I hate my dissertation. It is currently the written equivalent of gurning. The whole thing makes me want to stick pins in my eyes. It is hot and sunny out. I am not out. I am in here. I am writing. I have just come to the conclusion that the conclusion of my dissertation should have been obvious to the merest sliver of brainless brain even before I started. This is not good. I need an ice cream. And possibly a kick up the arse.
Dissertation is at least engendering thoughts, e.g. —
[AN OBSERVANT READER WILL NOTE THAT THESE ARE NOT REALLY TO DO WITH NINETEENTH-CENTURY ACTRESSES]
Why is the patriarchy so frightened of women who do comedy?
What do we/I make of conservative women who find their beliefs liberating?
How the hell do you write a good conclusion?
Where can I get a really good sandwich on the Cowley Road, damn damn damn why did I give up bread?
Is there a difference between an atheist sitting in a Christian chapel and standing/kneeling when everybody else does, and an atheist who puts on a headscarf to enter a mosque, or removes her shoes in a Buddhist temple?
What shall I write for my friends’ new zine?
Where will I be in six months’ time?
Will this dissertation just crumble like a house of cards when I start to cut it again?