This post comes from a whirlwind of procrastination. My thesis, which I should really start calling my novel again, is nearly done with its second draft. (Yes, I realize that the construction of that sentence makes it seem like the thesis drafts itself…doesn’t it?)
But I am not in the mood to race down that track to the finish line. In reality, I want to drop to the ground, roll up into a little ball, and eat chocolate until I explode.
I don’t have a title for my novel.
It’s T-minus three days until this thing needs to be in the mail and I’m ready to just call it quits. Who needs an MFA any way. I do. I need one. I want one. And I’m so close.
But what to call my child? Already I finished it, ended my discovery phase, which I enjoyed. Now I have to name it? But, but, why?
Naming it makes it all real. Like naming a child while it’s still growing in its mother’s belly. Another level of reality sinks in, nesting among the growing, festering doubt. I name this thing, truly name it, it’s real.
And it’s not because its a book. I’ve written a book before. A bad one. A really, really bad one. Afterall, writing a book only shows that you can finish a project and I am a finisher, which is why I will finish this degree. No, it’s because this marks so many things in my life–the beginning of the next step in my life whatever that may be, the right to call myself an artist, the ability to allow myself to think big because sometimes bigger is better.
This also marks the ending of an era. I have no more excuses. I can write well enough for some amazing college to give me a degree. There are no more excuses, You are not playing at writing, you are a writer.
Naming my thesis means I’m naming my future. My life’s about to change and it both excites me and frightens me.