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Oh, S@%@#T.

My dad would call this pucker time. As in, you get so freaked out about what's about to happen that you clench your butt so nothing comes out of it at an inopportune moment.

It was bound to happen. I've been strolling along, getting things done, but maybe not the most important things. I have this dilemma - do the PhD, or pay for the PhD. At the moment, they seem to be mutually exclusive goals.

So I've been teaching, working, scrabbling for every little paycheck and applying for even the teensiest grants.

PhD study? Who?

And now the day of reckoning is upon me (see how I use the cliches? Clear evidence I haven't been using the writing muscles): my supervisor wants a progress meeting.

Progress? I think I remember that guy.

I was supposed to do background research last term - I worked a full time job while reading Welsh fairy tales. I'm supposed to be writing a complete short story to adapt to digital format. I have 3 pages after 6 months. I'm supposed to be diving into the software that I intend to use to build the digital fiction - I've dabbled in 3 or 4 programs.

Pucker. Pucker, pucker, pucker.

Monday's the day. Maybe I can get a buttload of stuff done between now and then. Right?
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