or just another bloody thesis writer
I am going through what I am sure is one of several classic stages of any thesis writer. At the moment I feel overwhelmed by all the reading I've been doing. Every reading mentions another writer and I think well, I guess I better check him/her out. I feel wobbly in my academic general knowledge and unsure who thinks what in the psychoanalytic world. My primary texts (Coraline and Wolves in the Walls by Neil Gaiman) are rapidly disappearing behind the vast sea of theory.
You know how there is always a point when you're making custard and you think it's not going to thicken. In fact it seems impossible that it could, all that terribly thin liquid sloshing around. I'm kind of at that point. And sometimes custard really doesn't thicken.
It seemed like such a good idea to do a 100% academic thesis. It seemed very sensible indeed. But now I am thinking longingly about the 100% creative option. Maybe I should take even odds and go 50/50. Ah me. Masters. It seemed like a good idea at the time.