I’ve come to a disheartening realization. I have realized that when I finished my book manuscript I honestly and foolishly believed that my life would be different, that the Post Book Period of my life would be a radical departure from the Book Writing Period which was characterized by almost unrelenting anxiety and stress, as well as a healthy dose of insecurity and an overwhelming sense of futility.

For me, it wasn’t the idea of publication that held promise — although I recognize that until the book is published, I’m not really in the Post Book Period. Instead, it was just finishing the manuscript. I worked on the book for such a long time, so many years, and the labor was always something I had to squeeze in as an addition to all my day-to-day responsibilities (grading, laundry, etc.) so to say that it was difficult to get any writing or research done is an understatement. I really thought that, once that burden was removed, I would recover all of the time and mental energy that had gone into it, which I would now be able to put to better purpose — such as having a real life, taking care of myself and my loved ones, pursuing some life goals that don’t have anything to do with tenure.

I finished the manuscript last Fall and I’m in the process of getting it reviewed — so I should be in the clover now, right? Wrong. This semester has been as hectic, frantic, and anxiety-producing as any before. I do not have more time, I am still working nights and weekends, I am still neglectful of myself and the people and things that require my attention. In other words: NOTHING HAS CHANGED.

This is extremely grim news to me. For so long, the prospect of just surviving the book-writing-torture is what kept me going. Kinda like how I survived the dissertation-writing-torture: by telling myself that if I just finished, everything would be better. (In that case, I was somewhat right: things did significantly change in my life once I finished my PhD and got a tenure-stream job; of course, then I was introduced to the grueling reality of being an assistant professor.) This time, however, I fear I was mistaken. I have a new perspective on the long life ahead as an academic and it ain’t pretty. If this is what is required of me than I think a change of career is a necessity. I simply can’t keep this up and the rewards are far too scarce.

Contemplating career suicide as I sit in my office on a beautiful Saturday afternoon with a stack of grading at my elbow and no end in sight.