It’s the little things that loom large as the days count down.
.
.
From here I can lean back and say, oh, don’t worry about that. Never mind. Nobody’s going to make a federal case of whatever.
From the other side, it looks like the smallest error can sink you, like a hole below the waterline, no matter how small. Didn’t change that comma on page 107? Rejected!
.
When I finished my own dissertation, I really went down to the wire with the written item. I already had a job lined up on the other side of the country. I had found The Day that my whole committee was available to hear my talk. I had given notice to leave my apartment. The movers were coming. So I had to finish.
.
There was no more delaying to clear up all the typos and train wreck phrasing, so the manuscript I handed around three days late to my committee was a little rough. Alright, on second glance a lot rougher that I’d hoped. Leafing through it a few days before my presentation, I went around apologizing profusely to all the poor souls who had to suffer through it, promising that the ‘real’ dissertation, the one handed in to the Graduate Office in duplicate on acid-free paper with all the margins just so, would be perfect. Every last letter fixed.
.
And Oliver told me: don’t bother. The only people who will ever read your dissertation are your committee members, and we already have. Nobody else cares.
.
Oh.
.
And it’s true. So don’t sweat it.
From the other side, it looks like the smallest error can sink you, like a hole below the waterline, no matter how small. Didn’t change that comma on page 107? Rejected!
.
When I finished my own dissertation, I really went down to the wire with the written item. I already had a job lined up on the other side of the country. I had found The Day that my whole committee was available to hear my talk. I had given notice to leave my apartment. The movers were coming. So I had to finish.
.
There was no more delaying to clear up all the typos and train wreck phrasing, so the manuscript I handed around three days late to my committee was a little rough. Alright, on second glance a lot rougher that I’d hoped. Leafing through it a few days before my presentation, I went around apologizing profusely to all the poor souls who had to suffer through it, promising that the ‘real’ dissertation, the one handed in to the Graduate Office in duplicate on acid-free paper with all the margins just so, would be perfect. Every last letter fixed.
.
And Oliver told me: don’t bother. The only people who will ever read your dissertation are your committee members, and we already have. Nobody else cares.
.
Oh.
.
And it’s true. So don’t sweat it.
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