Finish, then start: Inspired by the dissertation-writing process, revisions, and the itch to get back to life
The river by my house is an ongoing metaphor for enduring change and process. In Manitoba, the ice begins to melt in March, but the fluctuating temperatures above and below zero will bring it back through the month of April. The water melts and freezes in its own flow, capturing unique formations that you’re likely to forget about in any other season. One morning I looked down from the banks to what appeared to be an island of chunky, melted bottle glass sparkling in the sun. I followed the trail down to sit close and observe.
Fractured ice in the spring melt
The word “fracture” came to mind. A sense of fracture. Feeling fractured. There is not much the river can do at this stage, being too unstable to walk upon and too clogged up to flow freely. The stage is significant. Thick. Not easily un-doable, even with a radical shift in temperature. It will melt into free-flowing water again, yet there is a heaviness in the current presentation. This fragile, fractured state will endure for a few days until external circumstances make it possible to let go.
This dissertation process. Also fractured. Aware of the cracks yet tightly holding on, keeping it together. The main body of work has been written and the revisions hang in suspension through the month of April. Nothing is complete until they are done. Doing them does not bring completion. They are all consuming. I have not done anything creative in months. My brain is arrested. It won’t go there. In brief moments of pause when my supervisor is reviewing a chapter I search and apply for teaching postings. Sowing seeds. A sort of professional gardening that makes the best of the season, and trusts I’ll have time to harvest the results when the time is right.
I thought I was a multi-tasker. Not for this. What I have learned about writing a dissertation, and perhaps writing in general, is that it takes total focus. Between January and April 2021 I was able to dedicate 100% of my ‘work’ hours to this task without competing responsibilities for other work or roles apart from maintaining my own needs and home. Every moment of this was cringe-worthy, like it couldn’t happen fast enough. “Not working” is terrifying for me and I am not able to see “working on my doctorate” as a replacement for making a living or livelihood. This is despite encouragement or compassion from others. It is a luxury, I feel, to take time to get it done. A luxury I would happily shake off if I controlled the universe.
I try to stay in flow. Battling my own inner forces to sit still in the chair, pacing coffee refills not to mislead the pup into thinking it’s play time. Every personal issue I’ve ever had in life resurfaces as a distraction. Knowing I am alone. Knowing I am easily distracted. Bored. There are days I get so stuck processing “everything” that I freeze on the couch under a fleece blanket waiting for the feelings to settle. Pass. Until I can let go of them. This is the time, I think, to get through this stuff. Whether it is the dissertation or “me,” these things will never get as much of my attention when I’m back in service to others. I miss the balance.
I can’t move even though I know I will move. I will find my strength and pace, and yet at the same time I am at the mercy of the decisions and time of others. Those engaged in my process know that a dissertation takes time. My time and theirs, our colliding schedules, thoughts, head space plotted along a timeframe to the end that is both knowable and flexible, contingent on circumstance.
I am eager to move forward but this degree must be completed once and for all. Finish, then start. Enduring the back and forth of revisions is like waiting for the ice to melt, only to be hit by a drop in temperature. I trust that these in-between moments will one day be a memory, explainable and worthwhile, and that life will become free flowing again.
