"Ten Fingers Isn't Quite Enough"

My Am Lit professor handed back our papers yesterday. The grades were on the very last page. I stuffed my paper into my bag and hurried home through the cold air, without my hoodie on to shock me back into consciousness or some semblance thereof. I knew I would pry through the pages, breath catching, only to find that I had written a mediocre paper with my mediocre efforts. I would blame it on my rustiness, but the doubt would begin creeping in, the wondering if I was really cut out for this whole English major thing after all. There are some brilliant students in the department, and things aren't easier when post-undergrads are in your class and can discuss existentialism and post-modernism and new historic readings of neo-classical non-literary texts. And, okay, while I know what all that is and can if absolutely pressed against the wall, I am always in awe of those who choose to, and who do it carelessly, facily, flippantly, even.

So I got home, and with the distraction of the internet, I managed to avoid looking at my paper for another half an hour. I had seen comments scribbled all over it in blue felt pen, and they were freaking me out.

I very much like your writing style, Elizabeth--it flows well, and you evidence some fine turns of phrase. You also do a very capable job of pointing out the differences between Cooper's aesthetic and that of Twain's, which is exactly the sort of thing I'm hoping this course helps you see. Nice work! A pleasure to read.

Guess I'll stay in the program a little longer after all.

Oh, and P.S. all the little scribbly notes were pointing out interesting things I had said. Who knew?