Defending a thesis is a lot like trying out for your high school's  
theater company's production of Rent. You spend a lot of time  
worrying and practicing beforehand, but in the end, you realize your  
uncredited role as the second waitress at the Cat Scratch Club mostly  
involves just being there.

My thesis defense played out like so: I met with my advisor and  
reader in my advisor's office. They sat across from me with my thesis  
stacked up in front of them. They made eye contact several times, got  
water, grabbed pens they forgot to bring in, went back out to look  
for the reader's copy of my manuscript, realized she'd forgotten it  
at home, came back in, shifted in their seats and began talking.

My reader--who I didn't know before and has the reputation of being  
very blunt--offered me congratulations for finishing my novel. This,  
she said, was a big deal as many students turn in manuscripts that  
aren't complete. Thus ending the compliments portion of her show. She  
then told me that now it was time to re-write. And re-write again.  
And again. Saul Bellow, she pointed out, revised Herzog twenty times.
"Wow," I said, trying to break the tension I felt pouring over me. "I  
draw the line at thirteen." (deciding at the last minute to omit adding, "Zing!!!")

She paused for a second as if weighing the pro's and con's of  
eliciting a fake laugh, decided against it and then proceeded to  
skewer my novel for the next forty five minutes. My narrator--she  
points out-- isn't engaged, doesn't enter into conflict, seems  
unconcerned about whatever is going on around him, never actively  
does anything, merely observes, forgets to recycle, doesn't get up  
for older folk on the subway, eats food with the bad kind of  
cholesterol, kicks (small) dogs, doesn't know how to whistle and--
given the choice to vote or die--probably wouldn't vote.

When she finished talking, you could feel the air of enthusiasm slide  
out of me. All I could think about was the amount of work that I'd  
put into the book, and then I thought about having to do that twenty  
more times, and then I thought about applying for a job at Espresso  
Royale, and then I thought about actively working with the hippies  
and always smelling like patchouli and exotic blends of coffee, and  
then I thought about whether or not they would care if I curled up  
into a ball and assumed the fetal position for the rest of the  
defense. I was giving up. They'd sunk my (Electronic) Battleship.

But then my advisor saved the day.

Given, she did offer critiques and say that i needed to work more on  
the book, but she also gently put me back into the right state,  
unpacking the harsh mental baggage that my reader made me carry and  
putting it away in the proper drawers.

She found a character she loved, asked that the story focus more on  
the narrator's relationship with her, and figured out real ways to  
improve my book without making me think that someone should bury my  
novel in a time capsule. I was so relieved by my advisor's words that  
I almost jumped across the desk and hugged her when it was all  
finished, something her aversion to physical contact would not have  
been cool with.

So, friends, this leaves me with about a months worth of hard work  
before I do the show and tell agent style, but at the very least,  I  
am done. I survived my defense.  No more MFA. After five years of  
post grad education, two masters degrees of debatable merit, and  
several changes in my wardrobe, I can safely say I don't want to  
think about a syllabus again for at least 3-5 years.

Then I'll probably get my PhD (JK, dad!).

And now that I have fully recovered, expect mo' blogs and mo' money
interaction via the Commenting portion of the show. You complete me.

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