In his epic poem The Wasteland, T.S. Eliot famously wrote that “April is the cruellest month.”
Well, with all due respect to the memory of Mr. Eliot, I believe that he may have been wrong. In the lives of millions of university students, at least, that superlative tends to be spared for the nightmarish month of March. And, when I say nightmarish, I mean it quite literally. Because even in the depths of sleep, there is no reprieve from the intensely grinding task of essay writing. Introductory remarks, thesis statements, supporting evidence, and transitional sentences float around in your subconscious, reformulating themselves ad infinitum or else unravelling like a many-coloured spool of wool, as if Salvador Dali has taken over the editing process. (I’m not the only one who writes papers in her sleep, am I?). This is, I imagine, something like the academic world’s version of “method acting,” only you don’t get a million dollars and a golden, vaguely-gendered statue for putting on such a show. Instead, you end up developing a series of symptoms for which the internet has no doubt invented a pathology.
To spare you from the corrupt cesspool that is WebMD, I have developed an agreement scale with which to judge the severity of your end-of-term illness. In an attempt to be as representative as possible, I have included items that relate to my own experience, to the experiences of friends, and to the experiences of people whose conversations I’ve shamelessly eavesdropped on[1][2].
Signs That You Might Be Suffering From Finals-Induced Hysteria (Known in Fake Clinical Practices as Biblioencephalitis, Which Translates Roughly to “Book-Induced Brain Inflammation”)
**Rate on a scale from 1-5, where 1 = “I have no idea what you’re talking about” and 5 = “1000% ACCURATE.”
Now, tally up your points and compare with the chart below.
I guess the next step would be for me to tell you what you can do (within legal limits) to alleviate some of these symptoms. Oh, would that I could, dear reader, would that I could! Unfortunately, even after four-or-so years of first-hand experience, I am in no better a position to handle this seasonal illness than you are. And even if I knew what you should do, it wouldn’t matter, because none of us has the time to implement a cure anyways. Oh, the poetic paradox of it all.
I have, however, picked up some sage advice during my time here at Carleton, whether it be from professors, novelists, poets, or friends who are way smarter than I am. Indeed, a few months ago, my friend Isuri and I were chatting over coffee about the moments in our lives when we’ve felt certain that we weren’t going to make it, that we were going to fall apart and never be able to put ourselves back together again. We weren’t talking about school in particular, but academics have certainly occasioned more than a couple of meltdowns in our lives.
Anyways, this friend of mine started talking about a piece of advice that Kurt Vonnegut gave to burgeoning short-story writers, which went something like this: “Make awful things happen to your characters in order that you might see what they’re made of.” Of course, being Vonnegut, he went on to suggest that great writers are writers who break the rules. But my friend took the advice and applied it to her own story. After a particularly challenging event in her life, she took a Post-It note, placed it on her mirror, and scribbled: “Remember that Kurt Vonnegut is just testing you to see what you’re made of.”
Okay, so maybe the end-of-term work rush isn’t ‘awful’ in the sense that Vonnegut meant, and the super ego inside of me certainly has no shortage of reproofs for such an outlook: “Don’t you know how privileged you are to be in this position?! Stop complaining! Your life is incredible! Engage yourself with the material! Isn’t this what you want to do for a living? Why are you so frustrated, then?! You’re a fraud!!” But this doesn’t change the fact that, by the end of the semester, it’s hard not to feel depleted and uninspired. At a certain point, you run out of opinions and your critical insights start feeling a bit stale. All you want is to be finished. For these reasons, the month does seem pretty cruel.
So, my advice to you is this: listen to the advice of my friend, who took her advice from Vonnegut. Every morning, or afternoon, or evening, besides reminding yourself of how much work you still have left to do, remember that you are merely another human being whose character is continually being tested. Whether you want to imagine your “author” as being Vonnegut, Virginia Woolf, Jane Austen, Leo Tolstoy, or [fill-in-the-blank], think about this cruellest of months as a plot device wrought by a (mostly) benevolent artist who desperately wants to see you succeed. On the surface, it seems like a pretty weird strategy, but, if you’re having a hard time believing in yourself, at least you can believe in the person who’s writing your life. (Unless it’s Stephen King. You can’t trust that man with anything.)
March might be the month of cry-laughing, binge-eating, shame-shopping, and sleep-writing. It might be 31 days full of exhaustion, anxiety, and writer’s block. But it is also the month to show people – to show yourself – what you’re made of. [3]
[1] Another benefit of being an English major: you can turn everyday nosiness into a “character study” any time you want. And people will think that you’re artsy and deep.
[2] Actually, that’s a lie. They’ll probably just think that you’re weird.
[3] Another helpful piece of advice: watch The Toast writer Mallory Ortberg recite her satirical advice column “How To Respond to Criticism”: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJNXNIPlsSY. It is guaranteed to make you feel better.