I finally got down to the business of actually writing my thesis today.
As opposed to seemingly endless research and reading. As opposed to sorting out my previous work, three different papers, under the headings of my thesis sections. And as opposed to crafting a comprehensive works cited section.
In other words I have done everything under the sun to get out of the process of actually writing.
But today, I finally worked: writing, creating, expressing the complexity of my ideas. Trying to lay them out in an orderly fashion without being too dry.
I didn't actually write all day, although I was a virtual prisoner in my apartment, held captive by the necessity to get something done.
All I have to show for it are 511 words that were harder to extract (from what seems like my very soul) than wisdom teeth.
When I look through my other writings on the same subject matter, I seem so fluent that I hardly recognize myself. Why can't I do that this time?
I think of all these American idioms to express difficulty, and they speak to me.
I am out of my depth and in over my head. I have bitten off more than I can chew.
But I can't escape the imperative to write this damn thing. I either write it or I fail. I'm between a rock and a hard place. I have no other choice except to get it done, but I don't feel like I can.
Then again, if it weren't difficult, if it weren't soul-wrenching, then I suppose it wouldn't mean much. And without this baptism of fire, I could never expect the academics to welcome me to their fold.
P.S. Is it any wonder I can't write when all I have to offer are bouquets of cliches?