This morning I discovered crows’ feet: definitely multiple crows, but only around one eye. What am I, Popeye? Have I been walking round with the lopsided squint of a spinach-eating cartoon? And why are the inside of my eye? Why? This post is brought to you by green tea, currently over-caffeinating me as I strive not to gain approx. 700% of my body weight (see: the run up to undergraduate finals).
Yesterday I bumped into a friend who’s submitting at the end of September. It made me wonder what on earth I am playing at. I don’t know what I’m playing at. Shouldn’t I have stopped leaving the house? Aren’t there more hours in which I could be working? Why have I told people I’m submitting on 1 August – isn’t that the perfect way to guarantee that I don’t? Wouldn’t it be helpful if I could stop feeling – every time I read a CFP or an advert or a tweet from someone not even in my field – that all this writing-up business is taking too much time and that the rest of my life-slash-career is just passing me by?
It doesn’t take a brain surgeon (or, indeed, someone with nearly three degrees in reading) to see that the above questions (turn the internet upside down for answers: no, no, poss, YES) probably fall well within the curve for Normal. Not that anything about DPhil-writing is Normal (certainly not the people who do it). This week I said on the radio that I was attempting to become Dr Duncan soon, which is the psychological equivalent of Oblivion at Alton Towers. Oblivion at Alton Towers would be an excellent pulp fiction novel.*
The main problem is that I’ll be really sad to submit. I love this thesis. That’s not an indication of its quality; it’s an indication of my continuing love for the mad denizens of Shakespearean theatre culture, and the fascination which the Victorians still hold for me. I have ideas for new projects which seem equally exciting, but… I love this project. I love it so much that the reason I’m even making this post is because I just traced the various cultural allegiances of a few aristos whom I mention briefly in chapter three, and discovering all their little socio-political, arts-patronising, club-belonging, doubtless-inbred late-Victorian interactions gave me a thrill of researcher happiness that just cannot be voiced on the first floor of the Cornmarket Starbucks (for one thing, it would frighten the Spanish teenagers).
Thank you so much to everyone who’s said kind words about the last few posts, here or on Facebook/Twitter. Some have suggested that this sort of rambling makes their own writing-up a bit easier. Blogging brings a little clarity to my endlessly-lengthening and occasionally horrific working days. And perhaps this’ll be a nice record to look back on, you know, after. Obviously I don’t actually believe that. Magical thinking says I’m jinxing the whole venture with every blogpost, and denial can’t believe after will ever happen. But still, there it is on the calendar: three weeks. Wish me luck?
*No it wouldn’t, Sophie. You’ve had too much tea.