Well, crap. School starts again on Tuesday, and I could use another two or so weeks of vacation right about now. Why would I want to return to the brutal grind of teaching required general education classes when I could continue lounging around on the couch and watching movies all day? I may sound like an unrepentant slacker, but I can guarantee that all of the other English professors feel the same way. I was out drinking wine with all of them tonight, and they all agree.
Nonetheless, I have got to prepare my syllabi and generally groom myself for the Spring semester. In addition to coming up with a new plan for the new Writing curriculum (which is all somewhat experimental and we all have to come up with our own reading lists and it is all so newfangled and annoying), I also have to seriously pare down the list of required readings for my literature classes.
I love that there are so many things I want to teach, but I hate that (inevitably) when I come up with a plausible reading schedule, only after having snipped the list of things I’d want to teach by half, I still always have to then prune it further, cutting painfully, one by one, favorite books and stories and poems until I have a list that is appropriate for the average college sophomore trust fund slacker antisocial rugby-shirted moron. Just thinking about it has me slamming my fist onto the desk.
Goethe, I am sorry, but you just do not fit. The same to you, Anita Desai and William Blake and Luigi Pirandello. I am sorry. One day we will be together.
In other news, I have just received a disturbing account of what our annual reviews will entail, in addition to finding out the sad state of Summer appointments (i.e. no one gets them and they pay for shit). My future, it is (as always before and ever shall be) up in the air.