I’m working on writing my thesis proposal and I'm having some difficulty. I will tell you, my first mistake in this project was to assume that this should be an easy task. "Because it is my own work after all," says my cruel inner critic, "and if I can't describe that, am I really cut out for this degree?" Luckily, I am aware of the near-total pervasiveness of impostor syndrome, and continue on, having positively ID'd it. Though I have still succumbed to the perennial pitfall of underestimating how long a project will take, despite all I know from this episode of Freakonomics.
I forge ahead, but my writing sputters periodically and then stops. I read over what I just wrote and wince at my language. It sounds like a kid’s book report. This is embarrassing. I'm ashamed that I’m not as skilled as I want to be, not as polished as I want to be, and my inner critic chimes in that I should be even better at writing given that I’m older than most of my peers. Mulling this over, I think of something I heard Ira Glass say on NPR about starting out in an new endeavor: the first few years you hate your stuff. It's bittersweet sunshine to be reminded that “your taste is why your work disappoints you.”
I read over what I've written again and now it flips back and forth in my mind between being a pathetic novice attempt and, in parts, the sort of clear and plain-faced writing I admire in others. Writing that eschews attempts at fanciness and self-importance (a perfect example of this is my use of the word “eschews” just now) and writing that escorts the reader through the information directly (without passing GO, without collecting $200). Morgan Rehnberg and Ali Bramson come to mind as people I know who have a knack for communicating science in this way.
Pondering this (and further procrastinating), my eyes crawl around the room and flash on a red book I keep on my shelf, “Things I Would Like to Do with You” by Waylon Lewis. This is a book about love. Whenever I open to a page and start reading, I notice how plain and simple the language is. It usually strikes me as a little self-important or somehow embarrassing in a Boulder hippie way. Then I continue reading and I notice that I enjoy the tangibility of the scenes he describes and the honesty of what he shares. Inevitably, I am overwhelmed with the pain and beauty of love, described in this simple way and I cry.
That’s what I’m going for in this thesis proposal. Not the tears, but the clarity (although, there have been tears). Underlying the issue with writing this proposal is my own lack clarity about what I’m describing – my work. This is the highest no-no, it seems. My inner critic is threatening me with a knife about including this fact in a blog, for God's sake. How is it possible that I still, at this point, have any confusion about the research I've been working on for two years. Standing in my horror, I recall I a tweet I read this morning. This is from a person studying astronomy and physics on the topic of being confused, and how we all (looking straight at you, academia) might be served by having a healthier relationship with it.
This finally assuages my mind and convinces it that returning to writing my proposal is both good and safe. I am grateful for this collective wisdom in defense of being average at something you want to be great at. And for examples of great things being plain. And onward I go.
