Well, I’m headed to Oxford again today. This afternoon I defend my dissertation prospectus.
I have to admit, I’m not nearly as nervous about this as I was my oral comps. That was five months of intense reading followed by an oral exam. I didn’t know what they’d ask. I didn’t know if my memory would fail me. I didn’t know if I could absorb that much information and be able to analyze it, synthesize it, and give correct, coherent, thoughtful yet instant replies. Turns out, I could.
Today, my job is to convince my committee that I have a good idea for a dissertation—one that is worthy, that is original, and that will add to the existing body of literary scholarship. My topic must be narrow enough to be manageable yet broad enough to meet the requirements of the project. I have to discuss how I plan to approach my topic, how I propose to organize it, and what type of critical approach I will use.
I’m not expecting any major objections to my topic. I’ve already spoken with all my committee members informally about it and received much encouragement. Now that they’ve read my formal proposal, my director explained that, if I’ve done my work well, what goes on today will be more of a discussion, a brain-storming session, with questions and suggestions aimed at helping me begin my dissertation on solid ground.
I’ve got my note pad ready. I’ve never been one to ignore expert advice.
Fun Side Note: You’ve got to wonder about people. In preparing me for today, my excellent dissertation director told me that over the years he has developed a sort of check list of things to tell his students before the defense. He went over all his very helpful suggestions and then said, “Well, I don’t think that you need this advice, but it’s on my list, so here goes: It is best to refrain from arguing with your committee.”
I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. Seems like a pretty obvious observation to me. What kind of person can make it to the PhD level without learning that it’s smart to stay on the good side of the people who have to sign off on you before you can get your degree?
A few weeks ago at the Christianity and Literature conference, I struck up a conversation with a very nice woman while we were waiting for a session to begin. She told me that she was from California, that her research interest was the early novel, Daniel Defoe in particular, and she invited me to a conference her university was hosting next February.
uesday, October 7, 2008, at about 3:23 in the afternoon, I finished the last page of the last book on my Oral Comps reading list. For this part of the Candidacy Examination, Ole Miss requires students to choose a discrete period of literary history, and then to read the fiction, non-fiction, drama, poetry, and attendant criticism pertaining to it. In my case, it was an era in British Literature often called “The Long Eighteenth Century,” a literary period bracketed by two historical events—the restoration of Charles II to the throne in 1660 and the death of Jane Austen in 1817. My list took me four months of steady reading to cover. Reading was my job, my hobby, my life. It took total precedence over everything else. (If you don’t believe me, come write your name in the dust on my furniture or check out the empty pantry.)
For the last several weeks, I've received at least one e-mail per day from the Ole Miss list-serv about debate-related issues. One, headlined "Bad news," informed students that several of the main streets on campus would be closed for days before and maybe after the debate for security purposes, and that 2000, yes 2000, student parking spots would be reserved for media and debate-related visitors. A friend who's still on campus said it felt a little surreal when she looked up the other day and saw men with guns pacing the roof of the Library. No driving, no parking, a clogged-up campus, men in black with guns, and most students won't even be able to set foot anywhere near the debate.
