One for the English Major Team

One sunny day in the Fall of my sophomore year of college I was on my way to declare a practical major when I got an unexpected call from my father. A few minutes later I got off the phone and started walking in the opposite direction towards a different building. I had been given this advice (which, at the time, seemed more like an order): "Major in something you enjoy, rather than something practical. Then, when you go to graduate school, you take the practical road." And that is how I became an English major.

I was not prepared for the hundreds of people who would later scoff and mock my decision. As soon as the phrase "English major" comes out of my mouth, doubt of my survival in the 'real world' creeps into their eyes, and they either say, or think, "English??!! What are you going to do with that?!" Well, oh ignorant one, let me tell you.

For a college student, there is nothing more frightening than scanning an exam and realizing you have no idea what any of the answers are. Not only that, but there is no multiple choice. A big, blank, blue book practically burns a hole in your eyeballs as you squirm in your seat, this close to a full blown panic attack. What to do, what to dooo...Oh! I know! Develop a coherent essay with fully backed up points and examples from the text to illustrate your meaning!

How? That's for the English major to know, and for you to never find out. We're brilliant. We can be put on the spot and come out smelling like roses. We can answer a question we don't know the answer to, back up our claim, marvel at the genius we just pulled out of nowhere, and leave the professor dumbfounded by our intelligence. Especially since he thought we were either unprepared, daydreaming, or just plain idiotic (Now imagine what it's like when we actually do know the answer).

Confused? Why not wander over to your bookshelf and pull out Shakespeare or Chaucer. What? (feign surprise) You don't have any of those? You only have Confessions of a Shopaholic and other similar chick novels?? I suppose they are a bit difficult to understand.... Pity. Well, let's just say that Shakespeare and Chaucer are remembered and widely read (at least by other people) for a reason.

If you can actually understand what Chaucer is saying while reading it, then hats off to you, but I really don't believe you. Unless you are a Chaucer extraordinaire, aka ,professor who will remain nameless from second semester sophomore year. Who, while we're on the subject, made me speak Middle English for a mortifying ten minutes in front of the entire class. Don't know what Middle English is either? Sigh. Google it. Then speak it around other people and note their reaction.

Anyway, English majors are taught to decipher, describe, dissect, determine, declare (oh, why hello alliteration), analyze, and interpret everything put in front of them. That skill cannot be left at the door. In fact, when you're talking to me, just know, from here on out, that while I'm nodding my head and nonchalantly sipping my coffee, I am putting you through a "what's he/she really trying to say" detector while jotting down notes in my head, and coming up with plan a, b, and c of possible answers, ideas...plans of action, if you will.

Now, transfer these impeccable skills that have been tweaked and perfected over 4 years into any professional environment (ahem, I stress any environment) and the true English major will succeed and excel.

Beg to differ? Well, unsuccessful flaw finder, in true English major style I've already mapped out possible questions, arguments, and back up arguments to your unsatisfied mind. So I'm all ears. ;-)

Procrastination

I recently read (most of) an article about constructive procrastination. I got bored halfway through the article and started thinking about unconstructive procrastination. I then realized that I was procrastinating reading an article about procrastination, by thinking about procrastination, while already procrastinating doing work. And so I went further into this double, or triple, entendre and wrote a blog entry about a past instance of procrastination:


Simply being in the library made me feel like I was being productive. I could be chatting on AIM, whispering to a friend, watching The Office with headphones, whatever, the fact that I was in the library was enough to allow myself to take a break from work. If it was 9pm I calculated that if I wrote a page every hour until 7am (yes, I was queen of all-nighters in college) I would have 10 pages written with a few hours left to edit and proofread before the 9am deadline. The next 8 hours or so would consist of complete and utter disaster. I would convince a friend to join me on my all night adventure in the library. A passionate, two hour, whispered conversation over Lost theories would ensue, followed by a trip to Café Brazil “to try a new setting” (result: an indulgence in French toast and coffee, no work accomplished, and a drive back to prison, I mean the library). Then sleep deprivation and the caffeine would kick in causing a series of hysterical laughter set off by nothing humorous whatsoever (a sneeze, pencil breaking, door slamming, floor creaking, you name it). Although it’s hours before the deadline I feel confident I will succeed in writing an A worthy paper. I convince myself that this is how I work—these hours of avoiding productivity are a part of the process. I need the procrastination in order to succeed. Suddenly, it’s 4am and panic strikes. Fear of failure kicks in. I am terrified I will not finish. I imagine my professor shaking his head in disappointment as he writes an enormous red F written at the top of my pathetic paper and I become furious I have wasted so much time… I emerge from the library at 8:55am, blinking in the bright sunlight. I barely remember the last five hours. Somehow, my inner genius showed up, took over my body, and produced a paper. I have no idea if it’s an A or a C paper. Who cares. I finished. It’s over.

As is your (and my) procrastination period.