So, I'm writing a dissertation. Supposedly. Supposedly it needs to be finished in less than two months. Supposedly I am the person who will accomplish this feat. While teaching 5th-grade science. Here's what's killing me: I'm not working on it. I'm freaking out instead.
In undergraduate, back when I was an English major, I would read something the week before the big paper was due. Then I'd spend an afternoon in the library reading a few sources about things I didn't understand in the thing I read. Then I'd sit down and write a paper from start to end. I'd lay that paper like a golden egg, the product of a week's worth of reading and thinking and composing in my head magically squirt out of my brain's cloaca all at once. I'd put myself to bed and in a week or so get back a paper full of glowing praise. It made me feel very clever.
The dissertation is nothing like those old English papers. The dissertation is built word-by-word, a stone castle perched on a 6-year-old garbage heap of data. Every step makes me feel stupid. Every word is scrutinized by the perfect scientist who lives in my brain and judged. Rarely does a single sentence escape the retreating cursor.
I called Kelly about my sudden and acute dissertatiophobia. She commanded me to stick butt to chair and do something. So I tried it. I did one little task. Then I did another. Doing something made me feel loads better, and I worked the rest of the day, taking a break for a late lunch and a late dinner before talking to Kelly again.
She reminded me that I'd need to finish one chapter per week if I want to have a full draft by May for Jim. I have enough of a start on two of them that finishing the two chapters won't be too bad. It's the unknown chapters that scare me still. Is that part of the garbage-pile firm enough? Or will the west wing collapse under its own weight. Only time will tell! Short, brief, momentary time. Finish this first part by Wednesday? Yikes! But it can be done.
