Scholar's Journal
On my way to the Haas Scholars Conference this past June, I reread my application for the first time since I kissed the accursed thing goodbye in early March. Pre-research panic quickly set in: How did I get myself into this? (How was I going to get myself out of this?) Why did I think I could do so much in one summer? (Why did anyone else believe me when I said I could do that much in one summer?) What was this application even proposing? (Why would I have proposed what this application was proposing?)
Taking a small amount of comfort from the fact that someone, somewhere (namely my mentor, Professor Altieri) apparently did believe that I could learn everything there was to know about a whole school of poetry in one summer, I bought a highlighter, some nifty color-coordinated page tags, and a pound of Dunkin’ Donuts French Vanilla coffee. I then proceeded to camp out my living room couch for the next month; Sip, read. Sip, highlight. Email mentor. Sip again.
And much to my shock and confusion, I had the time of my life. I read more literary theory than I ever had before, and discovered that it was not over my head, and more importantly, it was not boring (a major fear starting out). I also read more poetry than I ever had before (both in number of pages per day and number of poems per poet). A current English professor of mine told me that once you have studied one poet thoroughly, other poets come easier. My high school French teacher told me the roughly the equivalent about romance languages, but while she was wrong, this poetry professor was correct. Having spent the better part of a month reading the poetry of, criticism about, and biographies on Anne Sexton, I discovered that I picked up the styles, voices, and influences of other subsequent poets both faster and better.
And then, just when I was feeling thoroughly on top of my game and almost wise, I left the reassuring comfort of my couch and flew to the University of Texas at Austin for the first of three archival trips. Archival research was nothing like I had imagined it would be. For one thing, I had naively assumed that it would be easy to spend two weeks in a strange city where I knew no one and my longest conversations were with my waiters. This culture shock was compounded by the weather, which exceeded 100 degrees every single day. That said, the archive (air conditioned to protect the manuscripts and rare books!) was a dream come true. In addition to reading drafts of poems, diary entries, and letters, I got to hear a rare recording of Anne Sexton’s chamber rock band, Anne Sexton and Her Kind!
Now, in mid-September, I am finally reading those books that lack of time (by which I mean disinclination) forced me to postpone over the summer, meeting with my cohort, and preparing to begin writing my thesis next week. The prospect of actually producing something from the piles of books, papers, notebooks, microfiche (the result of a sad mix-up at Harvard University), and Post-Its currently swamping my desk leads me back to the panic with which I began this diary entry. Yet between the bouts of crushing self-doubt and the soaring delusions of grandeur, I am thankful to the Haas Scholars Program for one of the greatest, most formative opportunities of my career.
