My thesis is about adoption literature. Shouldn’t I be excited? But because the focus right now is on children’s picture books, I am having a hard time feeling motivated. I want to write about novels. And if I had another semester, then I would have the time to go through each book and talk about them as much as I wanted to.

I’m having a hard time finding joy in what I originally thought I’d dedicate my life to. No English major I have met has ever chose it because of the money. Or maybe I’m projecting. Choosing English as my major was motivated by a lot of things I didn’t want to acknowledge when I first started college. I’ll list them here to reflect on.

1. I had always turned to books and literature when I needed something to preoccupy myself with when I was younger. When I was lonely or felt disconnected or needed comfort, I turned to a novel.
2. There is an inherent connection to the author, the characters, and their worldviews once you start a book. In my mind, you cannot separate the two. It’s important to acknowledge how the author’s background influences their work. This taught me a lot about how we tend to express ourselves, through both fiction and nonfiction.
3. I received good grades in English. I worked hard because I wanted to do well and get praise for it. Not the most altruistic reason, but it was a motivating factor nonetheless.
4. I always connected with my English teachers the most. They were the ones who were reading my essays, helping me find my voice, and encouraging me that what I had to say mattered. This was a rather naive way of building my self-confidence, but it worked at the time.
5. Books helped me empathize and better understand my own emotions. When you really get into the story, it is impossible to separate your own experiences from what you are reading. Literature forces self-reflection

With my undergrad degree nearly finished, I’ve been disillusioned in some ways. Literature and English will always have a huge role in how I see myself, but I also know that the way literature is taught tends to suck the joy out of it. Close readings cannot begin to cover the impact that literature has on society as a whole. It doesn’t matter how much you delve into each definition of a word if they’re being misconstrued.

These are some questions I’ve been struggling with lately:

• How do we expand the canon being taught? Older, white European, male authors were not the only ones creating important texts throughout history. And during this process of decolonizing syllabi, how do you support teachers/students advocating for marginalized voices to be taught and understood in a culturally competent way? The burnout is very real in advocacy work.
• How do I find joy again in reading without writing academic papers? I feel like a lot of the “rewards” I have been given throughout my time in school had to do with my written analysis. How do I find meaning and joy knowing that a book has changed me when I can’t share it in the same venues that I have before? What are other avenues for me to share my thoughts on? Should I write my book reviews/reflections here? Start another blog?
• Why do I feel the need to share my thoughts on how I read literature? I suppose part of it is that I didn’t grow up with someone who could understand my frustrations with the books we were told to read. I never saw myself or my struggles represented in the curriculum. Sometimes I feel like it’s useless and that the field is oversaturated anyways.

But I suppose we all have to be selfish as we continue living. We all have to take time to think about what is worth doing with our lives. I just get frustrated sometimes when I think about whose lives are prioritized over others.