Once upon a time, I had a brilliant idea : the best way to make my French/Literature degree useful, and also to buy myself time to decide what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, was to get a Master’s degree. It meant I had to write a thesis/dissertation, however you translate it to (we call it a “mémoire” in France). Of course, my brilliant, younger self already knew what this was about : she had to pick a theme/genre/whatever that really interested her, because she would spend a lot of time talking, reading, writing about it. And, if few things had been written on the subject, well, the better. She chose to base her corpus on dystopias.
I’m very resentful towards my younger self.