Are We Ready?

I told someone the other day that my clock was starting on January 1, and he asked if I meant my biological clock. No, no -- different clock, I said. My dissertation clock, to be exact, which is now ticking and will continue to do so for the next two years. I've never written a dissertation, have spent most of my life not expecting to write one, and don't know what to expect from the process.

I think the trouble started about four years ago when I was completing a survey from the Special Libraries Association about career aspirations and came across the question, "Do you have any plans to get a doctorate?" I thought that was one of the easier questions to answer, and I clicked the button that said "No" without a second thought. In my fanciful moments, I wonder if that answer, given so emphatically, might have attracted the attention of one of the Fates, lounging idly somewhere in the vicinity of my computer. What's certain is that within months of that day, a chain of events had led to my enrollment in a graduate program on the other side of the country, in a field totally unrelated to my day job. (Or is it?)

After three years of coursework, I'm heading now into terra incognita. My vision is to write something fresh, creative, and connected to real life. That's my hope.

I discovered something. When it came time to write my first paper for Greek and Roman Mythology, I found I had to overcome some resistance to the whole idea of Outlining an Argument, Surveying the Literature, and Employing MLA Citation Format. Those are the tools of the scholarly trade, of course, and I'm familiar with them. In the past I taught composition and earned a master's degree in English. I'm good at editing and the mechanics of writing. But from some hidden place, right at the start, this little scamp reared his head and insisted, "I want to play!" I realized that the part of writing I really enjoy is making leaps and fitting the words together to make a picture. Hard work is involved, but it starts with play.

I know enough about writing (and psychology) to know that that child is precious and that nothing of significance will happen unless he's happy. I even think I know what he looks like. He's the little blond curly-haired boy who gazed so wistfully over his father's shoulder in one of my dreams. I took care of him this fall by playing with labyrinths, walking as many of them as I could for an in-the-body and out-of-the-head experience. I even got my shoes muddy walking a corn maze.

Pretty soon the writing, rewriting, and negotiating will begin. Today, I primed the pump by going to a movie with a friend and eating the fudge he had secreted in his pocket. A little chocolate can never hurt.