Singular Possessive

It pains me to admit I am in the painful process of rewriting a literature review on a topic I have rewritten for several years, yet, when you find you have a sexy, brilliant dissertation topic that is the bane of sound social science research methodology, you cut your losses and heave ho.

The book on that topic will be forthcoming right before I am up for tenure unless the Nostradamus of higher education, aka the Chronicle of Higher Education, has its way.

But here I am "building" a literature review.  In general, I find literature reviews fun.  It harkens back to pre-doctoral "research" when "research" was supporting your hypothesis with somebody else's original research.  Now that I am doing original research, it's not so much fun.

I was never much of building kind of girl.  I was scarcely fascinated in Legos or Lincoln Logs as a kid, preferring dramatic storylines with my Little People or Barbie.  I always enjoyed writing, especially stories, so I considered writing a dissertation along those lines.

We all want to write our own story, right?  "Be the hero of your story" was an inspirational quote in the window of a classroom at a private school where I used to teach foreign language.  So every day, we master our stories, publish them on social media, sometimes wordlessly through pictures.  Today, while searching for organization strategies for dissertations, I found a "Dissertation Gal."  She just finished her PhD and something on her site expired a few weeks ago already, but the point of the blog is that at least according to her earlier posts, she was supposed to blog everyday about her dissertation.

The blog picqued my interest, although obviously this is something you would follow everyday if that was your fancy, not go back for leisure.  Maybe nobody read her blog like nobody reads mine, a vacant echo in the interwebs.

I have long wanted to keep a dissertation journal but frankly timid about it.  Do I narrate each day like a diary or simply jot down thoughts or feelings?  Are feelings even permitted with a dissertation?  It seems like the workplace to me--  You only cry in private, in a bathroom stall.

Pinterest has many glorious boards devoted to bullet journaling, complete with office supplies you can only by in Japan or Germany, or Cornell note taking on crack.   Perhaps if I converted my ruled Moleskine to grid paper and actually used the untouched Stabilo set I had to have last December, I would feel more giddy about the dissertation process.  My life would look like the neat workstation pins and I could relax ala "cozy" pin style, leg warmers, coffee in a knitted mug, and piles of blankets.

Instead, my work table is a beacon to Trader Joe snacks, a tea pot, rejected Earl Grey, and open Sweet 'N Low packets that mysteriously also ended up strewn on the floor.  My white carpet is hardly visible under the piles of color-coded articles, two Oprah magazines, and a recent Nikkei paper, guarded under the belly of a rather contented cat.  There is also a sticky note on the bottom of my shoe.

Seeing Dissertation Gal's blog reminded me why digital journaling can be fun, albeit the potential audience of creepers who might interlope for reasons other than reading about said dissertations.  I suppose a better platform and graphics might make the whole thing cheerier.

I'm not sure if I could commit to a blog on a daily basis.  I can barely commit to feeding my cats at regular intervals and there is a plant I just watered for the first time in six weeks.  I also worry about leaving information just sitting in the wastelands of the internet, like many ill-fated blogs I used to follow which suddenly just drop off one day, no ending, just a boring entry about something mundane for lack of an interesting topic.  What becomes of them?

But I do have feelings for this dissertation, or rather, with this dissertation and its process.  It's lonely. It's expensive.  I finally figured out that I am broke, not poor, a temporary transitory state until better horizons are within reach.  I have been in this transitory state for some time and frankly, I want dry land.

I used to believe that my heart would be complete, my cup would runneth over with satisfaction, once I reached here.  But instead, it is hollow.

It's a job.  It's not a calling or a passion.  A job.  Nobody tells you that on your way in.  Upon entry, you are the best and the brightest.  You sacrifice for the intelligentsia.  Then reality calls along with your student lenders and the other life/learning experiences:  Sick relatives, absent spouses, paid jobs,  long distance moves.

But that PhD is yours.  Your dissertation is original research.  Yours.  Singular possessive.