As most of you probably know, I started a graduate degree in creative writing (which is sure to get me a stable job that pays a living wage, right? Right?) in 2003. And I still have nothing to show for it, other than an expanded collection of books (not such a bad thing) and a bunch of files on my hard drive called things like "vietnam5.0.doc" and "reimagined.doc" and "newintro.doc." And I can't seem to put all the pieces together into one narrative. It's like I have a dozen variations on the same basic idea.
Sometimes I work on it ever day for weeks at a time. Sometimes a week passes and I don't even look at any of my manuscripts. Sometimes I think I should give up and go back to college for that degree in chemistry I always thought would be fun. But I am always thinking about the bad thing I've done (thus far) in not obtaining that stupid piece of paper that says I write good. It's always there to remind me of my screwup.
So many of my friends from college have finished graduate degrees and gotten "real jobs." (I suppose I have a "real job," but it doesn't seem that way because my responsibilities aren't all that challenging on a daily basis - if ever - and it's not something I went to school for. Or ever saw myself doing. So I don't want to start another degree so I can have actual responsibilities.) Sometimes they make fun of my stagnation. Sometimes I make fun of their degrees. Sometimes I make fun of my stupid degree. It's all good-natured. But I have this nature that prevents me from quitting something once I've started it. And I've more than started an MA in creative writing. I've done all the coursework. I've laid out the basic structure of my novel (though it keeps changing). I've written a novella before and, like, finished it. Why is this so damn hard?
Only after I appear before my thesis committee and talk about what the hell I've been doing for the past five years and get my stupid piece of paper in the mail will I be able to cut this albatross off of my neck.
