"The use of the potato as a symbol of sexuality in modern literature."

"Sounds interesting."

"How much have you written?"

"Oh, about half, I guess."

"I'm only on chapter three--of my second draft. I'm really stressed."

"Uh huh."

I would go a whole day without fresh air--waking up, taking notes, eating lunch, watching "All My Children," writing, eating dinner, writing, falling asleep.

Visions of notecards and Harriet Beecher Stowe danced through my head.

As the final days approached, my thesis was falling into place. But I felt disaster was imminent; it couldn't be this easy. I devised contingency plans for every catastrophe I could imagine. I made at least two back-up copies of each chapter, in addition to hard copies. I refused to return any books, despite the rapidly multiplying fines. I bought two extra printer cartridges.

And, in my finest scheme, I outlined three plans of action in case Kinko's was unable to xerox my thesis in time to meet the 5 p.m. deadline. First, I would cry. Second, I would slip the clerk $10. Third, I would call my friend Joe, cry and ask him to drive me to a Kinko's out in the suburbs.

The final 48 hours were invigorating. Even annoying questions like, "How long is your bibliography?" couldn't stop my surge.

Eating Hershey's chocolate and Oreos, I typed in my footnotes to the rhythm of Simon and Garfunkel. And when I had finished the title page, I turned off "The Sound of Silence" to revel in the sound of my printer.

At the department's celebration party the next day, the champagne added to my already delirious state. When my friend Nat--who had spent the last few weeks holed up on Cape Cod--walked in 20 minutes late, I toasted Zach and downed my glass of champagne.