Most of my life is lived in a kind of normal way where I say stupid things, and do strange things, and have funny stories to tell. Then, every once in a while, I have a light-bulb moment where I remember that I am a college graduate and have a brain and can think deeply about things.
The most common time this epiphany of academia hits me is after watching pop-movies. I like to sit down and pick the plots and characters apart with Ashley. By the time I get done with these discussions I feel that I understand the movie so well and know all its weaknesses and strengths that I should become a movie director and leave my drab life behind. I should at least be a film critic. —Or screenwriter. Or director.
Other times I read books and then find myself writing essays about them—in my head, actually writing things out is completely overrated. A book has to really annoy me to get me to the point where I'm actually typing out my critique. Although I did once write a mini-novel review of a book I loathed and posted it to goodreads (because that is where serious humanity majors post their critiques). Why is it that essays are hard to write, but I can think up 3,000 words on a fiction title that bugged me in a matter of minutes?
And then . . . there are the times I have my brilliant epiphanies about things that are not at all scholarly, or even have the slightest potential to make me seem remotely wise. I had one of these false epiphanies the other day about ducks. Yes, ducks.
