Sobriquet 38.10: Ya Gotta Start Somewhere
I woke up this morning with a tremendous amount of anxiety. I mean, usually, when I wake up it takes me a few minutes to assess the situation. There are those first few moments when, in that liminal not-quite-awake, not-quite-asleep state, I basically look at the time and try to figure out whether or not I can go back to sleep. Usually the only anxiety I feel at that point stems from the occasional realization of "oh, shit, I need to get dressed and off to work!" Today, though, the anxiety was already approaching the high water mark when my lead-heavy lids reluctantly admitted daylight. "Shit," I thought to myself, "I've got to start writing the dissertation today."
And I did.
Eventually.
First, though, I sat in front of the computer screen, paging through notes, trying to figure out where, exactly, I should begin. It took me a few hours to finally produce a first paragraph, writing and rewriting the same sentences over and over, trying vainly to find an arrangement with which I felt comfortable. When I finished, capitalizing on the teensy-weensy bit of confidence the completion of a paragraph fleetingly provides, I called loved ones and asked if hey, would'ja mind if I read somethin' to ya?
By the time I finished the second paragraph, I realized that I was tired, but in a better position than I had been in earlier in the day. I mean, there it was: the beginning, the first three-hundredth or so of my doctoral dissertation. So I decided to call the day a success, having pushed through the wall and put some words on paper (or, more properly, pressing a bunch of keys that resulted in binary code being stored on my hard drive which, through the miracle of modern-day technology, could be translated into a little over a page of 12-point Times New Roman text).
I used to have the somewhat arbitrary goal of writing five pages a day which, I think, stems from the fact that I would routinely write roughly that much in a day while I was an undergraduate. Having found that I rarely wrote more than seven pages in a given day, five struck me as a reasonable daily target throughout grad school but, as I progressed further in my studies, I found that I often wrote less. I don't know if it is the sense of having burnt myself out or if I have somehow developed a style of critical writing that requires more time to produce, but I was pretty wiped after that page-plus today. So I stopped, happy that the first step, even if it turns out to be a false one, has been taken.
I spent the rest of the day watching Seinfeld and knitting the scarf I have been working on. As with the candle-making, I have attempted to pick up knitting so that, after I finish my dissertation, I can have something other than a sprawling pile of academic writing to show for my time. Plus, it relaxes me. And may well result in something that will keep my pretty little neck warm...
I also read a few chapters of The Master of Petersburg. Since I did not write as many pages as I would ideally have written, I thought I could be productive by reading the novel, which, of course, is really interesting. So far, I like it a good deal more than Age of Iron and, depending on where the story takes me, I would not be surprised if it ends up standing beside Disgrace, Elizabeth Costello, and Slow Man as one of my favorite Coetzee novels. We'll see.
For tomorrow: A few more steps. Read another twenty pages of The Master of Petersburg, if I can.
And I did.
Eventually.
First, though, I sat in front of the computer screen, paging through notes, trying to figure out where, exactly, I should begin. It took me a few hours to finally produce a first paragraph, writing and rewriting the same sentences over and over, trying vainly to find an arrangement with which I felt comfortable. When I finished, capitalizing on the teensy-weensy bit of confidence the completion of a paragraph fleetingly provides, I called loved ones and asked if hey, would'ja mind if I read somethin' to ya?
By the time I finished the second paragraph, I realized that I was tired, but in a better position than I had been in earlier in the day. I mean, there it was: the beginning, the first three-hundredth or so of my doctoral dissertation. So I decided to call the day a success, having pushed through the wall and put some words on paper (or, more properly, pressing a bunch of keys that resulted in binary code being stored on my hard drive which, through the miracle of modern-day technology, could be translated into a little over a page of 12-point Times New Roman text).
I used to have the somewhat arbitrary goal of writing five pages a day which, I think, stems from the fact that I would routinely write roughly that much in a day while I was an undergraduate. Having found that I rarely wrote more than seven pages in a given day, five struck me as a reasonable daily target throughout grad school but, as I progressed further in my studies, I found that I often wrote less. I don't know if it is the sense of having burnt myself out or if I have somehow developed a style of critical writing that requires more time to produce, but I was pretty wiped after that page-plus today. So I stopped, happy that the first step, even if it turns out to be a false one, has been taken.
I spent the rest of the day watching Seinfeld and knitting the scarf I have been working on. As with the candle-making, I have attempted to pick up knitting so that, after I finish my dissertation, I can have something other than a sprawling pile of academic writing to show for my time. Plus, it relaxes me. And may well result in something that will keep my pretty little neck warm...
I also read a few chapters of The Master of Petersburg. Since I did not write as many pages as I would ideally have written, I thought I could be productive by reading the novel, which, of course, is really interesting. So far, I like it a good deal more than Age of Iron and, depending on where the story takes me, I would not be surprised if it ends up standing beside Disgrace, Elizabeth Costello, and Slow Man as one of my favorite Coetzee novels. We'll see.
For tomorrow: A few more steps. Read another twenty pages of The Master of Petersburg, if I can.
Comments
in regard to writing and page limits: i do that too, but only when i have to write a paper. it's usually something like one page (if i have the time to take it slow), and it can go up to five (if the deadline is looming over my head like a death sentence). i should probably start doing it on a regular basis though, see where that takes me. thought i'd share.
keep it up, my friend. page by page, you'll soon be done.