"David, I don't know what the hell I'm doing."

"Relax."

"But, I mean, I don't know how to write a thesis. I've never written one before."

"Relax. It's not that hard. Think of it like three 15- to 20-page papers. The key is organization. It's a snap."

I'd leave the History and Lit office refreshed and confident. Then I'd walk into The Crimson, where I'd see my friend Brooke.

"How's it going, Brooke?"

"All right, I guess. I handed in an outline yesterday, and I plan to give him my first chapter next week."

Great.

The months passed. The unopened books began to spread over my floor like cactus roots thirsting for water. The only mail I received were overdue book notices. In one day I received five cards from Lamont. One read, "For Shame."

Gradually I weaved my way through the mass of books. My stack of notecards piled higher and higher.

Around mid-January, every conversation in the dining hall, in the Widener stacks or on the streets would turn to theses. The phenomenon could best be called the senior version of the freshman what'syournamewhereareyoufromwhatdormareyou in dialogue. It goes along these lines:

"Are you writing a thesis?"

"Yeah, are you?"

"Yeah, what's it on?"

"Creating Black characters in Uncle Tom's Cabin, the Uncle Remus stories, and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. How about yours?"