Move [!] Get Out the Way. . .

A few evenings ago, our dissertation study group was enjoying a Greek dinner because of course we were procrastinating.  I had moussaka, by the way, which was more tangy than I prefer, the richness absent, but I never complain about moussaka.  Picking at his calamari, my friend next to me stated, "Sitting down and actually writing is the hardest part."  Across the table was a fresh, unopened copy of Writing Your Dissertation in Fifteen Minutes a Day.

I reflected on advice given to me by a researcher who I admired not for the content of her subjects but the sheer volume of work she could complete.  Her advice was to write something every day, even if it is something mundane, like the table of contents.

Sitting down and writing is indeed the hardest part.  I wonder where the prize-winning, 12 year old poet in me ran away to or the 18 year old college-bound senior who promised to dedicate her first book to her English teacher.  Brilliance beamed from my fingertips.

Anyway, it is almost bedtime and I have jogged, eaten, and wined.  The dishes are halfway down, the groceries halfway put away, and the dryer is humming.  That really should be the soundtrack for at least a solid hour of writing.  But I would rather watch my tea cool than write about hortatory legal provisions in a 30 year old law that I have written and presented on eleventy times.

There are also dishwasher unsafe dishes piling up in the sink, which needs to be cleaned.  Nothing ever makes it back where it is supposed in the cabinets.  The cat has taken up a new hobby of knocking her water bowl across the kitchen and they will need to be fed soon.  Tomorrow I will need to tend to the litter box.  There are boots strewn across the bedroom I just organized last weekend because today was the first cold day of autumn and who in the hell knows what to where when that shock happens.  At least the bathroom is still in relative tact.

I also feel obligated to call my mother, visit my grandparents, lift weights, finish reading the book I deigned to open for fun, watch a documentary, and brush up on my foreign language skills for field work.  Also, in the grocery bags not put away are ingredients for recipes I intend to master yesterday.

Christmas is approaching and I considered adding to my wish-list:  Housekeeper.  Then I thought doesn't everybody need one of those, so perhaps I would just pay one to come over just once to make my home look something out of "Good Housekeeping", a Mari Kondo type who wouldn't throw out all of my clothes and books.

Sitting down and writing is the hardest part.  I tried taking inspiration from Studyspo, but then I just look at my picturesque mug, Sharpie highlighters, Semikolon tabs, and Muji pen arrangement.

Sitting down and writing is the hardest part.  There is a chapter meeting this week, a dissertation meet-up this week, and a federal compliance training this week.  And work.  And co-authoring.

Sitting down and writing is the hardest part.  I remember how delightful it was to be young and selfish with my time.  But this is my time.  Writing may be the hardest part, something mastered with Finish Your Dissertation in Fifteen Minutes a Day or The Artist's Way.  The sun may disappear into the orange-blue ether sooner and dead leaves scuttle across the sidewalk, but I decided to smile momentarily because at least a feel inspired, a chill that is thawing.  It's been a long time coming.

Another Song for Sharon

A friend of mine had a baby this week.  Actually, three friends had babies this week and another announced a pregnancy.  This was all on social media, of course, nobody mails a birth announcement anymore.  We could not do without the instantaneous praise and celebration nor the bear the anticipation of such a deliberate delivery.

A friend of mine announced she had a baby this week.  I was not completely surprised; it was about time for the next one.  She has a home in the rural suburbs, complete with a garden, chickens, and guard dog.  The couple wanted a lot of children.  Now they have them and perhaps another or two.

If the announcement had come, I suppose, in the mail, or even email, as the last one did, a personalized statement with an intended recipient, I could not say my reaction would be wholly different but perhaps more indifferent.  But the announcement was made on social media, to an audience of hundreds, and there was no indication this was in the works.  That is, I had no idea she was expecting.  In fact, I still have not seen the last child.

I am not sure what to do with this information.  Social media is a purveyor of useless information or sometimes useful but cumbersome.

We have known each other for nearly twenty years and although not the best of friends we were dear friends.  We achieved milestones at roughly the same time:  Graduating from college, moving in with our boyfriends, getting married during snowstorms, and enjoying such a timeless age.  But at the point she delivered her first child, my home life was unraveling, although I had no idea it was so.  When she purchased a foreclosed house to turn into that mushaboom dream home, I was in the process of moving out of my beloved country home on the water because a heartless drifter foreclosed on my dream.  Since then I have moved from one lake or river or reservoir to the next in such a manner, as Joni Mitchell sang, "I walk green pastures by and by."

We talk about the childless or the childfree as though they reap some sort of bonus life full of decadence, spendthrifts of time.  The benefits we reap include:  Sleeping through the night and in on the weekends, travel, parties, disposable incomes, spontaneous sex, and the endless pursuit of our own agendas, goals, and dreams.

But I knew with Sharon, as with most of my friends who started families, they eventually fly away into their own domesticity, like crows on an electric line.  They neatly separate into the Middlesex* clique, stay-at-home types who pedal direct sale cosmetic products for extra income, the Tupperware of our generation, drink grocery store wine, marble countertops, and refer to their spouses as "hubby".  Then there those like Sharon, aspiring farmers or crafters, with dozens of half-complete DIY projects, failed recipes at the dinner table, but hearty and nutritious.

Then there is one less phone number to dial for lunch or a double-date.  In fact, spending three hours over coffee with a single woman in her thirties who rents, does not own, never unpacking all the boxes in storage, or even her suitcase, she only stays home one weekend a month, is not so appealing,  so weightless and without an anchor, perhaps even a little frightening how one ends up in such a marvelous and hideous place.

(It's not quite that bad.)

This made me think about social media over all.  With YOLOs and FOMOs, we really are pitted against each other in such a cramped, expansive space.  Social media really fits the bill of capitalism and repackaging and reselling of our wants, needs, and desires.  Now, under the warm roof of collegiality and friendship, we can judge each other, gawk at each other, and measure ourselves to each other.

I wonder what my life would look like without social media, namely Facebook.  The choices and decisions I would make, the story I would tell, my own metrics of a life well-lived.  According to Facebook, I have no hometown, no education, and really no accomplishments to speak of except that I adopted two cats and spend Fridays drinking wine (never from the grocer) and writing my dissertation.

There is so much more to my life.  I just don't offer it up on a platter for consumption.  Those things are to be cherished and enjoyed, not managed and published.

Another friend of mine quit social media a year ago.  She too is a recent PhD recipient and single for similar happenstances.  As she put it to me, "If I saw one more ultra-sound photo. . ."  It really goes back to a Carrie Bradshaw quote (as awful as I find that program):  "Think about it. If you are single, after graduation there isn’t one occasion where people celebrate you. … Hallmark doesn’t make a 'congratulations, you didn’t marry the wrong guy' card. And where’s the flatware for going on vacation alone?"

So I would like to quit.  Take the whole thing down.  I always write about doing it.  It menaces each time I "post" a status update.

But then I think about my friends in far places, Japan, Dubai, England, Rwanda, Germany, Korea, and places closer, Pittsburgh, New York, San Francisco, Dallas.  A telephone call every so often or email will not suffice.  I want a photograph, a meme, an off the cuff remark.

I am not sure what I will end up doing, for now Twitter satisfies my news stream and blogs to peer into the lives of others.  There is also "Indian Summers", documentaries, unmastered languages, and yes, the dissertation.