I was in my Anglo-Saxon Lit class yesterday, just one of the classes in my major that my dad likes to affectionately refer to as "English crap." We got on the subject of analyzing literature. One of my classmates said something about why we analyze what we read. My absloutely brilliant professor asked him a question that I asked myself many times: "Why do we read at all? Why do we do anything? We do it to get something out of it. We read books with expectations. When these expectations aren't met, we are disappointed. That's why you are here. That's why you are English majors. Presumably, you want to find what you are looking for in that piece of literature. And you believe that it can be found." All I could do was shake my head in agreement. That's why I am here. I want to find what I am looking for, in myself namely.

I love literature. I always have. When I was a kid I used to stay up late under the covers with my little pink flashlight trying to finish my book. I used to memorize Shel Silverstein poems. I also used to get yelled at for staying up too late:) I did it because I got something from them. I was able to escape into their lives for awhile and let my imagination run wild. I wanted to be the Sweet Valley Twins. I wanted to learn how to swim with Sheila or play hide and seek in "the mouse house" from "Sheila the Great." I wanted to find out where the sidewalk ended.

That's what led me here to college. As an English major, I can find myself through what I read. Maybe by realizing that I can have so many less "drop-out" days. And ya know, I kinda like this "English crap."

Love,
Supersteph