I recently started making lists of great ideas. That is to say, I carry around my artsy-fartsy black notebook and write in it instead of paying attention in class.
Some examples: Leaves falling off of trees in autumn is a great idea. They could just remain green until late October and then simply fall to the ground. Instead, they turn blindingly beautiful first. Attribute it to chlorophyll, voodoo or God's divine plan. Anyway you slice it; the fact that leaves change colors is a great idea.
Dinosaurs are a great idea. Giant, hulking reptiles ruling the world for millions of years before an asteroid slams into the earth, ending their reign. Humankind can only hope to meet an end half as cool. One could be a creationist, an anti-Darwinist, a literal interpreter of the Bible, and still would have to admit that the dinosaurs are a great idea.
I have some corny ones in there about making out in the rain and stuff like that, but I'll hold onto my masculinity for awhile longer, thank you.
Gender: What a great idea.
I stumbled upon my favorite good idea at the Second Year Faculty-Student Dinner. I was giving my friend Mike the arguments for New York being the best state in the Union. I thought I had just about convinced him of what I consider an obvious truth, when he interrupted, "Yeah but you don't have the dunes."
Rudeness: great idea.
Mike hails from Arizona, and he proceeded to describe to me, à la "Grapes of Wrath" the drive from Phoenix to San Diego. He looks a lot like John Cusack when he grows his beard. His voice cracks when he gets into monologues about politics or, in this case, the chaparral (eighth grade Earth Science class: great idea) in the mountains above San Diego.
I forgot completely about the carrot cake in front of me, and the professors to whom I was supposed to be giving rapt attention (sucking up: great idea). I reminded myself to write in my notebook later, "Passion: great idea." In fact, I thought, there needs to be a whole different category for Passion.
Fantastic idea.
Superincredibleriffic idea.
(Making up words: great idea)
Mike had none of the breathless, eyes to the ceiling, hand-over-heart, "Like, it's just totally, like an amazing totally life changing experience" quality in his voice. Just simple, eloquent, unbending passion.
And I started to wonder if I felt the same way that Mike apparently did about California.
I could think of nothing but carrot cake. Which, I must admit, was pretty delicious. But it certainly wasn't anything to get worked up about.
It hit me later on. Writing! Writing is what I'm passionate about! Literary culture at U.Va.! Legacy of ideas, fiction, stories, narratives, binary structuralist oppositions! Short stories, lattes, beat poetry, starving in the streets of Paris!
Finally, after thinking about it for about 25 minutes, I had a cause to be passionate about!
And that you should be passionate about too.
(Overly long introductions: great idea).
Enter Emily Ackerman.
Emily is the editor of one of U.Va.'s literary magazines, "3.7." In a particularly frustrated-sounding editorial to lead off this past semester's issue she lamented insufficient funding, lack of interest and something about using less fancy paper.
I e-mailed her at the start of the school year. I was outraged. Seething. Set for a rampage.
I was so enraged that I waited nearly two and a half months to finally sit down with Emily and talk with her about the situation at "3.7."
(Feigning passion: not so great idea).
We had agreed to meet in Alderman Cafe. I got a table and was reading the "Rag and Bone," pretending to look important and literary, when I got a phone call.
"Hi, this is Emily. I'm sitting right behind you."
(Awkwardness: great idea).
I turned around and we shook hands. She was wearing orange earrings that could probably be designated "psychedelic." Black-rimmed glasses, ponytail. The shirt underneath her red fleece had snaps instead of buttons.
I was way out of my league.
She was superincrediblerifficaly more literary than I was.
I realized that in my 16-column history at The Cavalier Daily, this was my first real interview.
And I was so overcome by my desire to appear passionate that I of course hadn't prepared any questions.
I hoped she wouldn't notice, so I took a lot of notes, drawing arrows and underlining things to ensure her that I was paying attention. I nodded roughly 4,598,421 times.
From what I can gather, she talked about the complicated budgetary process and the impossibly complex appropriations committee.
She was bummed, and understandably.
At the core, literary magazines are expensive endeavors. Their high cost of publishing prohibits large circulation, and because they generally come out once a semester, they cannot rely on advertisements for funding.
Basically, local merchants want more than 10 people to see their ads.
Emily sounded frustrated, tired of a budgetary process that uses blanket cuts and seems to her to favor large organizations and startups over established but smaller groups.
The logic is that new groups require more money to establish a base, becoming more self-sufficient with time.
However, because of the aforementioned problems raising funds on their own, "3.7" will have to scramble to make enough money to produce even two issues this year. The committee suggested that, to make up the difference, members of the magazine should sit outside art galleries on the Downtown Mall and ask for donations.
To me, expecting to raise money for a literary magazine on the Downtown Mall is a lot like trying to sell five dollar glasses of lemonade on a crisp February day in Anchorage.
Except in this case, the staff of "3.7" would be selling the lemonade instead of adorable seven-year-olds. And instead of expecting to raise a dollar, they would be hoping to raise the necessary $500 difference necessary to publish two issues of "3.7" this year.
One could easily lament that getting money out of Student Council is simply about "who you know," and end the argument there: to shrug one's shoulders and chalk it up to "politics."
To do so would be to make this an incendiary, finger-pointing, hissy fight.
And incendiary, finger-pointing, hissy fights should not be the aim.
Rather, now is the time for the clarion battle cry of the fragmented literary culture of U.Va.
So if you are like I was, looking for something to be passionate about, here is what I consider a great idea. Write to your Student Council representative, congressperson, Dubya or your rich uncle Harry who has a lot of money to donate.
Tell them you're concerned about the future of literary culture at U.Va. Tell them it needs more money! You want to work together to save it! You want to preserve the intellectualism, angsty poetry, artsy photography and glossy paper of the University's literary magazines.
You're passionate about it!
Because Anchorage is very cold in February.
A-J Aronstein can be reached ataronstein@cavalierdaily.com
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