Work continues, as ever it must.
Among today's things to do is taking care of a stack of grading. My students got another quiz yesterday, and not because they were less responsive to discussion than ought to have been the case (although that would have been a good reason to offer one). Each should grade quickly, and there were students absent, so I have fewer to grade than would otherwise have been the case. It will still take a bit of doing to plow through the assignments, however--although I can take heart that perhaps one or two will offer answers useful for my research. The last quiz did, after all, and the same students took that one as took the most recent...
That research needs some attention, as well. I have a book chapter in draft at the moment, but I have not worked on it as diligently as I ought to have done. It is a scholarly project, and so it does not pay--directly (it makes me more likely to get jobs)--and I have had paying work on offer. There is not a freelance piece on my docket at the moment, though, so I may have some time to attend to it. I hope I will, at least; I need to get a draft hammered out so that I can look at it and make it better, much as I try to get my students to do with their own writing and do not see happening so much as should be the case.
More grading will be coming up over the weekend as a result of my policies to encourage such work. I have my students turn in three versions of each paper. The first is peer-reviewed. The second receives my attention. The third receives the final grade, accounting for ten percent or more of the course grade. Tomorrow, the second version of the students' second paper comes in, so this weekend will see me doing a fair bit of grading in a hurry. And that means also that I will need to complete the new assignment sheet for the students, as they will begin to move on to the third paper as the second gets wrapped up. Like the book chapter, I have it in draft, but it needs to be completed.
It should be clear from my posts to this webspace that I remain busy, and that I remain busy with things for work more than for recreation (and by a significant margin). In truth, even those things I do for recreation end up becoming work. The trip to ScotFest (¶4), for example, informed some of the scholarly commentary I write elsewhere. My long affinity for role-playing games has led to research presentations and to academic advancement. Other examples are easy to find. In effect, I am never really "off," and it is for that reason I find myself annoyed--or more--by those who will assert that teaching, particularly at the college level, is easy. It is not. In doing it, work continues, as ever it must--and ever means exactly that.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
20150923.0639
Yesterday's Hobbit Day dinner--a small thing for us, with just the three at Sherwood Cottage attending--went well. The Mrs. whipped up a batch of parsnips and mashed potatoes, as well as a lovely mushroom gravy that we had with a few hamburger patties I had grilled over the weekend and a few strips of bacon each. It was a tasty meal and satisfying--enough so that there was no need for a second dinner, although I find myself longing for one or two breakfasts at this point. (The problem with eating much is that it prompts a desire to eat much else later on. This is not something kind to my waistline, and I cannot afford to replace my brass buttons with gold at this point.)
After dinner, I completed the freelance piece I had been working on throughout the day. I was able to crank out some 5,000 words about the most recent JD Robb novel, Devoted in Death. Among them, I was able to place an interestingly pointed comment about the protagonist, Eve Dallas. There is in the novel repeated mention of snowflake-bedecked clothing, something expressed in the novel as something of a tradition in the protagonist's workplace. The repetition tends to signal that the snowflake is a symbol or figure of some attention, and the thought occurs that there is a pun on the reference being associated with Dallas. As the protagonist of a police thriller, she could be expected, per genre convention, to be a pointedly unique character, and the text bears it out; there are several respects in which she stands entirely aside from common social convention. In that sense, then, she is a unique little snowflake. It is not an entirely charitable description, but the character seems to read well for many people (else I'd not be asked to do the write-up)--and that, itself, says something.
I do not have another such order yet, although I expect one to be coming soon. I welcome the opportunity to work on other things, though. Aside from the grading I expect to have to do today (I have a riddle ready to go for my students), I have a book chapter to work on and other papers I should be writing. Job applications continue to beckon, as well, and another blog I maintain needs some attention from me. Nor is there a shortage of reading waiting for me to do it, both scholarly and otherwise. (I say "otherwise" as if the reading I do for recreation or professional purposes does not look to factor into my scholarship.) A day or two away from the freelance work is not unwelcome therefore, although I will likely miss having the money come in. After all, it is only because I have the income that I do that I can enjoy such meals as I ate (too much of) last night, and there are other holidays than Hobbit Day upcoming. There may be some kind of Leif Eriksson Day thing coming up...
After dinner, I completed the freelance piece I had been working on throughout the day. I was able to crank out some 5,000 words about the most recent JD Robb novel, Devoted in Death. Among them, I was able to place an interestingly pointed comment about the protagonist, Eve Dallas. There is in the novel repeated mention of snowflake-bedecked clothing, something expressed in the novel as something of a tradition in the protagonist's workplace. The repetition tends to signal that the snowflake is a symbol or figure of some attention, and the thought occurs that there is a pun on the reference being associated with Dallas. As the protagonist of a police thriller, she could be expected, per genre convention, to be a pointedly unique character, and the text bears it out; there are several respects in which she stands entirely aside from common social convention. In that sense, then, she is a unique little snowflake. It is not an entirely charitable description, but the character seems to read well for many people (else I'd not be asked to do the write-up)--and that, itself, says something.
I do not have another such order yet, although I expect one to be coming soon. I welcome the opportunity to work on other things, though. Aside from the grading I expect to have to do today (I have a riddle ready to go for my students), I have a book chapter to work on and other papers I should be writing. Job applications continue to beckon, as well, and another blog I maintain needs some attention from me. Nor is there a shortage of reading waiting for me to do it, both scholarly and otherwise. (I say "otherwise" as if the reading I do for recreation or professional purposes does not look to factor into my scholarship.) A day or two away from the freelance work is not unwelcome therefore, although I will likely miss having the money come in. After all, it is only because I have the income that I do that I can enjoy such meals as I ate (too much of) last night, and there are other holidays than Hobbit Day upcoming. There may be some kind of Leif Eriksson Day thing coming up...
Tuesday, September 22, 2015
20150922.0630
Today is Hobbit Day, of course, with it being Bilbo's birthday and Frodo's. Praise the Ring-bearers; praise them with great praise! Eat a dinner heavy with mushrooms! Eat supper afterward! May the hair on your toes ever fall out! But even on such a day and amid all laud and honor, work continues, and if the writing I must do does not extend so far as the One Book that no longer rules them all (nor should, as I argue in my contribution to Fantasy and Science Fiction Medievalisms: From Isaac Asimov to A Game of Thrones), it is nonetheless a fair bit to do in a day and while watching over a darling little girl of some nineteen months of age. So I will tend to it soon.
As I work on such work, I find that I find myself somehow adrift. There was a time when I was solidly anchored by my work and a few pop-culture pieces on which I focused extensively. That time has long since passed, and I find that I am pulled in many directions with differing degrees of force. If it is true that we are what we eat, then I am in some measure taffy--I rather like taffy, although toffee is better--but even so, I do not feel at ease being thusly tensioned. There are tears forming already, as I can feel, and there are some few places where the hooks have pulled through, leaving pieces hanging loosely--or the hooks have fallen from the walls and dangle as what enmeshes them attenuates and separates from the rest, diminishing it. Things I have loved are ending; other things are popping up and distracting me from what remains of what I have loved.
Some points of stability remain, of course. I can count upon the love and esteem of several people, which is to my credit, and the opprobrium of others, which is unavoidable, given my work. There is too damned much for me to do today, as is usually the case, and so some of what I would hope to do in the day will not get done today--although it will get done. And if it is to get done, I'd better do it--which is something that tends to be true. It is not to say that much is not done for me, either for pay or from love, but there is much that gets done by no hands other than mine, much that can be done by no hands other than mine, and that is as it has been and should be.
If there are no tasks which can only be done by me, I am not of much use. And while I know that the work I do can be done by others, it cannot be done by others in the context where I find myself; it cannot be done by others for those for whom I do it. There is some comfort in that, that there are places in which I am irreplaceable. Now, if I can expand upon them and ensure that they endure...
As I work on such work, I find that I find myself somehow adrift. There was a time when I was solidly anchored by my work and a few pop-culture pieces on which I focused extensively. That time has long since passed, and I find that I am pulled in many directions with differing degrees of force. If it is true that we are what we eat, then I am in some measure taffy--I rather like taffy, although toffee is better--but even so, I do not feel at ease being thusly tensioned. There are tears forming already, as I can feel, and there are some few places where the hooks have pulled through, leaving pieces hanging loosely--or the hooks have fallen from the walls and dangle as what enmeshes them attenuates and separates from the rest, diminishing it. Things I have loved are ending; other things are popping up and distracting me from what remains of what I have loved.
Some points of stability remain, of course. I can count upon the love and esteem of several people, which is to my credit, and the opprobrium of others, which is unavoidable, given my work. There is too damned much for me to do today, as is usually the case, and so some of what I would hope to do in the day will not get done today--although it will get done. And if it is to get done, I'd better do it--which is something that tends to be true. It is not to say that much is not done for me, either for pay or from love, but there is much that gets done by no hands other than mine, much that can be done by no hands other than mine, and that is as it has been and should be.
If there are no tasks which can only be done by me, I am not of much use. And while I know that the work I do can be done by others, it cannot be done by others in the context where I find myself; it cannot be done by others for those for whom I do it. There is some comfort in that, that there are places in which I am irreplaceable. Now, if I can expand upon them and ensure that they endure...
Monday, September 21, 2015
20150921.0605
To discuss things I have noted:
I was able to get my grading done, although not before the weekend. Indeed, I was still working on it until after nine last night. It was a chore, and this weekend will give me more of the same, as there are papers coming in on Friday and their writers will need them back in time to make them better before the next Friday; I do not get to wait about them. But the papers were better in the version I graded through yesterday than they were in the version I graded in a rush after returning from a trip. The students seem to be improving, and that is good to see. There is some hope that I am doing at least part of the job for which I am paid.
My parents have been up at Sherwood Cottage since Friday. It has been good to have them here, and not only because my father worked on several projects for Ms. 8--she now has a little play-yard with a swing set, a slide, and a play-house all in a nice little fence, as well as a new bed, all thanks to her grandpa. I was not the most attentive host, being taken up with the work that I had to do (and still have to do), but I did make what time I could for them in and around slogging through papers. I take a number of breaks from grading, being able to stare at a screen for only so long at a time anymore; those breaks made for good conversations with my parents.
We also went to a festival yesterday, which is not something I typically do; I am a curmudgeon even when I am not swamped by work. It was a good time, though. The festival celebrated the local incidence of Scottish heritage (which is evidently a thing in northwestern Oklahoma), complete with kilts (and, had I a bit more money, I'd have bought one, along with the rest of the kit for it), meat pies (which were tasty), haggis (which I did not eat, and which I regret not trying), whisky tasting (in which I did not engage, in part because of money and in part because I knew I would have to work afterward), and a fair bit of fine music. If I am still in the area next year at this time, I'll attend again.
To move forward, now:
I have a full week of teaching ahead of me before I get to grading the second of three versions of the paper on which my students are now working, so I have a fair bit of lesson planning to do and some materials to write for my professional blog and site. I also have a freelance piece that needs doing; I am fortunate that the novel I need to read is a short one and in a series for which I have already done some work, so that it is familiar to me and should go quite quickly. The usual gamut of job applications, book chapters, and other papers also needs my attention, now as much as ever if not more. The weekend was a good one, and I enjoyed the time with family, but it is done now, and so, as ever, work continues.
I was able to get my grading done, although not before the weekend. Indeed, I was still working on it until after nine last night. It was a chore, and this weekend will give me more of the same, as there are papers coming in on Friday and their writers will need them back in time to make them better before the next Friday; I do not get to wait about them. But the papers were better in the version I graded through yesterday than they were in the version I graded in a rush after returning from a trip. The students seem to be improving, and that is good to see. There is some hope that I am doing at least part of the job for which I am paid.
My parents have been up at Sherwood Cottage since Friday. It has been good to have them here, and not only because my father worked on several projects for Ms. 8--she now has a little play-yard with a swing set, a slide, and a play-house all in a nice little fence, as well as a new bed, all thanks to her grandpa. I was not the most attentive host, being taken up with the work that I had to do (and still have to do), but I did make what time I could for them in and around slogging through papers. I take a number of breaks from grading, being able to stare at a screen for only so long at a time anymore; those breaks made for good conversations with my parents.
We also went to a festival yesterday, which is not something I typically do; I am a curmudgeon even when I am not swamped by work. It was a good time, though. The festival celebrated the local incidence of Scottish heritage (which is evidently a thing in northwestern Oklahoma), complete with kilts (and, had I a bit more money, I'd have bought one, along with the rest of the kit for it), meat pies (which were tasty), haggis (which I did not eat, and which I regret not trying), whisky tasting (in which I did not engage, in part because of money and in part because I knew I would have to work afterward), and a fair bit of fine music. If I am still in the area next year at this time, I'll attend again.
To move forward, now:
I have a full week of teaching ahead of me before I get to grading the second of three versions of the paper on which my students are now working, so I have a fair bit of lesson planning to do and some materials to write for my professional blog and site. I also have a freelance piece that needs doing; I am fortunate that the novel I need to read is a short one and in a series for which I have already done some work, so that it is familiar to me and should go quite quickly. The usual gamut of job applications, book chapters, and other papers also needs my attention, now as much as ever if not more. The weekend was a good one, and I enjoyed the time with family, but it is done now, and so, as ever, work continues.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
20150920.0627
Lights flicker
Pixels disappear
Minutes pass
Their venue returns
They do not
How much is left
In bits and bytes
Stacked upon one another
Pairs in powers
Demanding power
Or else lost
Forever
Trite or banal
Perhaps we are pixels
Shown on a screen
Waiting only for the power to go out
Pixels disappear
Minutes pass
Their venue returns
They do not
How much is left
In bits and bytes
Stacked upon one another
Pairs in powers
Demanding power
Or else lost
Forever
Trite or banal
Perhaps we are pixels
Shown on a screen
Waiting only for the power to go out
Saturday, September 19, 2015
20150919.0832
A friend said something about
Going and coming
And I cannot remember the words
They were good words
Delivered well
They would have made a good poem
Or the start of one
Instead
You are stuck with what I have
Which is a few friends
And an idea
I cannot remember
Going and coming
And I cannot remember the words
They were good words
Delivered well
They would have made a good poem
Or the start of one
Instead
You are stuck with what I have
Which is a few friends
And an idea
I cannot remember
Friday, September 18, 2015
20150918.0605
I have been summoned
I know where to go
When to go there
And I know that the summons will have
Little result
What can be done to a person
Already condemned
Except what is in Donaldson's Covenant
Return something taken
Broken
I do not expect to be handed anything
Certainly nothing that was taken
For little has been taken
If anything
Although much has been surrendered
I will answer the summons
Of course
I am a good little worker
It is all I know how to be
Though I do not know it well
I know where to go
When to go there
And I know that the summons will have
Little result
What can be done to a person
Already condemned
Except what is in Donaldson's Covenant
Return something taken
Broken
I do not expect to be handed anything
Certainly nothing that was taken
For little has been taken
If anything
Although much has been surrendered
I will answer the summons
Of course
I am a good little worker
It is all I know how to be
Though I do not know it well
Thursday, September 17, 2015
20150917.0605
Work continues, as it ever must. Among others, I have papers to grade. I would like to get them done before the end of the weekend, which will mean I need to start on them in earnest today. I had meant to do so yesterday, but I had other grading to do first, as its deadline is a bit earlier than that on the paper-grading I have to do. The papers are "worth more," and so it makes sense that I would take more time assessing them than, say, quizzes. But I still need to get to doing them; I have other jobs that need doing, as well, and I have family coming up to Sherwood Cottage this weekend, so that while I may be able to get some of that other work done, I need to be available to them.
One of those other jobs is a freelance piece I need to write. I have already bought the book for it, downloading it to an e-reader my wife bought for me some years back. It is a relatively short novel, so I should not have any trouble plowing through it--once I can begin on it. As I note above, however, I have grading to do in the meantime, so it will be a bit before I can start on the novel and thus on the write-up of it. It is a next volume in a series, though, so some things will carry forward, and that will be to my benefit. Working with familiar materials is always welcome.
The freelancing is not the only work I do with familiar materials; my search for a permanent position continues, and at this point, I am intimately familiar with the application data I send out. I have seen it enough times that I very much should be. The peril in that ties to the old adage about familiarity and contempt. I am no longer sure how to present myself in such a way that I am attractive to others; while I have some idea how to show myself in person in such a way that I read well (although I do not typically do so, usually lapsing in concentration and being too loud), I do not know how to translate that to my application materials. I suppose I could try to talk to a career coach of some sort, but that costs money I do not have--I think. It will take more research, perhaps. It is fortunate, then, that years of academic training, which has more or less ruined me for the "real" job market, has equipped me admirably to collect and process information that appears in print. (To a large extent; I am increasingly aware of what I have missed through my course selections.) If I can but find the time to do it...for work continues, as it ever must.
Medievalist that I still am, I cannot help but think that the line now reads gæð a weorc swa hit sceal.
One of those other jobs is a freelance piece I need to write. I have already bought the book for it, downloading it to an e-reader my wife bought for me some years back. It is a relatively short novel, so I should not have any trouble plowing through it--once I can begin on it. As I note above, however, I have grading to do in the meantime, so it will be a bit before I can start on the novel and thus on the write-up of it. It is a next volume in a series, though, so some things will carry forward, and that will be to my benefit. Working with familiar materials is always welcome.
The freelancing is not the only work I do with familiar materials; my search for a permanent position continues, and at this point, I am intimately familiar with the application data I send out. I have seen it enough times that I very much should be. The peril in that ties to the old adage about familiarity and contempt. I am no longer sure how to present myself in such a way that I am attractive to others; while I have some idea how to show myself in person in such a way that I read well (although I do not typically do so, usually lapsing in concentration and being too loud), I do not know how to translate that to my application materials. I suppose I could try to talk to a career coach of some sort, but that costs money I do not have--I think. It will take more research, perhaps. It is fortunate, then, that years of academic training, which has more or less ruined me for the "real" job market, has equipped me admirably to collect and process information that appears in print. (To a large extent; I am increasingly aware of what I have missed through my course selections.) If I can but find the time to do it...for work continues, as it ever must.
Medievalist that I still am, I cannot help but think that the line now reads gæð a weorc swa hit sceal.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
20150916.0617
In trying to get through the backlog of reading I have let pile up in favor of doing paying work--and I have had another freelance job come in, and I have papers to mark, so that it will be a bit longer before I can get back to that backlog--I turned to the July/August 2015 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. I have subscribed to the magazine since 1999, and I feel I have benefited from reading it across those sixteen years (although I wonder where the new issue is, since I have paid forward for several years of subscriptions, I believe); taking the time to pore over the pulpy pages offers some comfort to me, which I appreciate greatly.
As I read the issue, I came to Richard Chwedyk's story, "Dixon's Road." In it, a terraforming engineer returns to an older project to visit the site of his former lover's home; the vagaries of space travel being what they are, he has aged in the process of doing his work, but his lover has passed on, and the home they had once shared has been turned into a museum in her honor, as she is a poet of some renown. The terraformer, Dixon, speaks at some length with one of the museum staff, Alice, whom he had encountered just as the facility opened; within the frame of that conversation and Alice's musings on events as she knows them, he recounts his experience on the particularly troublesome project that had called him away from his lover. It is a moving story, perhaps because the actions directly depicted are minimal, working through words to create a sense of loss that remains in the mind long after the cover of the magazine is closed.
Among the comments made in the text is one that stands out for me, largely because I have spent as much time teaching the students I have as I have. Alice, narrating, offers the statement that "Engineers are builders, but so are poets. They build with different materials, in different places. The engineer builds in the exterior world; the poet builds in the interior." The concept--that the work of the arts is equal to that of the "more practical" fields--is one with which those in the arts are familiar, and the tension between the writer and engineer evokes the yin/yang dichotomy, in which each partakes of the other despite having its own identity and expertise. Its voicing positions Dixon and his lover, Laura, as equals--although the text does not depict them as such. For while it expresses, through Alice, sympathy for both Laura and Dixon in their parting, noting that it was an expression of their inner beings, it is Laura whose home is the museum, Laura whose poetry pervades the text, Laura who has passed on--and Dixon has not.
Musing on the text suggests that there is more to say about it, more to note about how the work interrogates any number of standards while corresponding to several. But to my present purposes, it will suffice to say that such comments as Alice makes and that stand out to me are the kinds of comments that many budding engineers need to hear. The artist's work is of value no less than the engineer's; it is in some ways the same as the engineer's. It needs to be respected therefore.
As I read the issue, I came to Richard Chwedyk's story, "Dixon's Road." In it, a terraforming engineer returns to an older project to visit the site of his former lover's home; the vagaries of space travel being what they are, he has aged in the process of doing his work, but his lover has passed on, and the home they had once shared has been turned into a museum in her honor, as she is a poet of some renown. The terraformer, Dixon, speaks at some length with one of the museum staff, Alice, whom he had encountered just as the facility opened; within the frame of that conversation and Alice's musings on events as she knows them, he recounts his experience on the particularly troublesome project that had called him away from his lover. It is a moving story, perhaps because the actions directly depicted are minimal, working through words to create a sense of loss that remains in the mind long after the cover of the magazine is closed.
Among the comments made in the text is one that stands out for me, largely because I have spent as much time teaching the students I have as I have. Alice, narrating, offers the statement that "Engineers are builders, but so are poets. They build with different materials, in different places. The engineer builds in the exterior world; the poet builds in the interior." The concept--that the work of the arts is equal to that of the "more practical" fields--is one with which those in the arts are familiar, and the tension between the writer and engineer evokes the yin/yang dichotomy, in which each partakes of the other despite having its own identity and expertise. Its voicing positions Dixon and his lover, Laura, as equals--although the text does not depict them as such. For while it expresses, through Alice, sympathy for both Laura and Dixon in their parting, noting that it was an expression of their inner beings, it is Laura whose home is the museum, Laura whose poetry pervades the text, Laura who has passed on--and Dixon has not.
Musing on the text suggests that there is more to say about it, more to note about how the work interrogates any number of standards while corresponding to several. But to my present purposes, it will suffice to say that such comments as Alice makes and that stand out to me are the kinds of comments that many budding engineers need to hear. The artist's work is of value no less than the engineer's; it is in some ways the same as the engineer's. It needs to be respected therefore.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
20150915.0600
As has happened before, I have returned to playing The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword, which my wonderful wife bought me some years ago, now. I justify it to myself as entertaining my daughter; Ms. 8 will sit and watch me swing around a pretend sword for quite a while, enjoying it immensely. Whether she watches the game or laughs about watching her father make a fool of himself (short trip, I know) is unclear, but that she appreciates it is clear, and I am pleased to be able to get her to stay still and at ease for a time. And I do like to play a video game now and again.
Much of what I wrote in late 2012 about the game remains true. The racist and sexist overtones identified in my little essay remain in place, and I have to worry that there are other statements being made in the game that I am missing even now, with more years to develop my faculties and consider what I see in the world around me. But identifying and explicating such things is not what I purpose to do today. Instead, I mean to comment about the essay itself, for I have been busy with it these past years; it is not one of the many things I post in this webspace and then neglect. Instead, I have used it with some success as a teaching tool.
The essay, exclusive of the contextualizing paragraph in which I lay out the absurdity of my writing it when I wrote it but including the footnotes, runs to 1,261 words. Assuming a 350-word page--which, in the formatting I request of my students, is normal--it comes to just over three and a half pages, making it a short piece, indeed. (For comparison, the shortest essay I ask of my students this semester is 1,300 words, and that through an error for which I refuse to punish my students.) Even so, it is of such length that it could be published, did journals such as The Explicator accept such submissions (pop culture topics tend not to play well in it, I think), and it could be expanded easily with recourse to theoretical background or, perhaps, by pointing up the sexist overtones present in the game and hinted at in the footnotes. And its short length lends itself to presenting the essay in the classroom as a text to read on the spot and discuss. It is in such a way that the piece has found itself in my teaching before, used (with a bit of emendation to suit the medium) as an example of the kind of writing I ask my students to do on particular assignments and as a springboard for discussion.
The latter works particularly well. Many students, particularly those in first-year classes, are surprised to see argument turned to pop culture items; the idea that the tools developed through formal study can be applied to the things they encounter rarely occurs to them, and I am glad to be among those who make such introductions. They also find much of interest in the discussion--or did, when the game was more current and more of my students were likely to have played it; the console hosting the game has been supplanted, so the typically novelty-crazed youth are less apt to have played Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword. I recall one class in which goggles attracted no small amount of commentary--and laughter.
One of the things that working with a pop culture item allows is openness to feel about what is being treated. For reasons others such as Lawrence Levine (Highbrow/Lowbrow) and Timothy L. Carens ("Serpents in the Garden") explicate, there is a sense of reverence associated with approaching the "literary" or "high culture," and that reverence tends to foreclose discussion and engagement among novice students. Video games do not evoke such reverence, and so they do not close down discussion and freedom to approach the topic. That, I think, is why I have been able to use the essay with as much success as I have in the past--and why I look to write a similar piece about another game in the future.
Much of what I wrote in late 2012 about the game remains true. The racist and sexist overtones identified in my little essay remain in place, and I have to worry that there are other statements being made in the game that I am missing even now, with more years to develop my faculties and consider what I see in the world around me. But identifying and explicating such things is not what I purpose to do today. Instead, I mean to comment about the essay itself, for I have been busy with it these past years; it is not one of the many things I post in this webspace and then neglect. Instead, I have used it with some success as a teaching tool.
The essay, exclusive of the contextualizing paragraph in which I lay out the absurdity of my writing it when I wrote it but including the footnotes, runs to 1,261 words. Assuming a 350-word page--which, in the formatting I request of my students, is normal--it comes to just over three and a half pages, making it a short piece, indeed. (For comparison, the shortest essay I ask of my students this semester is 1,300 words, and that through an error for which I refuse to punish my students.) Even so, it is of such length that it could be published, did journals such as The Explicator accept such submissions (pop culture topics tend not to play well in it, I think), and it could be expanded easily with recourse to theoretical background or, perhaps, by pointing up the sexist overtones present in the game and hinted at in the footnotes. And its short length lends itself to presenting the essay in the classroom as a text to read on the spot and discuss. It is in such a way that the piece has found itself in my teaching before, used (with a bit of emendation to suit the medium) as an example of the kind of writing I ask my students to do on particular assignments and as a springboard for discussion.
The latter works particularly well. Many students, particularly those in first-year classes, are surprised to see argument turned to pop culture items; the idea that the tools developed through formal study can be applied to the things they encounter rarely occurs to them, and I am glad to be among those who make such introductions. They also find much of interest in the discussion--or did, when the game was more current and more of my students were likely to have played it; the console hosting the game has been supplanted, so the typically novelty-crazed youth are less apt to have played Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword. I recall one class in which goggles attracted no small amount of commentary--and laughter.
One of the things that working with a pop culture item allows is openness to feel about what is being treated. For reasons others such as Lawrence Levine (Highbrow/Lowbrow) and Timothy L. Carens ("Serpents in the Garden") explicate, there is a sense of reverence associated with approaching the "literary" or "high culture," and that reverence tends to foreclose discussion and engagement among novice students. Video games do not evoke such reverence, and so they do not close down discussion and freedom to approach the topic. That, I think, is why I have been able to use the essay with as much success as I have in the past--and why I look to write a similar piece about another game in the future.
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