[Read to the tune of
"Making Love Out of
Nothing at All" by Air Supply]
Dear grant I am trying to write (can I call you Granty?),
You know I love you. You know I have given you hours and hours of my
time, both at work and at home. I even thought about you at my daughter's
birthday party, while the kids were whacking away at a piñata. I have
thought about you day and night, finessed you, rewritten you over and over. So,
Granty, why are you trying to kill me?
You told me you wouldn't take a lot of work. "I'm only 7 pages," you
said, the light of the computer monitor shining in your eyes like moonlight. I
should have known better. But instead, like a fool, I trusted you again. And so
here I sit, my back aching from too many hours of tick-tick-ticking away at the
computer. My desk is about a foot deep in Medline search results. I have
revised and re-revised and re-re-revised parts of you. And now I am so far in,
I have to finish you. It would be a waste not to. You are due next week, and
come heck or high water, you're going over for the required signatures, warts
and all.
Others who have been here longer than me, been through more grants than
years I am old, tell me to get a thick skin. To not be attached to any one
grant, because the odds are always against you. But when it happens, when you
get that grant acceptance you have been working so hard for, what a high.
That's what keeps me hanging on. Granty, you had better not disappoint.
Love,
Noelle