29 August 2009

Professor J. Sheeler

I seriously considered changing Sheeler's name, but as I was considering it, the realization dawned that I have absolutely nothing terrible to say. I suppose changing a name is more a protection for me than for the person involved, but, hey, it doesn't hurt to be kind.

I met Prof Sheeler about a year ago, in a reporting class at school. I believe it may have been his first semester teaching at the university, his alma mater. I remember walking into the classroom and thinking, "Oh my gosh it's Stephanie's dad."

My friend Stephanie's dad is small, slightly timid, and grins sideways when he doesn't seem to be exactly sure of what's going on. Sheeler seemed to be the same way: very slender, just below average height. I guess what really made the connection was that he was wearing khaki slacks and a white long-sleeve button-down shirt with a dark tie. Loafers and light brown hair parted on the side completed the ensemble of an altogether unassuming persona.

The students in my class arranged themselves relatively silently as we waited for the quiet man poking his fingers at his Mac to say something. Maybe he was nervous; I'll probably never know. When we found out the kind of writing he'd done in the past, my peers and I raised our eyebrows. How such a quiet-looking man could be an award-winning obituary reporter who'd also happened to write an award-winning book was nearly beyond me.

And then, all of a sudden, it made perfect sense. I thought of the past reporting/journalism professors I'd taken classes from in the past and suddenly I knew that there was no way I would have opened up during an interview with them as I would have talking to Sheeler.

As much as I generally do not enjoy reporting, Sheeler made the process much less painful. No question, at the end of the semester, the entire class was pretty much set on the belief that Sheeler was/is one of the best teachers who has ever graced the halls of the Armory.

I'm pretty sure that he's married with kids, although I don't know how many children he has. Two? Three? I could probably look up the information, but I'd rather not. It's like writing about people who have died or who have gone through terrible things has made Sheeler a calmer man, one who understands the meaning of being a person and not a source who gets quoted in the nut graph.

People in the J-school love Sheeler. He doesn't make it easy; he still makes us work for our grades and for our experiences. He's the kind of person who, if I ever saw him yell or even raise the level of his voice higher than just below speaking level, would shock me like crazy. Yet it also strikes me that the person he is in class could be altogether different from the person he is off of campus. Maybe he's a graffiti artist goth who spends his free time pulling off spiders' legs in the women's restroom. But as fascinating as that would be, I like it better that Sheeler is approachable and doesn't wear black lipstick. I feel like that would take away from his general cool-guy persona.

People...the disclaimer

People are the most interesting things in the world. This seems like such a boring thing to say; I mean, of course. Duh. What else is there? The thing is, I didn't even consider saying, "My sister's cat, Harley, thinks she is a dog and I don't understand it."

That's why I've decided to write about people. The only problem is that I'm planning on writing about people I know. People who are around me every week and who, quite possibly, will not appreciate me talking about them so, well, honestly.

So names will be changed. And if you recognize yourself, congratulations. The only reassurance I have for you is that it's unlikely that many other people comprehended the profile and labeled it with your face.

Then again, if it's a good enough profile, there shouldn't be anything to be sad about, should there?

13 August 2009

Michulie-a

I went to see Julie&Julia a couple of days ago for a friend's birthday. It was the perfect adorable chick flick, and the worst decision I could have made at that moment.

You see, I am Julie. Er...and Julia. I am Michulie-a.

Seeing images of Paris brought back this terrible nostalgic feeling, like I had finally figured out how to teleport, but could only move the upper half of my body. My mind was in Paris, my feet were on a popcorn-encrusted floor in Colorado. And then there was Julie's story, about writing novels and never finishing them, about wanting to write and be read and actually getting published in the end. And watching that was like someone had read my diaries, done a little bit of creative work (I am, after all, so definitely not married), and set it up on the big screen.

I'm mad at myself for not having kept up with this blog all summer. I've been writing my thesis and working on some fiction stories I really am going to try to get published; not sure yet if I'll self publish or if I'll play the game with an agent. I want to do some more research, first. But with my last semester starting pretty soon...and with no more internship to talk about, I'm going to have to change my blog subject again. Maybe something more permanent?

Who knows? Does it even matter? Anyone reading that cares?

....thought so.

p.s. I have come to the devastating conclusion that I am one of the most depressing people I know. Dang sarcastic pessimism. It's like an awkward birthmark, no joke.