And a laptop, with a blank Word document open, the cursor blinking accusatorially at me. I had books piled around me, papers and highlighters scattered on every available space, multicolored Post-It flags sticking out of every book like flat neon fingers. Pepper in my dim library stall, tucked away back in the stacks. And the coffee kiosk near the library closed early, so it was just me and a half-empty room-temperature bottle of Dr. I had a wife who was currently laughing her throaty laugh-a laugh that should belong to me, dammit-with Fucking Anton. I had ten days to rewrite from scratch something that had originally taken me thirty. And then I guarantee you’ll have a paper that will blow the board away.” Explicitly show us how your thoughts can be worked into practical action. Into a vision for what the Church could be. Synthesize those things into a coherent response. You just spent a year exposing the weaknesses of the Catholic Church on a theological level, while simultaneously cataloging the things it does well. I’m not saying it’s poorly written the prose, as always, is excellent and the logic is precise. “I can’t handle those sad green eyes, Tyler. I suppose I must have had a very dejected expression on my face, because she shook her head with a sigh. Yet, your conclusion is twenty-seven pages of passive circumvention.” Anselm’s credo ut intelligam as a pledge of commitment rather than a forced intellectual assent to said dogma.
You deconstruct established dogma and retranslate St. “You spend almost two hundred pages systemically examining the difference between notional belief and religious practice in the Catholic Church. But you’re robbing yourself with this conclusion.” I’ve watched it grow from an idea with raw potential into a fully rounded and layered piece. “It needs to be rewritten,” she said bluntly. The conclusion was twenty-seven pages and had taken me almost a month to write. I pushed down the initial swell of panic.
“However, I think we need to revisit your conclusion.” Professor Morales flipped a few pages over, took another sip of fake coffee, and then looked up once more. Could this mean that I wouldn’t have any major revisions before my defense? Could I be… done? I could see a few marks here and there-her penned-in notes and suggestions-but nothing insane. She tapped her fingers idly on the firm swell of her stomach as she looked down at the last fifty pages of my thesis.
She was in her early forties, black and beautiful with a gorgeous halo of obsidian, corkscrew curls-and also nine months pregnant. I couldn’t hide my relieved exhale, and she smiled a little, shifting in her chair with a small wince.
My advisor, Professor Courtney Morales, lifted her mug and took a sip of decaffeinated coffee.įinally she looked up. My chair squeaked as I leaned back, trying to relax.
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