dissertation, she wrote

throughout the writing of my dissertation i've been able to rationalize many very ridiculous purchases. when i had an inkling that a chapter of my dissertation might discuss representations of mountaineering in victorian fiction, i ran out an bought a climbing harness. how was i to write about mountaineering with any authority if i hadn't at least scaled the walls at my local climbing gym? when i was writing a piece about the place of roger bannister in the british popular imagination, i bought a pair of track spikes, thinking that i might one day become the first graduate student to run a mile in under four minutes (between you and me, i would have settled for any time under eight minutes, but my good friend rahul, a former indian distance running legend, and one time "track coach" wasn't having any of it!). as i'm getting to know myself as a writer, i'm realizing more and more the necessity for total immersion in whatever it is i'm writing, and it seems that practice of immersion has become strangely and inextricably linked to consumerism. perhaps one day when i'm not hounded by draconian deadlines i'll find a less, uhm, materialist way to go about investing my voice with the needed authority, but at the moment, i'm not going to question what's working, even if the whole process might make some of my more virtuous friends shudder and avert their eyes in disgust.

knee-deep as i am in my current chapter on sport in victorian detective fiction, i was surprised that up until recently, i hadn't gone in search of any kind of talisman. i attributed my security to my long-lasting love affair with mysteries that started when i picked up my first yellow-covered copy of a nancy drew novel at the age of six and has lasted through various threads of fascination including, but not limited to, sherlock holmes, agatha christie, murder, she wrote, dashiell hammett, columbo, inspector morse, the midsomer murders, the inspector linley mysteries, and last but not least, helen mirren's turn as jane tennison in the long-running prime suspect series. this is dissertation writing, however, and one is bound to feel a complete dunderhead at some point, even if the conventions of the genre about which one is writing are pretty much woven into the threads of one's psyche. last weekend, i hit upon exactly what it was i needed to bolster my confidence, pull up my socks, keep up my chin and keep me swinging (thanks, uncle ted!): a trench coat.

really, when you take into account the similarities between the practice of scholarship and the practice of detection, it's quite brilliant. in choosing to adorn myself in such garb, i'd be following in the footprints -- yes, footprints; we're talking mysteries, here -- of not only one of LAPD's finest, lieutenant columbo, but also in those of the (in)famous deconstructionist, jacques derrida. visions of myself as a titian-haired girl sleuth were too irresistible. i found myself jumping into, alas, not my blue convertible, but a car that bears more of a resemblance to columbo's sketchy 1959 peugot, and zipping off, hot on the trail of my latest identity salve. confessing mermaid tagged along, playing the george/bess to my trench coat-less nancy.

after a short period of sleuthing, i had discovered the perfect coat. as cm and i made our way back to the car, i had visions of ingrid bergman, lauren bacall, veronica lake, and of course, bonita granville (who played nancy drew in a series of 30s films) dancing through my head. audrey hepburn, in charade also came to mind. imagine my surprise when i was confronted by my newly-minted detecting self in cm's bathroom mirror. i suppose it could have been worse; i could have looked like peter falk. the reality of my appearance, complete with vintage silk scarf, loaned to me by an excited confessing mermaid, was still difficult to stomach. lauren bacall? no.

more like jessica fletcher.



at least i get some bitchin' theme music.