I miss academia. Surrounded by intellectuals (mostly) with similar interests, I flourished. I was, arguably, at my peak, an alpha male English major. Is that a paradox? I didn’t think life could get any stranger or more difficult, at the time. I was wrong. Everything gets much harder and far less stimulating once you leave college. There’s something to be said for a large, interconnected group of folks who all love Chaucer, Blake, Milton, and Derrida sitting about arguing for weeks on end about whether or not there’s religious symbolism in one small, albeit important stanza.
Recently, I’ve been in a funk. (You regular readers have probably noticed that my postings are more maudlin than funny.) Teaching just isn’t the same as being a student. Studying literature or history alone isn’t as effective or as enjoyable, and taking online classes through EdX and similar organizations is hit or miss. And teaching 5th grade Mathematics and verb tenses just doesn’t get me going like in-depth analyses of “Henry IV, Part 1” or Saussure.
I’m going back. I don’t know quite when or how, but I’m going back. Several opportunities have presented themselves, but now I can’t decide what to do. Indecisiveness has struck again. Folklore in Scotland? The History of the Novel in Norway? A commercial fiction degree in Vermont or Pennsylvania? All are equally appealing. None of them are practical. I couldn’t be more excited about it.
That’s all. I don’t really have any revelations or jokes this time, nor am I on a self-help bend. I’m just ready to reboot.