A few months ago, I mentioned how I just needed two more classes to finish graduate school and get my Masters. However, that will not be happening this semester. While that was what I was planning to do, I ultimately had to withdraw from both of classes, but the lamest of reasons. Last fall, after I passed my exit exam, I registered for what should have been my final two classes. I had three to chose from. I passed on the December class on early twentieth-century American literature. I believed I wouldn't have the time with the holiday season and all. Turns out, I might have been able to do so after all. Instead, I signed up for the two remaining classes being offered in the spring semester that I hadn't taken yet. The first was a perspective class on some undefined period of American literature. I knew nothing about what period was being covered. I couldn't even get a hint, as the course had no books being offered. The other was a course on Thomas Hardy. There were five novels being covered, plus a major selection of his poetry. In an effort to save money, I was going to just check the books out of the library. Also, I managed to find the complete poetry selection for much cheaper than the near eighty dollar edition being offered. The exact same material, though. Well, about ten days before the semester was supposed to start, I received an email from my professor about the class, featuring the syllabus and calendar. It looked like we would spend one week discussing a novel, and the next week we would be discussing the analysis and criticism about that novel, with the last weeks of class going over various collections of poetry. Apparently, the editions the professor demanded included critical analysis, as well as the novel itself. I sent the professor an email about how important it was to have those exact editions of the novels. I got a reply the Sunday a week before classes started. Yes, I needed those versions, and only those versions. The next day, Monday, I checked the local libraries again see which versions they had, but I already was sure they were not the same versions. Fortunately, I own a bookstore. I knew my distributor carried those exact versions. I could just order them from it. Unfortunately, only one of the books were in stock, and I don't think it was the one for the first week of class. Also, it could take my distributor four to six weeks for them to get the books back in stock, well beyond the time I needed them. Since this is basically the only national book distributor, online book stores might not have them either, not that I would purchase them through a competitor anyway, not without extreme duress. This meant I would have to go through the university book store, basically a Barnes and Noble outlet. I don't buy used, if I can help it, as one can't know exactly who had the book last. I couldn't do rental either, as I had a hard time trying to return the last time I did that. So, new it was. I exclusively use a rechargeable card for online purchases; I haven't used it for anything else. Because it was just after the holidays, I knew I had enough money on it to pay for the books and the sales tax. However, the shipping and handling costs wouldn't be known until I actually completed the sale. The card provider had taken out a fee it shouldn't have, so I didn't think I had enough money on the card. I had to wait until the next day to load for onto it, and then another day to make sure the transaction was successful. Normally, such things were automatic, but I needed to be safe. So, this put me to the Thursday before classes began. I had already determined that I could buy just the five books I needed, and not the eighty dollar one I didn't. I went to finish the sale, when I was asked if I was picking the book up in person or if someone else would be doing it. I somehow missed the delivery option. I had to cancel the order and then wait until I was sure the servers were clear. I tried again, later in the afternoon. This time, I made sure it was delivery. I was right about the handling charge, as I wouldn't have had enough money on the card for even the lowest possibility, five to seven days, although it would probably be less since the store was fairly close to the school. I went to fill out the rest of the form and clicked confirm. The card was declined. I tried things a little differently, but I couldn't figure out what was wrong. By then, it was time to close the store and go home. I tried one last time that night, but I couldn't finish the sale. I would have to call them the next morning, from the store, and ask them what I needed to do. This would mean that the books might not be sent out until that evening, or possibly the next business day, which would be the following Tuesday due to the Martin Luther King Junior holiday. This would mean I might not get the books until well after I needed to start reading them. I made a hard choice, but I dropped the class that night. I couldn't risk falling behind due to a late delivery. I didn't really want to read such depressing books anyway. After a fraught weekend of having to activate my multi-factor authentication, without warning over a three day weekend. a finally got word on my other class, on the first day of work. Turns out, the class was about American drama from between the two World Wars. I had heard of only a few of the plays, one from the movie version, and maybe two of the writers. When I went to put up my bio for the class, I noticed that the others were younger than me, and English teachers for grade and/or high school getting their certifications, so I had little in common with them. I also saw on the syllabus and calendar, unedited from when the class was last taught two years ago, that there would be two major assignments. The first shorter one, ten pages (!), would be a peer reviewed conference paper, That's when I realized that this was the same professor I had a few years ago who had me write the same thing, and I almost was just barely able to finish it. The second, longer assignment would be a fifteen page seminar paper of the type that would appear for a literary journal. I had no intention of being in a position to write such things. In fact, I was starting to doubt why I was going after my Masters in the first place. I was never going to teach children. I probably wouldn't get a job at the collegiate level unless I went after my Doctorate, which would be difficult at my age. That's why I wanted an MFA instead, so I could write while using teaching as my money-maker, without the fuss of too much academic stuff. I was worrying so, I had trouble falling asleep that night. I contacted the class, mentioning my problems. I looked up the synopses of the plays. Mostly, they were about a person trying to get ahead in life, but the only way that was possible was in the death of someone. I looked for physical copies of the plays at the local libraries, so I wouldn't have to read everything online, but one only had two, as well as analyses on a few more, and a second library just had one play and nothing else. My professor probably would've wanted more recent material anyway, if I could find anything through the school's online database. I am just not that proficient with such things. Give me books any day over such craziness. I fretted a few more days before dropping that class as well, without ever checking back with the rest of the students or the professor. I was just too embarrassed. I could've done the work, but it just didn't feel right for me, as this class was taking me in a direction I wasn't planning to go. Maybe I was wrong for dropping these classes. Maybe I was wrong in ever trying to get my Masters so long after I graduated. I just wish I cold actually talk to someone. Not email, message, or phone, but actually talk face-to-face to help me out. I thought I knew what I wanted, but I just can't seem to figure out how to get there any more. That is the impression that I get, anyway.
