This week tends to be a funny week for Carnegie Mellon students. (Someone pointed out to me recently that most situations I describe as funny aren't really funny at all, just cruel in an agonizingly ironic sort of way. I'm not sure I can disagree.) Students' attendance starts becoming spotty, and the ones who DO show up have their eyes glued to their computer screens like moths to an LCD.

This is the ineffable, undeniable, and occasionally despicable magic of registration week.

At some point in the latter half of a semester, you get an e-mail that pairs the last two digits of your Student ID Number (more often than not, your SSN) with a timeslot, ranging anywhere from the coveted 6 in the morning to the despised 4:30 in the afternoon. Starting at your designated time, you'll be able to log into the Online Registration (OLR) system and start selecting your classes for next semester.

Some pitfalls to look out for:

-WAITLISTS. There really isn't a sensation quite like having to sign up for a waitlist where you'll be the sixtieth student to get in if someone drops. Except maybe the feeling of having someone shotput a railroad spike through your left lung. Okay, so there IS one. I lied.

If you're high up there on the waitlist (and by high up, I really mean #1 or #2), you stand an okay chance of getting in. Depending on the class (like, is this a class everyone has to take?), you might even make it in with a lower number. Going any lower than that, though, generally doesn't bode well. And there's always a healthy probability that you'll walk into the class and the instructor will kindly ask all the waitlistees to vacate the premises. It's happened to me (and I'm a creative writing major, for crying out loud), so just know it could happen to YOU.

-VANISHING CLASSES. Much like magicians, the X-Man Nightcrawler, or your comb minutes before the interview, classes are known for disappearing without warning or provocation. This doesn't get REALLY funny until it's a class you need to graduate.  See, there I go doing it again...

-TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES. While this year's registration was relatively smooth and painless for me, I've had years where the website either a) goes completely haywire or b) just decides to take it easy for a while and process requests at the speed of molasses going uphill in January. Usually, both problems are fixed in a jiffy, though, so just stay vigilant and restrain yourself from taking your monitor outside and shooting it. Which, during registration time, can sound pretty tempting.

So what classes did I end up with? Let's have a look-see:

Intro to Professional/Technical Writing
Style
Sociolinguistics of Style
Literary Journalism
Process of Reading and Writing
StuCo: Intro to Dance

Man, that schedule's pretty stylish. Heh heh. Get it?

Yeah, I know. Not very "funny".

Volleyball.

Like most other athletic activities of its ilk, its tournaments involve loud screaming, uncomfortable bleachers, and unforgiving spheroids hurtling through the air at disconcerting velocities. I am not a tremendous fan of any of these components singularly, so you can imagine my sentiments on experiencing them all at once.

But as fate would have it, a good friend of mine was playing her last home game for the volleyball team on Saturday, and my attendance record of her games prior was slightly less than stellar. So I told myself I'd make the effort this time, drag myself over to the gym, and at least pretend to enjoy the spectacle.

Some questions I now have (which anyone with the answers can feel free to comment):

1) Are volleyball players trained in how to roll and tumble as part of practice? I wasn't expecting the teams to get so downright calisthenic. They would dive to hit a ball, then roll on their shoulder and pop up right back on their feet, like elite volleyball ninjas or something.

2) What are coaches writing down on their clipboards? I imagine there's a lot to be said for the team planning and tactics and volleyballology and whatnot, but sometimes it looked like the coaches were attempting to write short novels in between rounds. NOTE: If what goes down on the clipboards is classified information, send me your comment in Wingdings. I'll decode it.

3) What's with all the referee hand gestures? I think I managed to decipher a pointed hand, which indicates which team got the point (right?), and the rolling of the arms rhythm-bag-style means a player's going to be swapped. Any of the other gestures just became this sort of alien sign language to me.

Anyway, despite all my griping, bellyaching, and associated kvetching, I'd be lying if I said some of the plays didn't make me raise an eyebrow. In fact, a couple even made me raise BOTH eyebrows. Which is saying something.

I didn't end up staying the whole game through, so as much as I hate to end an entry on this note, I actually have absolutely no idea who won the game. Just recently I sent a message to my friend on the team to ascertain the victor, but she has yet to get back to me. I'll amend this entry as soon I as I hear the news.

So here's a shout out to Julie Ng and her team of deeply motivated, fiercely determined, professionally trained elite volleyball ninjas.

Best of luck on the rest of your season!

Today I'll be endorsing a particularly awesome cause: the A CaPittsburgh Project, happening this Saturday at 8:00. The rest of this post has been generously provided by a good friend of mine, Michelle Mirabella:

There. No witty title this time, just a simple, declarative statement. Which is utterly true, by the way.

I've been involved in the Outreach program the past couple of weeks, something I'll summarize briefly (you can go back a few entries to read my more in-depth description): essentially, I hang out with kids. There's a bunch of stuff on paper saying how I'll be teaching them nonfiction, and poetry, and writing in general. But that's really not the way I see it. Sure, if I can drop an "i before e except after c" and more pearls of grammatical wisdom here and there, great. If one child writes better because I was looking over his shoulder, even better. But truth be told, I just really enjoy spending time with kids. I get along better with them than I do most people.

One student, in the fourth grade, got into a discussion about superpowers with me (EVERYONE does), and detailed about how he should have pyrokinesis in the winter and cryokinesis in the summer (flame control and cold control, respectively, for you comic-book-uninitiated). That way, he could be just right ALL the time. This guy's logic is nothing short of astounding.

Unfortunately, the only day I have the time to go is Friday (my classless holy day). Other weekdays house an after-school program, at a coffeeshop (I think>), where other CMU students help the kids out with their homework. I'm something of a heavyweight homework helper myself (as long as the homework isn't my own, anyway), so it's a shame I can't make it to the after-school stuff.

If you have any questions about Outreach, please, LEAVE A COMMENT. If you're in the area and/or a CMU student (or a prospective one!), please give this some thought. The more people we have, the better. Besides, I might even write you into a blog entry.

And then you'll be REALLY famous.

So two nights ago, I attended the latest in the series titled the "Drue Heinz Lectures", where various writers come to the Carnegie Music Hall to speak their piece about their work, their lives, and anything and everything in between.

Elaztyk dropped from the ceiling to the floor of the hallway without a sound.

            Flicking his head as to whip his black, conical cap out of his face, he sidled up to the first door and noted the doorknob, made from a rusted metal. The doorknob of the target’s room would be brass, or so he was told.

            Footsteps coming from the opposite end of the hallway spelled trouble. With an effortless somersault, Elaztyk leaped back into the shadows of the high ceiling and split his legs apart to root himself firmly up there. A flick of his wrist produced his weapon, a spring-loaded two-foot-long straight razor that was usually concealed along his forearm. He had been hoping to keep it bloodless until the target, but now wasn’t the time to be picky.

            An unsuspecting guard plodded along, not even checking inside the doors to make sure everything was alright. Elaztyk enjoyed the irony of how, as much as everyone complained about the prevalence of assassins in Hommazide, the assassins were really the only citizens that did their job right.

            The sentry stopped right underneath Elaztyk and put one hand on a weapon at his side; he was nervous. Elaztyk raised his blade in preparation for the strike.

            A call from outside got the guard’s attention, who promptly left the hallway to investigate the trouble. Elaztyk tucked his razor back into the holding mechanism and dropped down to the floor once more. Hopefully, there would be no more interruptions.

            This time, he spotted the brass doorknob right away; two doors down, to the left.

            He scurried up to the door and flattened himself against the wall. Gingerly placing one, two, then three fingers on the doorknob, Elaztyk’s finely honed senses detected no mechanical tension, no trap awaiting him at the knob’s behest.

            A silent twist opened the door about three inches before Elaztyk felt the protest of a chain-lock. Rolling up his baggy black sleeve, he poked his arm through the gap, then contorted his elbow in such a way that his hand reached up and slid the bolt across, freeing the door. His limb twisted back to normal, and he waved his fingers thoughtfully as he pushed the door open with his shoe.

            Inside laid one of the least furnished bedrooms Elaztyk had ever seen, and in his experience, he had seen quite a lot of bedrooms. Often there would be paintings, or wall hangings, or some lavish touches of avarice dotting the chamber. But this room was altogether different.

            The floor was hardwood, the walls were bare, and the target slept underneath a blanket that looked more like a quilt than silk sheets, the standard trappings of the merchant class. Elaztyk shook his head and came to his senses; he had a job to do.

            He flicked his razor blade out once more and hefted it menacingly over his head as he moved in for the kill. The moonlight was shining through the window, right on the blanketed mass; Elaztyk couldn’t have asked for a more scenic moment.

            Pulling the quilt off, Elaztyk bowed his head in ritual respect to the target as he swung his blade.

            He stopped his slice a fraction of an inch from the target’s throat.

            The target was a young girl, no younger than twelve and no older than fourteen.

            Her hair was golden brown, her skin was pale, and her breaths were even.

            Elaztyk took a dizzy step back; for the first time in a long time, he had absolutely no idea what to do. He quickly pulled the blanket back on, and then off again, as if some unspoken magic act was going to turn her into a soulless merchant, a dealer of death that he could kill without question. Another blanket switch occurred with no success. The third time, he left the blanket on. Maybe she was about to die, but there was no reason for her to die cold.

            Azidik, a tall, gangly creature of a man with steel claws on his fingers, a ragged shroud over his shoulders, and a feral glint in his eye tiptoed in and saw the target was still breathing. He gazed at Elaztyk and crossed his arms.

            In response, Elaztyk pulled the quilt off once more to reveal their innocent quarry. Azidik warily raised an eyebrow.

            “You do it,” Elaztyk whispered across the room.

            Azidik pushed his unkempt olive-green hair out of his eyes and just shook his head.

            Elaztyk sighed out a “so be it” before raising his blade yet again.

            THUNK. The weapon narrowly swerved at the last moment and embedded itself solidly in the bedpost.

            Azidik slapped an indignant hand over his face as Elaztyk pulled the blade out with a little effort. Noises could be heard from below; guards were being sent upstairs, presumably after discovering the handiwork of Zonoris and Zartoriel. 

            Locking the blade back, Elaztyk shot his accomplice his best “well now what?” expression. Azidik jumped over beside the bed, produced a damp cloth, and tied it around the little girl’s mouth, all in less than a second. He proceeded to hoist her up into his arms, and then motioned his head towards the window.

Elaztyk nodded in accord. “Right, kill her at home. No need to rush such a… delicate matter.” Elaztyk began using his blade to pry the steel grille off of the window frame. This one was tough, and would require a little more force. Azidik hocked up a vial from his throat marked with a skull-and-crossbones, and gulped its contents without a second thought. Afterwards, he clamped his jaw shut and held his breath, as wispy fumes began wafting from his nose.

Just as the bars were beginning to give way, three armed guards, with pistols and swords simultaneously drawn, stormed into the room.

On cue, Azidik exhaled forth a cloying cloud of sickly green gas, nauseating to smell and stinging to the eyes. All three guards fell to the ground in a coughing, moaning heap just as the grille popped free.

By the time the gas subsided, the infiltrators, the target, and one wool quilt were missing.

Well, readers, let me know what you think!

This entry is for those of you out there who are wondering what exactly comes out of these creative writing workshops. I'll start with a poem (from my poetry class), and then I'll explain it from there. (And how it ties into the story for my fiction class. I'm just THAT motivated.)

So here's the rundown:

Somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 companies, ranging from the little guys to the tech titans, your Microsoft and your Apple and your Mozilla.
Hundreds of students, engineers, programmers milling about, clamoring for the attention of recruiters that have only so many internships to give.

And then there's me.

I managed to put a resumé together last night that compiled my writing experience thus far, although the real challenge this morning was teaching myself how to tie a tie. You'd think there'd be an easy tutorial website already, but you've really got to look pretty hard. Factor in my usual inability to learn simple motor skills (I learned how to tie my shoes when I was like, ten), and I've got a serious problem on my hands. I managed to get the hang of it eventually, though, and I was on my way to print my resumé from the computer cluster on my dorm's first floor.

I've got copies in my hand and one foot out the door when I realize the Linux formatting has garbled the alignments of the lines in the middle of the page, so now my list of former jobs is all out of whack. So now I've gotta go back and make MORE copies, but the line for the printer has regenerated and lengthened by a factor of 5. Awesome.

I've got my resumés now, and I'm ready to hit the convention floor. I walk in with a spring in my step and a subtly confident smile on my face. Time to go find me a company looking for a writer.

Technical Opportunities Conference? More like Trampled Optimism Conference...granted, this isn't exactly a writer's element. In fact, it's pretty much a salt mound for us writing slugs. To be fair, though, most companies didn't spend a whole lot of time toying with me. It was either "Um...gimme your resumé and I'll see what I can do" or "Writers? Are...are you serious? I mean...uh...hey, take a free T-shirt!" I'd be lying if I said I didn't see most of it coming, but even companies that said they were looking for writers on the TOC website weren't too warm.

Still, there were a handful of friendly companies who said they'd definitely see my resumé passed down, so more power to them. I walked away with a halfway decent sense of satisfaction, as well as a trove of free stuff.

The swaglist:
--2 free T-shirts.
--A thermos-type bottle, chock full of candy. Including Green Apple Airheads.
--A soft football. Not that I'll throw it, but it's really the principle of the thing, the thing being something free.

So, while the Technical Opportunities Conference may not have been prime real estate for a writer, it was an eye-opener and a true learning experience.

And when people ask me why I went, I can say I did it for you guys.

Gotta love journalism.

The Technical Opportunities Conference (TOC).

A sprawling convention of the biggest names in the engineering and programming businesses, where eager technology-oriented majors gingerly place their resumé into the companies' respective trays, where the students hope they'll be selected for scores of interviews, summer internships, and...um...well, technical opportunities.

In most cases, we liberal arts majors are generally expected to sit this one out. Not that we're discouraged or warned against it; it's just, for lack of a better turn of phrase, really not our thing.

Until now.

Last summer, many of my computer science friends returned from their internships with tales of companies desperately seeking writers to document code and/or explain what certain elements of products/websites/programs do for the users. The problem, according to my comrades, is that these places hire ENGLISHY English majors, who are good writers but aren't the best at making information down-to-earth or easy to digest.

I'll be honest, I'm not entirely sure if MY writing is easy to digest. (You readers can get back to me on that one.) But I figure, hey, it's worth a shot, and I've taken an introductory programming class here, so I can make lame jokes about for-loops and arrays with the recruiters and they'll think I know what I'm talking about.

So here's my pre-TOC checklist:

1) Get a suit and tie.
Check.
2) Shave.
Gonna worry about that tomorrow.
3) A resumé.
HERE we go. This is the primary concern. I'll have my computer scientist buddies help me out with this. Maybe I should put down the URL for the blog as a reference...
4) Super-suave social prowess to make myself memorable to the recruiters.
Er...um...we'll cross that bridge when we get there.

I'll let you all know how it goes.

So get this...remember that slice-of-life story I wrote a little while back? The one with the dad and the son baking cookies? The one without any fight scenes or superpowers or explosions?

My class actually liked it. Whodathunkit, right? Maybe I'll stick with it for a while and see where it takes me. If you're interested in some real hands-on workshop product, drop me a line and I'll post the story on the blog.

Today had another meeting in the Creative Writing Center; the good folks from Wick Outreach came to visit, and recited some of the children-inspired/children-written poetry they had collected over the years. They were hoping to recruit some writing students to their noble cause, where students visit public schools and work with students from K-5 on writing and poetry.

I'm thinking about giving it a shot. Honestly, I don't know I can do much to teach kids about poetry, but MAN, is it easy to get kids excited about fiction. I did the mentoring program at my high school for a few years, and it really doesn't take much. Some insightful guy said "Imagination is the most flammable gas on the planet; all it takes is a spark." I wholeheartedly agree. Just ask someone if they could have a superpower, what would it be. I've discovered this catalyzes creativity in a way unmatched by any "brainstorming exercise".

Here's a quick question to my readers: I asked someone named Joella today on how exactly one would play the Name Game with Joella (i.e. Joella Joella bo Bella, or Joella Joella bo Boella?), but she just mocked me and told me that's "a question only a creative writing major would think of". Like I haven't heard THAT one before. Real original. So I ask you, o wise readers, which one would it be?

And in case you're wondering (which I KNOW you are), me and the cinderblock are neck-in-neck. I've learned the first and middle layers of the Rubik's Cube, and the cinderblock's figured out all of the vowels. My one worry is that the cinderblock will realize it's effectively blind and try to learn Braille. In which case, I'm toast.

Wish me luck.