I wasn’t expecting congratulations when I mentioned handing in my PhD writing yesterday, all I really did was hit submit. People replied as if I’ve suddenly become Dr. Wiseman, but it doesn’t feel that simple. I’m still just a thingamaBob. Last summer I finished the novel, but that wasn’t enough. A second piece required: the framing document. That dragged on some weeks, until finally, the other night, I sent it all in. And now? Who knows. They might not like a word of it. The framing doc is supposed to explain the novel, odd exercise. I’d rather let the book explain itself. No wonder Glenn Gould scribbled imaginary reviews on his record jackets: psychiatrists dissecting his emotional tone, communists complaining that one piano had replaced an entire symphony. His way of mocking the world’s hunger for commentary over creation.

I feel same. I hate the premise of playing analyst to my own art, as though the artist must double as their own critic. A lifetime ago, Lorne the accountant gave me a piece of advice about Revenue Canada: “Remember, Bobby, it’s their game.” I suppose academia same.