In yet another attempt to finish up my bachelor degree, I picked up a summer school class. Everytime I re-enroll in school they seem to have added yet another writing class. I attended a reasonable to above average public high school. I could write when I got there, not that I haven't learned things, but it is getting ridiculous. There is the added charm of writing being something I don't really enjoy, which is different than not being good at it. As a kid I HATED writing, in all that those capital imply. Even now, I don't write often. I've never been a journal keeper, although at times, it has seemed a good idea. Dabbling in blogger-dom is as close as I've come.
My writing was so conflicted in high school my teacher's made up grading systems just for me. I would get one (good) grade for content, or critical thinking...whatever you want to call it. I would get a separate (mediocre) grade for grammar and mechanics. Eventually Annie Kleinsasser (english teacher extraordinaire) fixed me, but it was rough going there for awhile. To this day I am a lousy proofreader. Poor Y must always pick up my comma slack, and the way I write makes his head hurt.
So today I get a lovely email from my professor. She suggests I consider an English minor (implied a writing minor), my peer reviews were very helpful and detailed and I could teach writing if I was so inclined. (Please see writing classes at University of Puget Sound, University of Oregon, College of the Canyons, and California State University Northridge, not counting studying two foreign languages and all the other classes just require papers or exams. Aaargh! I think I'm having a cranky old lady moment. On the other hand, I'm just tickled to even have a whiff of academic department recruitment, even if it is ripe with the irony.
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