Dr. No Way

“I want to get published before I graduate.”

I watched a skeptical expression worm its way across the young professor’s face, and I felt a stab of anxiety. What? Was that a ridiculous thing to say? Did grad students just never publish while still in their degree programs?

“Hm,” she responds slowly. “Well, if that’s the case, then you should start now. Publishing can take a long time.”

Anxiety flared to panic. It was my third year of grad school, and I already felt miles behind my peers. I hadn’t realized that jumping into an accelerated Master’s/PhD program would mean I would be given no leeway for my lack of grad school experience; I was expected to have things written, publishable things, things that had been carefully worked over by a thesis committee or academic mentor.

I had no things; I had seminar papers, and stacks of books and even larger stacks of notes and papers. But all of this felt very disorganized and useless in the face of submitting things for criticism and (hopefully) publication.

This poised young woman behind her desk intimidated me. I wondered why. It couldn’t be an age thing; I was probably older than she, truth be told. She’d been through years of graduate research and dissertation writing, things still on my distant horizon. So her (assumed) experience awed me. She had been hired by a large public university as an Assistant Professor – maybe that was it? One’s ability to land a job like that at such a young age must mean this person was a force to be reckoned with, I figured.

It was only after this same professor had declined to join my dissertation committee that I started to wonder if she felt the same way about me. During that same office visit, she had told me, somewhat sternly, that I was a “grown-ass woman,” with children, and if I’d made it this far I could probably figure out the rest myself.

That was true. At least the first part; just my presence there, a student in her office, was a testament to all the adulting and sacrifice it had taken just to get to grad school in the first place. I was a “grown-ass woman,” and I had sixteen years of raising kids to boot. That was something.

Looking back on it, though, reassuring me by telling me I could figure things out myself was not helpful in the least. Even grown-ass women need mentors and support systems, and she had made it clear that for me, she would be neither. I don’t know why. I never asked. How could I? She probably had enough whiny grad students to deal with without me chasing her down for answers to very awkward questions.

But now I needed to publish things. No, I needed to finish writing publishable things. I had no idea what that meant, how to do that. How could I? I was new to the whole idea of grad school and academic publishing, and my department certainly wasn’t going to walk me through it holding hands.

Fast forward to the end of my fourth year in grad school, and I’ve met every hurdle I’ve faced (exams, prospectus, colloquy) with my best. I’ve done my best, I’ve achieved candidacy (which still sounds like some sort of odd fungus) in record time, I’ve made it to the cusp of finishing my degree and within sight of the horror of all horrors, the academic job market. I’ve battled through the anxiety, the mommy guilt, the “impostor syndrome,” the insomnia. I feel accomplished in many ways, confident of my ability to perform admirably as a scholar and a teacher for the rest of my career.

And then I learn that no matter how I feel, it probably isn’t going to matter at all. Because I still haven’t published anything. Reading through a highly acclaimed book on job market prep has assured me that my chances of presenting a competitive job application are nil. The service hours, the conference presentations, the courses I took – all that is very nice, says this book. Pat on the head, gold star sticker. But you haven’t published anything? Sorry, no job for you.

So I panic, and hyperventilate a little, and then open a new spreadsheet and make a five-year plan. I’ve become a sudden believer in miracles and the possibility of divine intervention. Because that is what I think it is going to take, now. That, and hoping that lots and lots of the other candidates are less prepared, less articulate, less presentable than I. I do feel bad about that. And I am planning to haul ass and dash some of my things off to publishers as soon as possible. I am. Just as soon as I finish this blog post. I swear. Any minute now.

Here’s to denial, and hoping that job market “expert” is wrong. Cheers!