Dissertation

I took a break from writing.

It wasn't difficult to stop. August was just a month of constant writing, editing, re-editing, proofreading, editing again, proofing again, writing again, cutting, editing, writing even more again, proofing, editing... It just didn't stop. And so after the deadline I decided to take a break.

I've been doing a Masters in Professional Writing, and Friday 3rd September 2010 marked the end of my studies. That week was physically and emotionally draining, as I poured my creativity into a single project. I only remember it in bits and pieces, I was so tired and stressed and focused on that one thing that everything is a blur. I tend to be overdramatic.

The part I remember most vividly is having my project printed and bound. On the morning of the deadline, at approximately 10 o'clock, I was ready to have it printed. I walked down the road, with the sunlight in my face, and tried to think of anything but my writing. I didn't want to think of anything else I could have included or changed. I didn't want to take anything back.

My hands were shaking as I pulled open the door to the printers. There were no indicators to associate the door with a business. It was bright red, with no windows - it looked more like a back door to nowhere.

Politeness took over.

I said please or thank you at the end of every sentence, whichever was most relevant. My voice became posh beyond my control. They checked everything over, made sure I was satisfied, and began printing.

Time slowed down.

It felt like forever before it was finally ready. They placed the copies in a small cardboard box and handed it to me carefully. I looked up at them trying to hide my panic. It was finished, I had actually finished it, and the ordeal was almost over.

As I walked across the street to the binders, it felt like I was moving in slow motion. I was holding a bomb in my hands, as clichéd as it sounds, and the slightest wrong move would make it explode. I stopped at a set of traffic lights, and the bomb exploded in my head. Every single thing I had meant to include but forgotten flashed through my mind.

In a rare moment of confidence, I stepped across the road and continued my path. It didn't matter. I had read my work as many times as I could, gone over every single word and put as much effort as I could in the time I had been given. I had pushed through a block that rendered my writing unworkable and managed to produce 10,000 words of coherent fiction. It was done, and almost over, and there was nothing else I could possibly do in the time that I had.

I pushed into the binders, behind a queue of five other panicked looking students all there for the same reason. A stern older woman who had been helpful but very unfriendly on the phone several hours earlier snatched my box off me like it was made of an indestructable material and barked my order at me. Politeness took over again, but this time I was sure it worked in my favour. Saying please and thank you constantly seemed to be a breathe of fresh air to the battleaxe, and I noticed she warmed to me - we even managed a brief conversation about how busy they were and how much money they make from last minute individuals like myself.

I watched her take the box and my order form to a back room. She returned and gave me my copy of the order, told me to come back two hours later (and not one minute earlier), and gave me an encouraging smile. It didn't reach her eyes.

I walked out of the door to leave, heard it close behind me, and retched.

It was over, I was done.

The past month, I've been trying hard not to think about it. I've logged into the University computers a couple of times to see if the grade had been posted, but generally I've just been job hunting.

This week, during a crisis of confidence, I opened my e-mail to see that my tutor had sent me a message. I didn't want to read it. It was not a good day for this information. But the information was good.

I passed.

I now have a Masters Degree in Professional Writing!