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Let’s review the recent time line of events surrounding my book manuscript. (For the long, painful back story, read this and this.)
August 2008
Received request to revise & resubmit ms.
November 08-April 09
Agonizing revision process.
April 2009
Sent in revised manuscript.
Mid June 2009
Emailed editor, inquiry about status of manuscript; told I would receive reply by end of June.
End of June
No news.
July 23, 2009 (last Thursday)
Finally broke down and sent second query.
Received no reply (yet).
I realize that there are likely very good reasons why the editor didn’t write me back last week. Maybe he’s on vacation. Maybe he hadn’t received the reader’s report yet, so he had to send a reminder to the reviewer and he’s waiting to get back to me after he has the review. Maybe he’s was a hit by a bus and is in a coma in a hospital, and my manuscript review has fallen behind his desk so no one else at the press knows that it received a rave review and should be published immediately. (Not that I’m wishing him into a hospital bed!)
But, what keeps circulating through my mind is that he’s not replying because he’s actually composing a rejection letter, kindly letting me know that my book sucks and will never be published by him or any other self-respecting university press, and that I just need to admit to myself that I am not a very good scholar and clearly not really meant to be an academic, and have I considered a career at Starbucks?
Can you tell that I’m losing my mind?
I wrote to the editor on Thursday thinking strategically that, if I did get bad news, I would have the entire weekend to weep under the covers and maybe recover enough to face my summer class on Monday. Now, I’m likely to get the (fatal? happy?) email next week — and I don’t know what my reaction will be. For the past few weeks, I’ve had an almost constant stomach-ache, worrying about this. Every time I check my email — which is, you know, like 300 times a day — my stomach lurches into my throat. I’ve been trying really hard to keep it together — to teach my class, work on other research, fulfill my responsibilities, maintain my sanity — but the cracks are starting to show.
Seriously, I just need to know.
Now.
Good or bad.
I just need to know.
When I was in graduate school, I learned to be critical of the canon and its privileging of certain illustrious authors. There was a general disdain of anyone who continued to cling to these out-moded ideas, as seen in this entirely imaginary but characteristic scene:
Setting: Gathering of graduate students at Theory Central Graduate School
Student A (to Student B): So, what are you writing your dissertation on?
Student B: Jane Austen.
A (smirking and glancing meaningful at others): Really? Jane Austen. How innovative.
B (nervously): Um, so what are you writing on?
A: My dissertation examines the spatial dynamics of the post-global megaopolis as represented by graffiti tags by queer immigrants.
B (slinking away in shame): I think I need to go see my dissertation director …
Really, that was the tenor at my graduate school — everyone trying to out-do each other in their “cutting edge” research topics. I was told quite directly that single-author scholarship was dead and that my dissertation needed to be diverse in its subject matter, addressing multiple authors and genres across a span of time. I dutifully followed this advice — only to spend many years wondering about its accuracy.
My dissertation (now book) topic is one of those that requires several sentences to explain. It has taken me far too long to complete, in part because I have had to attempt to gain expertise in so many areas. It has not been easy to find a press willing to review it — or to convince people that it’s a worthwhile project.
Meanwhile, I’ve envied my colleagues who work on Famous Authors or Well-Known Texts for being able to sum up their scholarship briefly and without any need to justify their choices: “I’m a James scholar.” “I work on Shakespeare.” “My book re-examines Moby Dick from an eco-critical perspective.”
There’s something to be said for being canonical, even at this late date.
But, what I’m thinking about these days is less the continuing influence of the canon than the merits of single-author scholarship. My next book is going to focus on one author, albeit a recovered and only quasi-canonical writer.
(Wait, can you say “my next book” when you haven’t published your first one — or even had it accepted by a press?? Or is that precisely the kind of hubris that causes one to be struck down by the gods of academic publishing? Gulp ….)
In addition, I’m teaching a graduate class next year focused on this author. Both of these projects mark a significant shift in my thinking about my own scholarship and how I want my students to think about theirs. I’m coming around to the idea that in-depth of knowledge about an author, major text, or time period may be a rewarding intellectual experience — as compared to the rather surface knowledge I have about many authors, texts, periods.
I am going to do something this summer that I have never done: read the entire collection of works by one author. Okay, I’ve done that for pleasure — read all the Nancy Drew novels or the entire Harry Potter series — but never for my scholarship. Does that seem shocking? I don’t know — but it is an approach that has never seemed necessary or interesting to me before. I’ve settled for reading Major Work(s) but not sitting down with a concentrated project of reading everything — not yet knowing where the reading project was going to take me.
I’m really excited about my summer reading project. I’ve been ordering books, making photocopies, and eyeing the growing pile with delight. Maybe this will open up some new vistas … I’ll keep you posted.
Recently I opened up an academic book to the acknowledgements. Although I try to not read acknowledgements because they are generally self-indulgent and annoying, it is sometimes hard to avert my eyes.
This particular acknowledgements began something like this (paraphrased): “I always promised myself I would never be one of those academics who takes ten years to finish a book and scurries around in shame at their failure. I was able to write and publish my book in record time which demonstrates my prowess, intelligence, and superiority over everyone else.”
How much do I hate this guy? Okay, so I filled in the second half of the thought but he does begin by congratulating himself in producing a book in under ten years — and the implication is that this feat deserves celebration.
Frankly, I don’t know where he got the ten year marker — most academics MUST produce a book in under ten years so they can get tenure. In fact, the tenure clock forces most people to produce quickly, whether they are ready to or not. The only way you could even take ten years is 1) you don’t need a book for tenure (in which case, what difference would it make how long you took?) or 2) you left one job for another, extending your time towards tenure (in which case, you are likely publishing all along — otherwise you would never get job #2).
I am particularly angered by Less Than Ten Years Guy’s discourse because I am someone who has, in fact, taken almost ten years on my book. (I fit case #2 above.) My complaint is not the one that is often made about how the accelerating professionalism of young academics is resulting in less stellar scholarship — although I think there is some merit to that. Rather, my experience indicates that pulling this off in under ten years in unbelievably difficult due to the inherent slowness of the process.
Case in point: One year ago, in March, I sent my book manuscript to a university press. The press sent the ms. to readers and I received the reader’s reports six months later, in August. I spent two months utterly paralyzed by the staggering number of revisions I was asked to make but began working on them in November (thank you InDWriMo!). Another five months and I just finished the revisions and mailed the ms. back to the press this week — almost exactly a year later.
In other words, an entire year was eaten up by this submission, evaluation & revision process — and it is not even over. Who knows what this next round will bring, or how long it will take? This year comes after the many, many years spent conducting research and writing. It is true that, unlike other efficient academics, it took me a long time to get going — several years of struggling with the project, unable to see where it was going, making a number of false starts, etc. I wasted a lot of time before I figured out what I was doing. But, even if you manage to avoid the post dissertation/first job morass that I fell into, the whole book process takes time. Taking more time is not a measure of the quality of the project either — thank you very much! It’s just a logistical reality.
I’m trying to focus on the fact that I’ve leapt another hurdle in this exhausting race towards publication and, ultimately, towards tenure. I don’t want Ten Years Guy and other precocious academics to make me feel bad about the time it has taken me — but sometimes I hear his voice in my head and it sniggers and says, “heh heh, I finished my book faster than you.”
Seriously, how much to I hate this guy?
By now, most of you will have read or read about Professor Zero’s “heretical post” in which she make the claim that “writing is fun and publishing is easy.” I first encountered Prof Z’s ideas in a response post on Moria in Excelsis and, I have to admit, they made me feel very defensive. (Hence the snippy comment I left; sorry Moria!) I am the queen of complaining about my academic writing – as my last post demonstrates – and I was angered by the idea that anyone would say my complaints were merely self-pitying indulgence rather than authentic expressions of pain.
I finally read Prof Z’s original post and found that I mostly agreed with it. And, happily I discovered that she is speaking of a particular category of complainer to which I do not belong. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
Or, rather, Prof Z identifies two categories of complainers: The first is a person that I know all too well, the “woe is me, it’s so hard to think such brilliant thoughts” kind of academic. The “the world hangs in the balance as I develop my insightful arguments” kind. The “academic work is as hard as any other kind of work and if you don’t agree it’s because you aren’t working as hard as I am when I sit down to compose my groundbreaking scholarship” kind.
I hate that guy/gal too. But, this is really a form of faux compliant, isn’t it? The complaint is just the thin layer of chocolate (dark, of course) over the chewy center of self-congratulation and arrogance. S/he doesn’t really believe that his/her life is difficult, s/he just wants an opportunity for self-promotion. (And I hate those endless acknowledgements too!)
What I hate about this faux complainer is that they make real complaints seem equally trivial – a point to which I will return.
The second category of individual that Prof Z seems to want to bring to light isn’t really a complainer at all but more of a self-appointed guardian at the gate of success. This person tells others that they can’t develop original ideas, write well, or get anything published because it’s too difficult. Prof Z is pretty clear about the fact that this person is a patriarchal figure who is essentially saying, “you can’t do it, my little poppet.”
I have to admit I’ve never encountered this person – at least not directly. I’ve never had an authority figure, whether parent, professor, or colleague, tell me that I couldn’t think/write/publish because it was too hard. I think Prof Z is right, though, that there are figures in life and in academia who take it upon themselves to uphold what they claim to be “high standards” but who are really just trying to seize all the power, credit, and importance for themselves.
That guy/gal sucks too. S/he promotes an image of difficulty merely for the sake of preventing others from even trying.
Here’s why I think I don’t fit either of these categories even though I complain all the time, endlessly, tiresomely (even for myself) about my academic writing. And, yes, if you detect a note of defensiveness to this post, I hear it too.
I feel like I am struggling against an entirely different rhetoric around academic work – the belief that:
academic work is its own reward
academic work is worth any necessary sacrifice
academic work makes a substantial contribution to the world
academic work elevates your life and makes you a superior human being
I rail against these ideals and against my own shame at not being able to embrace them. I think they are a different but equally oppressive set of beliefs that get perpetuated in the academy.
Case in point: This week I went back to school after a really terrible spring break. I worked the entire week to finish my book revisions and it was hard, stressful, exhausting work. When I went back to campus on Monday, I was met by various colleagues who perkily asked me how my break was. When I complained about it being hard, stressful, and exhausting, I was greeted by embarrassed glances as if I had said something unseemly. I often feel like I am just not supposed to voice this experience – like I’m letting people down by not constantly celebrating my work or doing my part to uphold the facade of worth that covers the messy reality of the profession.
(Okay, another part of me says: they’re just tired of listening to you complain, you pathetic, insufferable Eeyore.)
But, it feels so dishonest for me at this moment in my life – as the Fucking Book continues to loom over everything that I do, sucking away all my energy and optimism, and generally making me feel like a big fat failure – to say anything else.
So, I do use this blog to complain and I plan to continue to. Because writing and publishing are both very, very hard – for me, anyway.
It’s Sunday afternoon, the last hours of spring break. You know you’ve had a working vacation if …
… your house is so dirty it would take days of cleaning to get it set right.
… your garage door opener hasn’t been working for weeks and you haven’t done anything about it.
… your security system is on the fritz and you haven’t called them about it.
… you haven’t raked leaves, fertilized, spread mulch or compost, or even taken your over-wintering plants out of the garage (see broken garage door above) even though the weather has been heart-breakingly beautiful.
… your bathtub is clogged and fills with water up to your ankles every time you shower and you haven’t done anything about it.
… your dog really, really needs a bath.
… your eyes are strained and your back is sore from sitting in front of a computer for hours every day.
… you have a stack of papers/exams from each of your classes but you haven’t started grading.
… you have broken all of your eating rules, allowed yourself to have ice cream and sweets every night as a “reward,” and you are getting fatter every day.
… you been eating out way, way too much because it’s just too difficult to clean the kitchen.
… you can’t even remember what your book is about.
… your spring break is over and you feel more exhausted than you did when it started.
Yeah, it’s Sunday afternoon, the end of the break, I’m still not done with the fucking book and now I’m asking myself the inevitable question of whether it’s all worth it. Worth all the work? Worth the exhaustion? Worth being behind in everything else? Worth not enjoying life?
Gah.
Oh Book, you are like a very bad relationship I cannot get out of.
You are like that boy/girl friend who’s always hanging around, showing up at inappropriate times, calling intermittently and late at night — but always expects to be the center of attention. Always demands my full concentration. Takes and takes but never gives.
When I finally find some time to devote to you, you pout about being neglected and I have to slowly coax you back. I have to lavish you with attention even when I don’t want to, just to get anything done.
I complain to all of my friends about you — and have been complaining for years. They are sick and tired of hearing about how much you suck. They tell me, “Dump his ass!” But I can’t dump you — we’ve been together for so long now, I don’t want to have devoted all this time for nothing! They tell me, “Don’t let her treat you that way! You deserve better.” But I don’t feel like I deserve better — I feel like I got what I deserve: a crummy book. Other people have beautiful books, or smart books, or funny books. Mine sucks — but it’s the best I can hope for.
I wonder where this relationship is going. Will you be there for me when I really need you — or will you crap out on me in the end, after everything? Will my other relationships/friendships survive this tumultuous affair, or will I alienate everyone else in my life for you? Will I discover that I actually hate you — maybe when I’m standing over you with a bloody knife? Or will you keep me at your beck and call forever?
Oh Book, I really, really want to break up.
