NRPLUS MEMBER ARTICLE A t Princeton University, almost all undergraduates are required to write a thesis. The results always remind me how much creativity flows throughout the student body: One student fermented wine with ancient techniques for his classics thesis, while another wrote an algorithm for estimating the waiting times at Disney World. The laborious task is a defining feature of our education, and it distinguishes us from students at most schools. Princeton students have even turned the noun “thesis” into a verb, so you might hear a student say, “I’m busy thesising this afternoon.” Seniors celebrate their newfound “PTL,” our acronym for “Post-Thesis Life.”

I wrote two: one for my politics major and another for my creative-writing certificate. My 120-page politics thesis, “The Republic of Drunkards,” explores the history of the addiction diagnosis in the United States and the emergence of the temperance movement. I argue that temperance advocacy was motivated by concern for the nation rather than the health of the addict. While researching the expansive topic, I often felt as though I was digging through sand, and I kept uncovering seashells of information. I spent many mornings analyzing colonial regulations of taverns, medical pamphlets documenting the consequences of frequent alcohol abuse, sermons denouncing intemperance, and meeting minutes of church conventions deliberating abstinence teachings. By stark contrast, my 90-page creative-writing thesis, “Pleasure and Other Pain,” is a short-story collection with no overarching theme; I wrote about Catholicism, Covid-19, drug abuse, and Title IX. I did absolutely no research, although some dialogue excerpts and characters were inspired by my own interactions.

When I mention that I willingly undertook two thesis projects, I am often met with the same response: “Why? Are you crazy?” Most people assume that the most difficult part of writing a thesis is the writing. My challenge wasn’t meeting the length requirements; rather, it was knowing when to stop editing. I am not a writer. I am an eraser: I edit so heavily that I wind up cutting more than I include. And yet I constantly felt as though there was more data worth including with respect to the expansive temperance movement and scenic details that could have enhanced the short stories.

I resolved my anxiety by befriending the deadline. Most of my work fails to meet my own standards, and if I had not been given a final date to submit the works, I might have allowed myself to continue editing them endlessly. I realized I needed finished products to graduate, which effectively forced me to be more judicious. While people might believe that I’m crazy for writing two theses, I don’t think I could have written one without writing the other. Alternating between the two styles of writing was refreshing and invigorating; the fiction thesis allowed me to refrain (albeit only briefly) from intense research and analysis. If I had only written the politics thesis, I imagine I would have quickly grown bored and frustrated.

While most students author a thesis only to fulfill a requirement, I think it was the most emotionally and intellectually fulfilling experience of my undergraduate education. The two projects were distinct but equally valuable. The politics thesis developed my research and analytical skills, meanwhile deepening my understanding of colonial America, religion, and strategic political organizing. My fiction thesis allowed me to be creative and vulnerable. When I was trapped in the library, the stories allowed me to experience a piece of Italy or Scotland. Far too often, my papers for class were brief explorations of topics I didn’t particularly care about; most prompts for assignments did not directly relate to my interests. Of course, it is valuable to write essays on subject matters that you do not deem particularly appealing, but it is enjoyable to write about matters that you find fascinating. The thesis provides undergraduates the opportunity to devote themselves to a niche topic for an extended period under careful supervision, which is a welcome change from cranking out short essays about assigned readings.

I am embarrassed to admit such a nerdish sentiment, but now that I have submitted both theses, I don’t know what to do with myself. Unlike during previous semesters, I’m enrolled only in two courses and don’t hold any officer positions in clubs, so I have absolutely no idea how to spend all this newfound free time — which partly explains why I started working part-time for National Review (that, and the fact that I loved my summer internship here). Now, I face a truly difficult task: returning all the heavy books to the library. I think I’ll need a suitcase.