Milestones and Turning Points: The Moments that Change Our Lives

The day I defended my dissertation, I woke up with a steely, nervous calm. It was like the energy that had been circling throughout my body the entire four years I'd been working on the novel had suddenly risen up through my pores. It stayed there, dancing among the goosebumps, flirting with my hair. Mark (my husband) asked if I wanted anything to eat. "No," I said. "I couldn't possibly." He decided not to eat anything either--he was defending his own master's thesis in computer science later that day. So we drove, empty and charged, to the campus together.

I can't really say what happened next, except that it was sort of like our wedding. All these months and months--years--of preparation, and it all came down to less than two hours. I remember sucking in a breath and feeling it go down through my empty body. I remember putting my palm over my navel and feeling the rise and fall. I remember my second and third readers (bless them!) going out into the hall for extra chairs, so that there were enough seats and so that I wouldn't have to. I remember talking through the outline I'd prepared and feeling fairly confident about what I was saying. I remember the questions, questions, questions, and then the answers, answers, answers. And I remember at some point relaxing, then feeling a strange disorientation, as if instead of talking with a roomful of professors, I was suddenly seated among my peers.

Then I had to step outside, so they could deliberate before the moment of truth. To be honest, I had no doubt I had passed. I knew they were going to welcome me back into the room as doctor. But what unsettled me, what caused all that energy to sweep out and around and almost vacate, was the realization that I suddenly no longer cared. Yes, I wanted to be Dr. Paterson, wanted that very badly, but if the choice was between that and seeing my book succeed in the world, I'd have walked out of that building and never looked back. At that point, all I cared about was the snippets of feedback I had just received, and how they made me completely re-envision my novel. At that point, all I wanted to do was grab my novel and hold it tightly, say "Where are you not working? Where? I want to make you work, damn it; I want to make you work more than I want my life."

Then, of course, my dissertation director came out and got me, and everyone clapped, in the lukewarm, self-conscious way that only academics can clap, and my third reader gave me a thumbs up and said "You did it!"

But I wanted to say, "No, I didn't." "No, I haven't." I haven't done it until it works. And that's where I am now, getting back into the book, trying to rethink how to make it work--not just parts of it--but all of it. I hope I can. I know I can. I will will this into being.