Medievalist

For a very long time, my guiding dream, the goal which remained steady and constant as I struggled to discover the answer to that age-old question “What do I want to be when I grow up?”, the unchanging, unwavering, ever shining vision which called me onward was this: I will be a published novelist. Late in high school and intermittently throughout college, I sent out dozens of query letters and samples of my very best manuscript. Once, I got so far as to have an agent request to read the first fifty pages of my work. But then, inevitably, came the rejection letter, one among thirty or forty which I still have, tucked away in their self-addressed stamped envelopes, huddled in shame at the very back of some disgraced drawer.

Before entering college, I had two very decided pictures in my head of what would happen while there: 1) I would meat, entrance, and marry my Scottish laird (hey, Truman has a fair number of foreign exchange students, it could’ve happened), and 2) I would publish my first novel (or at least land an agent). Partly in pursuit of my first goal, I spent my third semester (fall of sophomore year) studying abroad in the north of England. I visited London, York, Edinburgh (still my favorite city on any continent) and even Rome. Despite the crushing homesickness which set in during the last third of my trip, it was easily the most incredible experience of my life. I should also note that, even though my long-anticipated Scottish laird failed to materialize, the semester in England was a great help in getting over my first (to date, only) boyfriend, a freshman-year romance which saw my first kiss and my firs heartbreak.

After returning to the states, still a little heartsore but equally determined in my quest to achieve both of the aforementioned goals, I signed up for a 300-level class called Old English Literature, taught by a teacher I’d never taken before, Dr. Christine Harker. I remember on the very first day of class, experiencing for the first time that wonderful “light bulb” sensation which accompanies the mind “getting it,” the rush of excitement as an aspect of literature or history hitherto opaque became clear, the unique satisfaction of making connections and enlarging one’s mental landscape. Dr. Harker herself—a dragon of a woman, smart, passionate, always demanding but ever encouraging—became my unofficial mentor, ushering me ever deeper into a world I could not have imagined, even having come fresh from a land still bearing the physical evidence of it practically around every corner.

The Middle Ages had sunk their claws into my soul, making creative writing, though still a priority at that time, seem evermore like a hobby.

Two turning points marked my transformation into a true, no-reservations medievalist. The first was small, almost insignificant. Truman’s English major offered five areas of specialization, each requiring three 300+ level classes or more. Of course, upon first enrolling, I took creative writing as my area of focus but, starting with that Old English literature class, I slowly began to accumulate enough relevant coursework for a double specialization, the second in British literature. I assumed that my transcript would be thus enhanced, until I was informed that—for whatever odd reason—my degree could only show one specialization. The thing which strikes me now, looking back, is that I didn’t even hesitate. Of course it would be British literature.

The second turning point, more momentous but more gradual, came when I had to decide what graduate programs I would apply for: creative writing or medieval British literature. At first my thought process went like this: Well, if I get my PhD in medieval British lit, I can still do creative writing, and teaching literature sounds a bit more straightforward. There was even the comforting little notion that perhaps, depending on where I ended up in my career, I could eventually take on a couple creative writing courses as well as the literature ones I was, by then, rather looking forward to teaching.

The journey from me to “I want to be a novelist” to “I am a medievalist” does not mean that I’ve fully abandoned my dream of one day seeing one of my works of fiction in print. But now, I’m comfortable with the idea that such a dream can wait until after I have a couple of non-fiction titles published, say on jesters in pre-modern English literature, or the medieval troubadours and jongleurs, or even fairies (proper fairies, of course). Imagination, creativity, and distant, fascinating worlds are still at the center of my passion, and I am constantly confronted with the fact that I really, really love my job. Being able to let my dream change and grow as I did has been the best part of “growing up” as far as I’m concerned.