Monumental Tasks
The idea of attacking something monumental is usually so overwhelming, none of us wants to even begin. When staring a blank dissertation or thesis in the face, most mortals would happily volunteer to do Sherpa duty for a climber up Mt. Everest. Or chew glass. Or shove ice picks under our fingernails. Pretty much anything but having to sit and write something intelligent (even intelligible would be good).
The guest post The Graduate Educator has up about good advice to follow regarding the writing of a dissertation reminded me of this story of my stubbornness being vainly pitted against my Dad’s. (I lose).
During the spring semester of my sophomore year at Cal State, I spent the term in New Zealand and Australia. One of my courses was an independent study course for which I had only to do some research and write a big fat paper on the marine ecology of the South Pacific. I’d done the research–literally up and down the two islands of New Zealand in every city and university library along the way.
I arrived back in the States with a huge pile of Xeroxed pages (it was the 1990s, and the “Internets” weren’t so much). All I had to do was read through the pile and spew out the information in a new and interesting form for my biology prof. It was May, and the paper was due by August. I hadn’t had a break from the academics all term, so I was ready to not think and to start making some money at my summer job, working as an electrician’s apprentice with my Dad.
Too bad for me my Dad’s a total workaholic pain in the ass (I come by it honestly, it seems). He found out about the unwritten paper, and despite how much he needed my help, he told me no job until the paper was written and he’d proofread it for me. I was pissed, and spent at least three days ranting and stomping my drama-queen way around my Mother’s house, waiting in vain for my Dad to call and tell me he’d changed his mind. That never happens, by the way, and at age 20 I should have known better.
By Day Four I’d realized the ranting wasn’t getting me anywhere (he lived in a different house in a different town, so it’s not like he was having to listen to me yell) so I sat my ass down and started. It sucked. Sitting down with the objective of writing an entire paper is asinine. I lost a few more days of my money-earning summer vacation figuring that out. Around 2 a.m. on the sixth night I’d had the life-altering epiphany that if I broke the whole project down into manageable sections, I could kick each section’s ass easily.
I disassembled the entire mountain of suffering into viable bits, and every day I just wrote about that bit, paying no attention to good writing or perfection. I just spewed until it was done. And then, when I felt no more pressure and the mountain was decimated, I relaxed and did my editing and rewriting. And then I called my Dad and told him to come over to Mom’s house and read the draft. I still have the copy he edited. In red pen. Jackass.
I got an ‘A’ on the paper. And for the record, my Dad’s a total pain in the ass, but he’s also one of the most amazing humans on the planet. And, as he still feels the need to point out whenever this incident is recalled, didn’t I learn a valuable life lesson about getting sh*t done?
Posted by Alexa Harrington
