Psam's Guide to Writing a Dissertation

Let's say you're bored on a Friday night, and you feel like writing a 132 page, 1,227 paragraph, 3,386 line, 30,415 word (still incomplete) document. Let's say you want to call this document a "dissertation" and devote large chunks of the next 5 years to this project, until you can no longer reference it without a healthy cortisol high, or a little bit of vomiting. For kicks, let's say that, without any exaggeration, your entire academic and professional future is contingent upon you researching, proposing, running, statistically analyzing, writing, and defending this document in front of a panel of your closest advisors. Let's say you want my help to accomplish this task. Why I'd love to aid you in this purely hypothetical endeavour, that is not based in any way on my personal failings...

1) Don't be ambitious. Stupid.

When considering a topic for their dissertation, some people think to themselves, I would really like my project to be meaningful, significant, and imminently publishable. Some people are stupid. A dissertation should be like a colonoscopy; while it's inevitably uncomfortable, invasive, and slightly embarrassing, it should be completed as quickly and painlessly as possible. Also, if you don't get one done, you may end up with severe constipation, gastrointestinal hemmorhage, and various symptoms of inflammatory bowel disease (e.g., vomiting, diarrhea, weight loss, internal muscle spasms), which, coincidentally, also occur during every future dissertation meeting. The message: get it done before the anal bleeding (A.K.A. sixth year).

There is one more parallel to be drawn here. Have you ever met someone who had a meaningful colonoscopy? Does a discussion of this procedure, as frequently as this occurs, include the phrase man, I contributed so much to society by mapping the inside of my colon? No sir, that does not happen. At best there are vague references to the necessity and the awkwardness of the ordeal, as well as a pleading look that says, let's just never talk about this again. It's the same with your dissertation. Trust me, no one I know is proud of what they've done, apart from the fact that they've done it. Every conversation about the big D is always slightly embarrassing, full of qualifiers (I mean, if only my sample wasn't drunk) and disparaging remarks (about half way through I realized my life has no purpose). Therefore, seeing as how you will inevitably regret it all later, pick something easy and banal, that has little to no practical use to anyone. Develop a questionnaire about taking questionnaires. Study the emotional fallout of times new roman versus arial fonts. The simplistic beauty of this approach is that the less societal impact a study has, the less effects there will actually be, and the easier the write up! Remember, h.u.b.r.i.s stands for Honestly, Undertaking Brilliant Research Is Stupid.   

2) Be like Frodo: choose your Fellowship wisely.

Writing a dissertation is like a mystical quest to rid the world of an all powerful ring that threatens to enslave all living beings under its baleful countenance. With the usual caveats that the only way to destroy it is via a long and torturous route through enemy territory, encountering vast hordes of misshapen minions, braving the volcanic hellfires of the ring's origin, blah, blah, blah, watch the movies. The point here is that in order to have any hope of accomplishing this foolhardy mission, you will need good and dependable friends. Think of your committee as if your life depends on them. They need to be able to work together and complement one another, whether that involves dwarves for melee and elves for long range support, or a statistician for data analysis and a content specialist for a detailed literature review. For you chair, you need someone wise and thoughtful, as generous with their time as they are prompt with their suggestions. In other words, they need to be Gandalf the Grey. A person whose experience allows them to foresee obstacles, chart a path through difficult times, and provide reassurance, as well as a firm but gentle, corrective hand. Someone who has a vested interest in your personal growth as a hobbit, not just as a means to world salvation.

A word of caution here, you will have no use for Gandalf the White. First of all, he's too old. True fact, dissertations take time. You need your chair to survive at least four years without succumbing to various ailments and maladies. He needs to be strong enough to withstand goblins, Uruk-Hai, and academic reviews. The same goes for your committee members, I mean you wouldn't choose an elf (no matter how good looking) if he was too old to string a bow? (So technically elves are immortal which makes for a bad example, but you get my point). Also, Gandalf the White was never actually around. He had a habit of abandoning his companions to pursue selfish interests (e.g., engaging in mortal combat with a fire-spitting demon) during their time of greatest need, only to show up at the last possible moment with massive cavalry reinforcements. For dissertations, this "white wizard" strategy sucks. It means that your chair will be unreliable and unavailable, and will eventually avoid all of your emails and carrier pigeons. Remember, when choosing a chair:

Gandalf the Grey lights the way,
Gandalf the White will take flight
(and deepen your plight)  

3) Try to live in the same state as your project. Or at least the same country.

This helps encourage your research to actually get accomplished. Otherwise you might end up with half of your originally intended sample size. Hypothetically.

4) Avoid avoiding your dissertation for long amounts of time. Think weeks, not months.

There will come a time when you will be absolutely unable to look at your dissertation. No amount of sticker charts, junk food or personalized threats will motivate you. Even contemplating the big D will send tentacles of fear coiling around your heart and mind. You will seek to escape, negatively reinforcing your denial of the substance of your terror. But the beast will remain, patient, growing in strength and stature as it feasts on your fear. Your one true defence is to face the D. Take heart, you don't need to subdue it all at once, in fact it must meet a slow, agonizing end, death by a thousand cuts. Even if all you are doing is adding a reference, that still counts, you are still standing firm, still hacking away! At its heart, the beast is a coward, relying on distorted cognitions, pessimism, and misery to enslave its victims. It cannot bear to repeatedly face the intrepid warrior, and will shrink in your presence until it reveals its true self: tiny, powerless, and waiting to be defeated.

When this dark time comes, it is imperative that you...

5) Do not consistently read books or watch TV.


Anything and everything will seem more interesting than the D. Somehow, you will feel the urge to check your tire pressure, take up knitting, watch Jersey Shore marathons, and blog about dissertations. YOU MUST RESIST. This is only a defence mechanism, as your mind struggles to contemplate the vastness of the task at hand. Trust me, hours and days can pass you by if you succumb to the temptations of reality television and George R.R. Martin. And you will feel dead inside.

Instead it is far healthier to...


6) Scream. Cry. Curse. A lot.


This is common, you are not developing Bipolar Disorder if you seem to have the emotional regulation of a five-year-old. Curse the world. Scream at inanimate objects. Inundate your significant other with the torrent of your grief. Punch kittens. Whatever helps externalize your frustration, thereby releasing some of the pressure on yourself. Think of it as grad school PMS. When tantruming, it's great to have friends who understand and friends who do not. The ones who are going through it with you can commiserate with the details of your plight, but the ones who are not are equally important. They will help balance your life and help you avoid the quicksand of mutual despair. Speaking of friends, you should...

7) Have a friend who is an overachiever relative to you.

Preferably, a friend who is slightly more organized and hard-working. This friend will prove invaluable when reminding you of deadlines, administrative details, and formatting issues. Like a good jogging partner, she will set a pace that is slightly faster than you are currently running, and you will be motivated to keep up. Heed my advice here, do not pick a friend who is as lazy as you, because they are likely to normalize your sloth, which in the end, benefits no one. Also, do not choose a friend who over-achieves to the extreme. You will quickly dismiss her as an unattainable standard and feel even worse about yourself. Not what friends are for.

8) Choose coffee shops wisely. With lots of plugs.

You will get to know barristas around town intimately. They will be a welcome source of conversation and distraction. Try not to come on to them too much, things could get awkward.

9) Save compulsively. Like every 5 minutes. In different formats.

Let me tell you my nightmare. It starts off wonderfully. I have just completed the final draft of my document. There it is on my computer screen, glowing softly in the warm haze of triumph as my smile threatens to break my face. And then it happens. What exactly, I'm not sure. There is a blinding flash of light and whirring noises and suddenly everything fades to black. All the lights go out and my computer sits there, crippled, mocking me. After the disorientation, I try to turn my computer back on. Nothing happens. I try pressing the power button a few more times, with varying degrees of pressure and frequency. Still nothing. Then the true horror dawns, like an eclipse slowly blotting out the sun. I didn't save it. 4 years and now nothing. My mind shatters instantly, as a blood chilling screams signifies my descent into insanity.

(Now that I think about it, it was definitely a massive alien EMP shockwave. Duh.)

10) Try not think existentially. It will drive you crazy.

When writing a dissertation it is best not to ask open-ended questions of yourself. Avoid the Whs and the Hows, because they lead nowhere (ex: why am I doing this? What is the meaning of this project? Where is my life going? How can I ever get it done?). Instead, close ended, forced choice questions (ex: do I want to graduate? Can I read one more abstract? Does my chair hate me?) lead to better results. You need to focus on what you can achieve, not what you believe. Inspirational, I know.

To conclude, a dissertation is like a colonoscopy, a descent into the fires of Mordor, a fear consuming mental beast, Bipolar Disorder, PMS, and an electronic armaggedon. Whew. No wonder it's so hard. Gotta get back to work.

New Years in NY Part 2: The Days That Did Not End

Try here for Part 1.

December 30th 2011: New Year's Eve Eve

I wake up disoriented. My senses are under attack. Its incredibly bright in my Aunt and Uncle's house and there is an incessant knocking on my door, followed by a gentle reminder that it is time to rise and meet the day. Although I know better, this form of reminder is as gentle as Chinese water torture, which, when left unanswered will softly coax you into insanity. I get up, try and put in my contact lenses, and am reminded of the inherent ickiness of touching my eyeball. I drop a contact lens and spend the next 30 minutes looking for it. I tell my Mom and she immediately launches into an organized and efficient search. Eventually my Aunt Irene comes in the bathroom and we enlist her help. Somehow a high powered flashlight appears, even though its broad daylight. I pretend that I'm flying a helicopter, and using a spotlight to ferret out an escapee. I almost start to make helicopter noises. Instead, I decide to not flush the toilet for the rest of the day.

It's hike time! Me, my mom and my aunt head out to Rockefeller State Park to enjoy the unseasonably warm afternoon, and to walk for 12 km. My mom is wearing three layers of clothing, is carrying hiking/snow shoeing poles, and is even equipped with toilet paper, for unscheduled "bio breaks." That's right, only hardcore hikers have alliterated bowel movements. I, on the other hand, am equipped with a book, a camera, and a sense of adventure. And if necessary, leaves. Like regular people. We take the scenic route to the park and mentally review our trail route. Apparently, my mom has spent considerable energy planning a epic tour of this state reserve, cutting across vast swaths of greenery, traversing rolling hills, ascending noble peaks, and spanning breathtaking valleys. If only she remembered to bring her map. No matter! Like true pioneers our resourcefulness knows no bounds, and I trailblaze a path to the nearest gift shop. Soon maps are procured and we set off on the first leg of our adventure, a jaunty trek around Swan Lake. Note the rare Asian swan, known for its stunning grey plumage and odd mating stances.

Look a fallen log. I must traverse it to prove my manhood. Man 1, Nature 0.

We're doing tree pose amongst the trees. LOL. Watch out hipsters, you're not the only ones who have mastered irony!

We climb the eagle's peak trail and are rewarded with breathtaking views of wooded vales, awash in the golden hues of the afternoon sun. I am transformed into Warrior (as well as Warrior 2), inspired by the gentle beauty of nature in all its forms. Mom is inspired to take a bio break.

It's a graffiti tree, where countless young lovers decide to commemorate their mutual affection by painfully torturing and scarring another living entity. Ooh birds. Pretty!

The last trail is entitled 13 bridges. There are actually 13 bridges that span a small stream as it winds itself under the forest canopy. Seems pretty impractical to me, why wouldn't you just build one bridge and stay on one side of the stream? Mom and I also generate synonyms of streams to maintain morale. I'm pretty impressed with creeks, brooks, rivers, and tributaries. This helps to distract me from impending starvation and exhaustion.

On our way back we decide to stop for lunch near Tarrytown/Sleepy Hollow. There are headless horsemen icons on every street sign. There is a bar called the Horseman. It's fairly depressing that in the 400 odd years of this town's existence, its crowning achievement is a decapitated ghost. Lunch is really delicious, full of beefy goodness. As a bonus, we get to be the only Asians in Sleepy Hollow.

Onto Manhattan, where my cousin Arn has promised an evening of frivolity and merrymaking. First we meet two of his friends at a bar that is, according to Arn, "frequented by dock workers." His friends sadly, are not dockworkers, but are pretty fun nonetheless. I find out that there is a fine line between flirtatious and friendly, and that no matter where you go there will always be someone who likes nerdy fantasy books (Yeah, Katniss!). I make a new Facebook friend, Jessica, who repeatedly invites me out dancing. Too bad I have a hot date with Arn. The bar is incredibly loud and very Irish. Well, except for the black couple at the bar who are grinding to Bon Jovi, and my Uncle Henry, who shows up a little later. Uncle Henry whips out his i-phone and shows us all pictures of his pet hedgehog, aptly named Henry, and a picture of the derriere of a very large Marilyn Monroe statue. Arn shows us pictures of his friend naked, sitting on a windowsill. Like father, like son.

Uncle Henry, cousin Arn, and tourist Sam decide to be pretentious and eat at Anthony Bourdain's restaurant, Les Halles. The menu features several varieties of meat prepared in French, and everything comes with frites. I get the pepper steak. Amazing. Although we have to wait 45 minutes for a table, turns out that the table that we are seated beside features four Swiss tourists, one of whom actually designed the shirt that Arn was wearing. No joke. After this revelation, we talk a bit about how everything the Swiss make is somehow better than if anyone else makes it. Chocolate, watches, fondue, banking etc. I realize that we are three dudes having a romantic candle-lit dinner, in a corner booth of a French bistro, on a Friday night. Not the least bit perturbed.

We say goodbye to my good uncle, and watch admiringly as he stumbles towards Grand Central, feeling the effects of multiple adult beverages. Arn and I take a cab ride to a club somewhere in Soho, I think. On the way he tells me that Manhattan is 55% female, which I totally believe, given that the restaurant in which we dined featured at least 3 tables of 6 women. We arrive at a wine bar and I meet several more of Arn's friends. One of them, Radu, greets Arn by casually squeezing his butt. I quickly realize that they have a special relationship. We start to head to an electronic club nearby, except that Radu really wants pizza, so we find him some. He doesn't even wait for it to be warmed, so it looks and smells like congealed butter. We wait in line at the club and miraculously a parking spot appears just outside the main entrance. Arn and Radu decide to literally sit and occupy this spot for another friend who is quickly approaching by car. Several cars pass and drivers give looks ranging from bemusement to outrage, but our intrepid squatters hold fast, and in the end the situation is too absurd for any lasting ill will. We dance a lot to music that I would never be able to identify. At one point, high pitched screaming is somehow incorporated. Arn's dancing is a cross between a shuffle and slow motion glide. I dance like I was born to.

Dec 31 2011: The Day That Had No Beginning and No End.

At some point my friend Evelyn shows up, which is pretty impressive considering she had just flown home that night, and there was a $30 cover. Actually, she didn't know about the last part, so she's pretty exasperated with me. I give her a 20 and pay for a drink (sprite and beer?!), which soothes her rage. We dance some more, I lose track of time, someone spills a beer on my arm. We decide to eat Korean wings at 5 am, because apparently Korean people don't sleep. They are so spicy that I need one cup of water per wing. Delicious.

I wake up in Ev's apartment around 10 am. It's a nice surprise, all clean and feminine, and tastefully decorated. There is just too much sun for less than four hours of sleep. I am also stiff from sleeping on a (good looking) lawn chair.

We meet up with Arn and take a train ride back to Scarsdale for an epic lunch of Korean-style grilling and Swiss fondue. One of my goals for the trip was to learn the secret ways of Swiss fondue making, to augment my culinary repertoire and my level of pretentiousness. I learn the secret. Go to Trader Joe's, buy packet, insert packet into pot, put pot onto fancy warming tray, surround with delicious condiments. Sigh. We teach Evelyn how to play Rumikub. She's pretty good. Mom still schools all of us.

Evelyn scores us cheap tickets to a New Years celebration in an Asian bar/club near her house. It's only $20 because we're not drinking! Never have I appreciated my Asianness more than at that moment. We train back down to Manhattan and take a nap. Ev complains vociferously about the unfairness of having to look as good as the other women who will be dressing up that evening. She tries at least four different permutations of outfits, her voice dripping with accusations leveled at the shallowness of my gender. I am defenceless. I decide to distract myself by observing the residents of the apartment complexes just across the street. It's like reality television, except, you know, it's reality. Two ladies decide it is an excellent idea to change in front of their windows. I do not dissuade them.

While Ev finishes her preparations, we decide that I would be most useful by picking up a pizza. As I'm walking through Manhattan on New Year's Eve I can feel my body beginning to resonate with the energy of the city, like I'm some sort of human tuning fork. Manhattan on this night is really like no other place in the world, practically crackling with anticipation. You can see it on the faces of the residents and hear it, a gradual crescendo of buzzing, a symphony of horns and shrieks and laughter. It's going to be a good night. I hurry back with the pizza, fresh from a wood burning oven, crunchy and soft, and luxurious with large strips of prosciutto and great handfuls of torn basil. We finish it between the two of us. For all her complaining Ev looks great, especially with a killer set of heels.

We arrive at the club and wait for the restaurant to clear out before the New Year's party can begin. I meet some of Ev's friends and they seem pretty interesting, if older. When we finally get in, the place is incredibly crowded. There are three floors, with a bar on the lower floor, a loft on the top floor that is reserved for a private party, and a dance floor sandwiched between. The crowd is oddly enough, a mix of largely white and brown peoples, who try their best to avoid intermingling. There are also two main age groups represented: 30-somethings and very young. You can tell who the younger ones are by their difficulty walking when inebriated and their general disorientation with life. There is a live DJ and a projection of Times Square on the back wall of the dancefloor. We all receive some crazy party favors and countdown with great enthusiasm. I get my New Year's kiss. 2012!!!! It starts much like 2011 ended, with fevered dancing and tipsy smiles. Eventually Ev's feet begin to ache from her stunning heels, and my endurance is shot after the 12 km hike/5 am clubbing the day/night before. We trudge back to Ev's place, content in the after-glow of a New Year's lived to the utmost.

January 1st 2012: The Day of 5 Naps.

7:30 am. My aunt calls to remind me to head back uptown. It is again much too sunny in Ev's apartment. I'm so tired that I inadvertently fall unconscious, miss my stop and have to get picked up at the next one. This qualifies as a minor scandal.

Me and my mom pack up and begin the long drive home. I sleep well, more than I have in the past 48 hours. Here's to 2012, may it live up to the promise of it's beginning. Happy New Years friends!

New Years in New York Part 1

2012 promises to be a special year, full of leaps, Olympics, and 10 year high school reunions. I thought I'd start it off right with a four day visit to New York city, or more accurately, Manhattan (where my cousin and friend live) and Scarsdale (where my aunt and uncle live). Here are some highlights from my trip.

December 28th 2011: The day of Megabus.com.

The plan was for me to take a comfortable and scenic bus ride from Toronto to New York, beginning promptly at 12 pm and ending around 11 pm. Turns out that accurate scheduling is not one of Megabus' strengths. We left on time, but arrived 1.5 hours late. Probably something to do with abnormally long wait times at the border, extremely blustery weather conditions, and stopping to confirm that we left someone behind at a rest stop. That's right, our bus driver forgot a passenger. Which is weird considering that he had enough cognitive capacity to perform an entire comedic routine based on the required explanation of the bus' safety features. I'll admit, it was somewhat entertaining the first time I heard it (oh Mr. Windshield, you're a tricky fellow), but was far less so by the fourth time. To be fair, I was impressed by his ability to consistently deliver his punchlines with the exact same intonation and comedic timing. I found myself wondering if his entire life was similarly automated, like a pudgy white robot (Good morning wife, have you heard about Mr. Windshield?). And if so, why would its creator spend so much effort on a robot whose sole purpose is to inform passengers of safety features in a droll and repetitive manner? What a waste of a perfectly good robot. 

What of the bus itself? The passengers? Thanks for asking. The bus is quite comfortable for anyone shorter that 5'10". Which is not me. The seats recline approximately 15 degrees, which allows me to achieve a body position similar to a crudely drawn comma. The roof however is entirely made of glass, which is pretty cool. There is supposedly wifi, but it takes me 15 minutes to access Facebook. I give up quickly. Also, there is a toilet on the lower level of the bus, near the rear. Being a man of the world, it seems like a great idea to give it a shot, especially early in the trip before it became less "fresh." Have you ever tried to water a garden in a strong wind? That's what peeing in a moving bus is like. You have to compensate for the forward inertia of the bus, but it's not consistent, the road is not smooth and there's no window, so you can't even anticipate turbulence before it occurs. The only technique is to pray and spray. In the face of such obstacles, I'm proud to admit that I'm quite the marksman. Even so, if I were a bus manufacturer I would make windows mandatory in all lavatories. 

The passengers were an interesting mix. Most of them were young, attractive, female students. Actually, to be honest, I was only focusing on those passengers. I came to realize that it is quite an awkward thing to approach a stranger on a bus when you are not sitting directly beside them. This difficulty is compounded when you have already chosen your seat and there are plenty of other seats available (Is this seat taken? I feel much more comfortable sitting beside attractive females). Rest stops seem like better opportunities to approach others. I try it a couple of times. Not so effective at border crossings, due to constant interruptions (do you really have to ask for my passport now? I'm kinda in the middle of something). Also, after several numbing hours on a moving vehicle, my IQ probably dropped at least one standard deviation, resulting in such brilliant conversation starters as "This is gonna be the best whopper ever!" Surprisingly, this did not work well. Sometimes it's easier to just read a book.

December 29th 2011: Super Tourists!

The next day dawns bright and early, well earlier than I expected given the 2 am curfew the night before. Such is life with my mom, a human cyclone of a woman, who consistently walks more in one weekend than I do in two weeks. It's time to see the city! I can almost see her impatience, shimmering in the air around her, as I stumble to gain consciousness and look presentable. We take the train from White Plains to Grand Central and the subway from there. On the way we make a plan. Today we're going to see the World Trade Central memorial, walk the High Line, visit a museum, and perhaps catch a Broadway show. A worthy challenge!

First we head to the WTC and quickly realize that our schedule cannot be maintained. We arrive at 11 am, but the line up is around the block. They tell us to come back at 3 pm. What to do? How about a brisk walk down to battery park instead of a museum?

Look there's city hall, and a fountain in front of it! And there's a park that's being Occupied. Note the authentic protesters.

This is pretty interesting, a red sculpture of the roots of a tree that was upended during the 9/11 attacks. Apparently the tree survived. Also, the globe sculpture was originally in front of the twin towers but was moved to battery park as a memorial. You can see where it has been damaged. The other two artworks are from the 9/11 memorial shop. Actually, a lot of lower Manhattan has some sort of 9/11 legacy, either through commemorative plaques or faint scars in the buildings themselves.

After obtaining our ticket (for 5 pm) we decide to check out the High Line, which is an abandoned elevated railway that's been converted to an elevated garden/art exhibit/cool place for a jog. Note how close many of the condos are to the path itself. So close in fact, that you could, without any strain, have a conversation with the tenants as they lounged on their patio. Hopefully they'll invest in appropriate curtains. And soundproofing.

We return to the WTC site as darkness falls. There is a ton of security. We pass through four separate checkpoints where we are required to show our ticket. I think to myself, not sure how one would manage getting through the first 3 checkpoints without a ticket. There are security cameras every 5 feet and an airport-style scanner to navigate. I have to remove my belt and my sense of sarcasm.

It's totally worth it. The images below are stunning but don't quite capture the gravity of the memorial itself. There's just a void. In the middle of one of the most densely crowded metropolises in the world, there are two huge and gaping squares; a sense of emptiness further compounded by the nothingness of the inner sanctum. For all of its lit elegance, and understated execution, the eye is continually drawn to the center. To the open wound that can never be filled.

Another nice touch. There are touchscreens around the memorial that allow you to find the location of any of the names of the victims of the 9/11 attacks, on the borders of the two fountains. Here is a Canadian.

Onto Times Square and Broadway shows! For those of you who have not been to Times Square during the holiday season, the first thing that hits you is the press of the crowd, like some massive beast wending itself through a forest of lights. Not only are the crowds huge, but they move incredibly slowly. Everyone needs a picture of Times Square. No one really knows where they're going. It's a madhouse, but fun in a kaleidoscope kind of way. Sounds seem to come from all directions at once. Colors blur together, and also seem more distinct, depending on the angle that you choose to look up at the billboards. Your sense of humanity is oddly heightened and diminished as you realize that only your species could conceive and build on such an epic scale, and yet for all that ingenuity, you are just one tile amongst a massive mosaic.

We choose the show Chinglish, mostly because its 50% off. We have to run to get there because we buy the tickets 10 minutes before the show begins. Its about all the ways that White and Chinese people can screw up translations. It is hilarious. I am also starving, so we are forced to buy concessions.

So ended the day of super tourism. Part two will feature the Days That Never Ended.