Dear Diary, Day 3: Sweet Narrative Flow

Dear Diary,

Okay, I'm reflecting on the thesis this evening. It's at least a prelude to further thesis reflection.

The last draft I submitted to my advisor resembled the web of red threads linking disparate ideas in the conspiracy theorist's attic combined with the slurred exchange of two pals standing outside the darkened bar after last call smoking their last two smokes of the crumpled pack now tossed heedlessly in the gutter.

Yeah, it was that bad.

I wasn't lying in Entry Two when I said writing is like Calvinball, different every day, going in the most unexpected, unpredictable directions, 

I suspect this lack of focus might be holding me back from making significant progress. At the beginning of the day, I know what I need to write, but, by the end of the day, I feel I've been chasing my tail. It is like I am trying too hard. Or it’s like I’m playing basketball on the soccer pitch.

I guess that’s Calvinball...

It is a super frustrating but necessary insight to gain. By identifying the underlining issue, I don't have to fight it anymore. I just need to sit with it to figure out how to ride my unpredictable chaos and include it into my process. It is a gift, I just need to crack it.

I am curious, do other people meander when they sit down to write? Or, really, do others have a hard time predicting what they are going to write?

Some days, the flow is totally choked up. Other days, the words flow without effort. Admittedly, the next day, it's usually like, "yuck, that is just...just awful." But at least it is something, and that is where editing comes into play to save the day. Finding the narrative flow is a most wonderful feeling, no matter if it gets tossed out in the end.  

I will get around to recording the content one of these days. I think it's pretty dope stuff combing knowledge, the performance of science, and colonialism with emerging conceptions of the history of emotion premised off of threads of affect theory. But I say all this, then shake my head with existential dread.

It represents a lot of work. But most days, I stare at my books and stacks of papers, pondering the questions, "What am I doing?" and "What is the purpose of a thesis?" I came to terms long ago that what I am doing is nothing groundbreaking or revolutionary. It is important stuff on one level, but it is unlikely to change the world that has been suffering for so long.

The best thing I can say is that it has helped me learn more about Aspen. Heck, this work guided me to Aspen, or Aspen to me. 

She was inside all along, just waiting for the moment when she would be freed. 

Still, day in and day out, the writing feels like words stacked on words. There is meaning and direction, transition and organization, but the words are ideas few people will engage with or even care about. I can be more pollyannaish about it, but why delude the skeptical cynicism? In the end, all my little darlings will be killed off, and my nerves assume the finished product will end up sterilized, pretty, and formatted neatly. The creative, weird, and magical aspects I cherish the most will be scrubbed neatly away. 

Okay, that might be a little dramatic and a moody me feeling the exhaustion. 

And with that, I better be signing off to go prep. Tomorrow is the day I catch that sweet, sweet narrative wave.

Wish me luck, and thanks for listening.

More to come if the stars are aligned