw the sights of the waterfront while J went to meetings and panels. I peed on a stick and we celebrated the results in a private booth in China Town followed by cappuccino and cannoli at <a href=" Steps of Rome</a>.<br /><br />I could have picked our June trip to Florida with my extended family; that was also a trip to remember.<br /><br />The best trip of 2009, though, took us up and down the California coast. It was the trip that helped to heal the pain of not knowing where life was going and the trip that gave us something to look forward to. It was the last trip we took as a family of 3, because when we boarded the plane back to the prairie, we knew we would be 4. And that, it seemed, was a portent of all the good things that had to be coming.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href=" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="; alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412235949469217026" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />*I know I should be posting on best workshop or conference, but this year I haven't been to any, so I'm going back to the Best Trip post.2009/12/best-trip-of-2009.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lisa Dunick)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1658392846922406557.post-6397975121852009252Sat, 05 Dec 2009 04:00:00 +00002009-12-04T20:25:41.364-08:00#best09Best Book of 2009I