A Long Road to Publishing a Peer-Reviewed Journal Article

On 5 June 2017, I delivered my first peer-reviewed journal article into this world. (I'm not counting my 2006 article about English acquisition, sorry.) Though much less painful than a childbirth, the process took a hell of a lot longer than bringing a human baby into this world.

If you're one of those people who can publish articles while in a Ph.D. program; can balance writing and teaching skillfully; mostly get "publish with minor revisions" as a submission response; or can publish more than one article a year, what I write below may come as a shock to you. Or appalling. I don't care. I'm extremely thankful for this publication, and I know I couldn't have done it without help from the people around me every step of the way.

This post is for anyone out there who has ever felt like it's damn near impossible to get a publication out. I am here to tell you: It can be done; it just might take a really, really long time.

GSA #15: On Losing Your Conference Virginity

That sounds horrible. But I wonder...if I extend the metaphor, how do I describe going to multiple conferences in a year? Or having a dry spell of conferences? Or going only to the same conference year after year? Curious.

Anyway, it turns out I have to prep for an upcoming conference. It's bad news, actually, because I now have less than a week to do it. (My own fault.) Hence the photo of the dudette (sorry...deity?) with flames coming out of her head.

What's more, it seems I haven't updated my Grad School Awesomeness series since this past April. Who knew that when I actually have things to do, I'm willing to give up writing posts for my blog?

Fortunately a friend of mine was cool enough to ask me for thoughts on attending conferences, and I now have a legit reason to type up a new post. Here goes.

--
My "first time" was a somewhat lackluster experience—isn't it for most people?—despite the nearly fool-proof setting and the actual characters involved. I think, at the end of the day, it was just somewhat anti-climactic. I came away thinking: I could've performed better.

Thank goodness for ACLA 2009, my "second time" for literature conferences. Boston is a lovely city, and in the five months since my "first", I'd considered how I could improve my performance when giving presentations. But then, I suppose you have to "do it" a good number of times before you can call yourself "experienced" in these things. I mean, looking back today, even my "second" left much to be desired...

I could have used some advice around the time I was starting out on the whole conferences bidness—advice that, now that I'm feeling panicky about going to yet another one, I think I might just give myself now.

1. Prepping the presentation—Oh, right, the most important part of giving a conference presentation: GIVING THE CONFERENCE PRESENTATION. I think it's better to talk than read, and now that I have a three-hour lecture class of my own, I think it's easier than writing a paper to read out loud. If I'm talking instead of reading, I can use PowerPoint (sorry, I just don't get Keynote) to keep me on track—which I hope makes the presentation easier for people to understand too, more than having me just read a paper (which can be boring). "Talking" the presentation using PowerPoint, then, helps me in multiple ways: I don't have to write a formal paper, I can keep myself within time limits, and I can (hopefully) make the presentation easier to digest for the audience. And the more I practice, the better my "talking" and PowerPoint slides become. Maybe. (If I practice.) (Except I was recently told that some people count conference presentations toward your tenure review only if you write a formal paper—so who knows.)
2. Asking and answering questions—This is important because it builds the skill of curiosity: wanting to know more out of sincere respect. (Yes, my random definition.) It's difficult, I think, to ask questions well—it's also fun to get better at it. I've learned to listen more carefully and to understand what makes for good (to me) presentations: how clear is the argument? how strong are the supporting analyses? how appropriate is the title for the presentation content? If I have an idea of what I'm looking for, then I can ask better questions to find out additional things, or things I thought were missing from the presentation. I also know what kinds of things to include in my own presentations, and to anticipate questions that might be asked of me. It also helps to think of conferences as mini, informal job interviews—a casual way to practice talking about your research, but with potentially a big pay-off if you make a strong impression. There's just less pressure involved than a real job interview. It's a total win-win-win! Also, for more intimate conferences like PAMLA, I appreciate the opportunity (during lulls in the Q&A, when audience members don't have questions) to ask questions of my co-presenters, so that we capitalize on the occasion of being in the same room among people working on similar topics. What a lovely way to get to know each other! 
3. Meeting people—Wait, did I just say "a lovely way to get to know each other"? Actually, I'm horrible at getting to know people—which is why I come up with artificial ways to strike up conversations with folks, like asking them questions about their research. (But isn't that what we're supposed to do at conferences?) Seriously, though, I want to practice talking with people, approaching them, introducing myself, learning about their work...without having it seem annoying or forced. In fact, I wished I had taken more time to get to know other graduate students and junior scholars at my past conferences, because I'm finding that those kinds of relationships motivate me to produce more work. So if possible—during Q&As, while waiting for sessions to start, or in those awkward moments of standing in line at the morning pastries-and-fruits buffet—meet new people! And remember that the random person sitting two seats away from you may be someone to organize conference panels with in the future. (In fact, in writing this post, I'm reminded of someone I met at ACLA 2009, and how we've kept in touch over the years—how lovely to get to meet interesting people!) 
4. Exploring the City—To be honest, though, just as important for me as getting to know people is getting to know a new city. Conferences are often the only times I get to travel, and boy, am I psyched about this upcoming conference in Portland, OR. (I'm running out of cities that 1) I've never been to that 2) are sites of academic conferences, so this may be the last time I get to discover a new city.) Of course it's important to attend conference sessions—to hear interesting presentations, to make sure the conference is well attended, etc.—but I love getting to see new sites, walk around cool neighborhoods, and eat and drink delicious things. Ah, the life of an academic...

Oy, conference...how I love thee. As long as I have fun and enjoy giving my presentation, then I'm doing something right. Now I just need to get myself out of bed so that I can prep this paper......

Whoops, or, the Academic Mating Game

I just offended a good friend from college, which reminded me that I haven't posted in over three weeks.

Last week I had an orientation for my new job. It started with free food and ended with free food, so I have nothing bad to say about it.

The orientation did, however, make me consider that which I am calling "The Mating Game". It's a game in which players try to find a mate with whom to build a nest and procreate. It's going on at most times, in most places—but it heats up when players enter into new situations, like starting a new job.

What I was reminded of through the orientation last week was how academics complicate The Mating Game—like they complicate much of everything else.

If you are an academic that is starting a new job, it might be better for you not to be playing The Mating Game (e.g., already have found a mate so that you are no longer playing)—because participation in the game can cause you unnecessary stress.

If you are an academic playing The Mating Game at a new institution, you might find yourself thinking, "Oh my goodness, an entirely new pond...am I going to be able to catch any fish??" You might find yourself being more careful than you used to be about what to wear to campus—not only because you want to give your colleagues the impression that you are tenurable, but also because you never know who might be standing behind you in line at the library circulation desk. You might also notice just how much more intriguing people's left ring fingers are—like they're somehow going to provide you the missing link you needed to support the argument in your next manuscript.

You might also be an entirely rational academic, telling yourself that you have bigger things to worry about than TMG—namely RTP. You might also know from experience that A Mate is not something that you look for, it's just something you stumble upon, like a cute Made in Korea ballpoint pen that someone left behind in the lecture hall. Or you might have the good sense of looking outside of academia for your Mate, knowing full well that one academic in a couple already has too much self-absorption going on.

(Just kidding...it's not like non-academics don't have self-absorption going on...)

But if you are like most academics, you probably realize that, really, dating an academic is so much easier than dating a non-academic. They understand the pressure before a fellowship application deadline. They understand the inanity that is departmental politics. They understand that, yes, it looks like you get a looooong summer vacation, but that's really more time spent on your research and course development, in addition to the nights and weekends that have fallen to a similar fate.

And when you date an academic as an academic, you get an automatic reviewer of your work without having to submit it to a journal. You get someone who'll be straightforward with you about the quality of your teaching and research, because that person wants to see you improve—and thrive—at the thing you most love doing. And you'll have a travel buddy who is genuinely interested in attending that conference with you, if only because it's so much more fun just to go to a conference than to present at one.

But alas...The Mating Game is not so easy for an academic at a new institution, because it turns out most people are already spoken for by the time they start their tenure-track jobs. You realize that your awkward, introverted self is matched by the awkward, introverted others who also populate the various departments across your institution. And even if you swore that you were going to be social and attend various functions across campus, let's face it, once the academic term starts, you're lucky if you make it out to pick up your CSA box once a week. And the more you try to diffuse the stress of TMG, the more you realize that you are simply being washed up in the heteronormative, patriarchal institution that is MATING. ::sigh::

And then you end up being the academic who is no longer at a new institution, because you've been there for a number of years already...and you end up looking around at the annual New Faculty Orientation dinner for someone who seems friendly, attractive, and unmated. But then, in all the wisdom that you have accumulated in your career, you tell yourself: this is the name of the game. Teachers grow old, while the students remain the same age—just like the way you grow old, while the incoming new faculty remain the same age. And the good thing is, you'll never let the stress turn into desperation. After all, writing that journal article is often more rewarding than dealing with the results of The Mating Game.

GSA #14: On Papers and Presentations

I think I've reached my limit on conference presentations for the year—and I've only given one so far. It's not just the work of preparing the paper/presentation itself; it's also the timing. Sometimes I'm in the "talk stuff out with friends over tea and gluten-free cookies" phase. Sometimes I'm in the "present 7-page papers to strangers and get feedback" phase. Sometimes I'm in the "just effin' finish the darn article and send it off" phase. And right now I think I'm in that third phase.

But alas, I've mysteriously signed up to present three more times in the next three months. WTF? And I also was trying to figure out whether I had any juice left to craft an abstract for submission later this year. So, in order to sort through my various past/future papers and make myself an actionable to-do list, I turned to my trusty Excel spreadsheet.

Oh, you know me—I have a spreadsheet for everything. For finances, movies, travel destinations, clothes. So of course I would have one for papers (named, appropriately, <papers.xls>). These spreadsheets aren't sophisticated, but they get the job done.

In this said "papers" spreadsheet I have columns for the course for which I wrote the paper, the term in which I wrote it, its topic, the conference where it was presented, the journal to which I want to submit it, and the larger project to which it belongs. I've added to and modified these headings over time, but this set has worked out for me for the last several months.

The time I spent updating the spreadsheet last week helped me figure out what "to do next". I revised and collapsed the "larger projects" that I have in mind, enabling me to reframe my three upcoming papers—in other words, where they were coming from, and where they are going. Plus, now I have a better picture of which papers still offer an important piece of some "larger project" and is thus worth writing an abstract for.

I admit, though, this spreadsheet really didn't start giving me returns until the last year and a half of my Ph.D. program. One, during coursework, I was just writing random papers for seminars and couldn't identify any salient themes; two, during Qualifying and ABD periods, every paper I wrote was for the dissertation. It's only recently that I've been able to balance those two extremes and understand why I was writing all those "random" papers in the first place, and how they fed into (and can later grow out of) my dissertation. (If you're one of those people who've always known exactly what to write for the dissertation, good for you...I guess.) But there's something really gratifying about identifying all the themes and "larger projects" lurking within the spreadsheet. The Professor Is In has discussed the necessity of a second project while on the job market, and while her points are of course important, I have a stupidly simple reason for maintaining this spreadsheet: I get distracted by little "side projects", and it's nice to know that they can all be collected into something legit later on.

The spreadsheet can also be helpful if you're trying to figure out ways to "reframe" the "larger project" in such a way so as to include papers you didn't think belonged—thus cutting back on the amount of time you might have to spend on writing (new things) and revising. Because, you know, sometimes the magic is in the intro and conclusion...

[Yes, apparently "(Candace) Bushnell" and "Mishima (Yukio)" are interchangeable in my mind...]

GSA #13: On (Skype) Interviews

It’s admissions season here, and my colleagues and I have been going through BA and MA applications and interviews for our program. This exercise has made me think several things.

One, many of our applicants have accomplished incredible things, even before they get to college. They think deep thoughts, do exciting things, and overcome considerable obstacles. I am impressed. (Of course, the students whose applications I read are a particular subset of people around the world.)

Two, different countries have different education systems. DUH. But when it comes time to rank students from all over the world for an international (particularly undergraduate) program, there’s a lot to consider in evaluating these applications. (Of course, even in the United States there are all sorts of schools, which influences the kinds of application “package” a student can submit. I’m sure the level of complexity is the same even within the U.S. microcosm.)

Three, although I went through my undergrad and Ph.D. application processes years ago, the job application process is still fresh(ly smarting) in my memory. And my god have I learned things about the (Skype) interview process that I wished I'd known earlier. Even though I read the post about phone/Skype interviews on The Professor Is In blog (along with many others), there's nothing like being on the interviewing side that really brings these things home:

1. Relax—if at all possible. While nervousness is often acknowledged by both parties, it puts a weight on all of your responses. And trust me, it's not good weight. (And contrary to what Sheryl Sandberg might say, don't lean in. It gives off a desperate vibe.)
2. Smile—not an idiot smile, but a comfortable smile—and DON'T STOP. It's heartbreaking when an applicant that had been smiling stumbles on a difficult question and stops smiling. It's almost like a quiet declaration of defeat. 
3. Make declarative statements—we're not playing an improv game here; don't answer a question with a question. Even if you're wrong, just say it like you mean it—and believe that you're right. Confidence (even if it's feigned, but especially if it's genuine) can make you look like a million bucks.
4. Be humble—yes, I know, I just emphasized confidence, but there's nothing more annoying than someone who isn't able to acknowledge just how much more there is to learn. Isn't that why we're in this business in the first place?
5. Don't look at note(card)s—write stuff down on your brain. I think it's perfectly appropriate to have pen and paper ready to take notes (especially since it shows that you are taking seriously the conversation you are having), but there's something unnatural about looking at note(card)s while you are trying to have a conversation with your interviewers. Things you say in an interview should be second-nature—whether it's about yourself, your research, or the school to which you are applying. If it's not something you know, it shouldn't be coming out of your mouth.

I practiced doing a Skype interview twice, with my friend and my professor, and it was immensely helpful. But now I realize that what would've been even more helpful was to practice being an interviewer, so that I could see for myself the things to do and not to do. So if you have friends who are on the job market with you, give each other practice interviews! It'll be a great bonding experience, and it'll be hella useful too.

I'm learning an incredible amount through this admission process—and I’m sending positive energy to all the students who get to apply to university and take entrance exams! And even more positive energy to the folks who are on the job market (academic or not), trying to find a job that they are happy with. 

[Yes, that's an alcohol ad...but I like it!!! It's so appropriate for my mood right now...]

GSA #12: On (Ac / Alt-Ac / Non-Ac) Career Directions, or, What Do You Have to Show for Your Efforts?

In the weeks leading up to "The Humanities and Changing Conceptions of Work" Career Workshop in May of 2014 (organized and hosted by the UC Humanities Research Institute), I said to Kelly Brown that I wanted to write a blog post about the workshop for the UC Humanities Forum (which—is now defunct...so I can't even link to it anymore). Anyway, long story short, I didn't. Which makes this post long overdue—and though Kelly may have forgotten about it long ago, I've been nagged by guilt about it for nearly 10 months...

But then my friend messaged me yesterday reminding me that the event was happening again this year—and I thought, "If I don't write this post now, I never will." And since it was kind of a life-altering workshop for me, I wanted to pay it forward by writing about it here on my own blog.

First of all, I can't thank Kelly, the other organizers, UCHRI, and the Mellon Foundation enough for having made possible the Workshop for us in Berkeley last May. (I say "us" to mean not just those who attended, but also those who, I hope, will benefit from having these kinds of events institutionalized.) The Thursday workshop was filled with thought-provoking presentations and hands-on activities, as well as opportunities to meet and have great conversations with graduate students from other campuses (as well as those from our own). And for anyone interested in seeing what took place, there are videos of the workshop available on the event site.

But. But but. I had a major frustration bout last year, which is what I wanted to write about today. And it's precisely the kind of thing that, I think, prevents really smart Ph.D.s from getting a job they want, whether it be ac or alt-ac or whatever.

One of the sessions that day was a résumé workshop with San Francisco-based résumé writer Jared Redick, who runs The Résumé Studio. If you watch the video, you can tell that Jared is an incredibly smart guy: the way he organizes the presentation, the way he explains the materials, the way he responds to questions—this guy knows his stuff. And while, granted, the idea of a résumé writer might seem silly to some of us (what, you can't write that stuff on your own?), for a guy charging $180 an hour in a city where anything can be bought with money, we were lucky to have a workshop with him at no cost to us.

Throughout the workshop many participants expressed that the practical advice he was giving us was helpful. And at one point (about an hour and 13 minutes into the video of the workshop), a participant asked the question of how we might make something like our dissertation a component in our résumé—when, in reality, a "dissertation" doesn't really mean much to many employers. 

What irked me was not the participant's question (which was valid), or even Jared's response to it (which was thoughtful). It was the reaction of the room when Jared illustrated the concern of the participant—that people outside of academia don't know what a dissertation is, or even what it looks like. (If you are curious, you can watch the video from where the participant starts her question, or fast forward to about 1:15:30 to watch the point of concern.)

For those who want a textual summary: Jared makes, in his response to the question, a reference to a "50-page dissertation" that someone might mention in a résumé. Of course, Ph.D. students in the throes of qualifying or ABDness know that this is ridiculous. So they laugh. And when Jared reacts with humor and good nature—to diffuse the awkwardness he had created—they laugh more. But what you don't get from the video is that the laugh emitted by the students was simultaneously one of incredulity as well as scoff. And as I sat there in the room, I identified it as one that was scoffing at Jared, the guy in the front of the room that was helping us learn how to write a good résumé. 

Why did this piss me off so much—this attitude of "I can't believe this guy doesn't know how long a dissertation is!"? Because it's condescending, that's why. And it's precisely the kind of attitude that prevents us from preparing ourselves to be strong candidates on the job market—any job market. It's the attitude that says, "I have a Ph.D.—and that's a big enough deal for me to get a job without making any other effort."

That sounds unfairly mean. And it really is true that most (non-academic) employers wouldn't put much weight on the fact that someone completed a dissertation—or even a Ph.D. program. But that isn't our problem. We can't change what people know or understand; we can only work to develop and present ourselves in the best way so as to make ourselves employable (and attractively so).

And let's face it, the nature of a dissertation (even something as simple as its length) depends on the department, the discipline, even the institution. My literature dissertation is not going to look like a history dissertation. I wouldn't even venture to compare it with an ethnic studies dissertation, or a chemical engineering dissertation...or an education dissertation from a different institution. A million dissertations, a million different things. So, how are employers outside of academia supposed to understand such nuances?

We can also think of things this way: A company isn't going to hire some random 22-year-old just because he has a piece of paper in his hand that has the letters B and A (or S) on it. The employer will want to know: What have you done in the past? What kinds of leadership positions have you held? What can you do for us?

So why would the evaluation of a Ph.D. be any different? No one is going to hire us just because we have a Ph.D.—employers want to know what we've done, and what we can do. In other words: What have we got to show for our efforts?

The point of a job search is to weed out candidates that 1) don't have the qualifications and 2) don't stand out. (Only after that comes the "Does this person fit in with our company culture?" hoop.) If you're lucky, you may actually have the qualifications necessary to do (or even apply for) a particular job. But will you stand out? If the main thing you've got going for you is the fact that you wrote a dissertation, good luck—because you know that every other Ph.D. also has done that. That doesn't make you stand out; that just puts you on par with everyone else.

So what are we supposed to do, as Ph.D. students who will have spent 5+ years in grad school to go on the job market in our late 20s (if we're lucky) and beyond?

The answer is the same as what we might ask of the undergrads in the classes we TA. How are you doing in your classes? What are your extracurricular activities? What kinds of special projects have you done? What kinds of officer positions have you held in organizations? What kinds of work experience do you have?

A strong résumé isn't going to fill itself out while you do your coursework, TA, and write a dissertation. Presenting at conferences is great, publishing even better—but even those are more geared toward a CV, not a résumé. What are your responses to the above questions that you might pose to the undergrads? What kinds of research groups or conferences have you organized? What kinds of grants and fellowships have you received, and what have been their outcomes? What kinds of roles have you filled in student and community groups? What do you have to show for your efforts, as more than just a "researcher" or a "teacher"?

Being a Ph.D. student—and earning that degree—is a lot of work. Those who recognize that, will recognize that. Those who don't, won't. If we're serious about opening up the possibilities of life after grad school, then we need to be serious about the amount of effort we put into building up our résumés. And we can't ever scoff at people for not understanding what we do—because if you're the kind of person who scoffs about that, chances are, your résumé will be something that people will want to scoff at too. 

[Just so you don't think I'm talking out of my hat, here's a story to illustrate just how much scoffing some employers do. Once upon a time my boss and I were screening candidates for an office manager at my old job. We offered some people interviews based on their résumés, and after one of the interviews—in which the candidate had not-so-much the qualifications we needed and not-at-all the company culture we had—my boss marked the applicant's résumé with the words "His tie was ugly" and tossed it aside. And that was that.]

The goal, I think, is this: Be well-rounded. Be humble. Be yourself. Only then can we begin to make the M.A./Ph.D. work postgraduation, whether ac, alt-ac, or non-ac.

GSA #11: On Asking Questions

This past weekend I went to a symposium on the topic of censorship. It was loads of fun—I met some cool people, and I learned a lot.

But there was a frustration in me that culminated at the end of the symposium—a frustration that had been mounting inside me for several years.

It's with the way people ask questions.

This is a totally personal opinion, I know. But I admire people who ask smart, clear, and concise questions. Hence I'm not a fan of people who ask loooong, rambling questions. Or people who give self-serving comments disguised as questions. Or people who ask questions just to show how smart they are, or which books they've read, or which theorists they can cite. (I even got a little weirded out by people who read off what they'd typed out when asking their question—and I was pretty sure it wasn't a language issue.)

I never saw this problem among my undergrads (though that might be because they were afraid I would smack them if inane dribble kept coming out of their mouths). But I've seen it so often among grad students, whether in seminars, workshops, or conferences. And I've seen it among professors, too.

What's going on?! Is it because, when we enter a grad program, we constantly face the pressure to display how brilliant we are? Oh come on, people. I don't know about you, but I'm a fan of displaying brilliance in other ways (not that I can do it, but).

It takes practice, this "asking smart, clear, and concise questions" thing. But I think we'd be better served if we did practice. And I think teachers should actually train their students to do so, too.

Because you know what? One day when I get to serve on a search committee, I'm gonna remember if you asked a good question—and if you didn't. And when I come across your job application or come face to face with you in an interview, I'm going to have no mercy. And just because of your rambling question at some random conference years ago, you will be tested. And if you fail again, I am not giving you that job.

Ask your question, people, and then get the hell off the floor.

[Oooh, I sound particularly vicious in this post! Fun!]

GSA #10: On Organizing Your ABD Time

(Today is a "get some work done" day, so of course I take a break by blogging...)

I had three years of coursework and then three years of ABDness. Looking back, I don't feel like I did much during those ABD years—I mean, I think I can count them on one hand. Year 1: 1) apply for external fellowships, 2) write prospectus; Year 2: 3) collect sources, 4) write chapter drafts; Year 3: 5) finish and defend dissertation. Um...that's it?!

When I think of it that way, those three years seem so compact. Every day passed so slowly and yet so fast, each moment just slipping right into the next.

But maybe because of that, it's easy for me to think now about what needs to get done during ABDness. It probably helped that I'm a freak who loves to plan and write up to-do lists, but at the end of every quarter, it helps to lay out what you need to do in the following quarter. Provided that you already have a prospectus, here are some things that might help in order to get through that nebulous ABD zone.

1. Outline your dissertation. Yes, the whole thing. And yes, it's OK to have "I. Introduction. II. History. III. Theory. IV. Textual analysis. V. Conclusion." (That's how most of my chapter outlines looked at the beginning anyway.) It's just important to have a single outline/document that lists all the (planned) sections of the diss so that you can see what needs to get done before you can defend it. (This also helps because outlining one chapter often gives you ideas about what to include in others.) 
2. Fill in the outline. I said "at the beginning". Go back to your prospectus and imagine every single section that would have to appear within all of the sections. Which historical events will you have to explain? Whose biographical details will you need to include? Which authors, which texts? The more you do this, the more excited you'll get about your dissertation. (Or at least you...hope?)
3. Insert all your past papers into your outline. I'm telling you, this is the lazy bum's guide to getting through ABD. Once you have a filled-in outline, it's possible to see which pieces you've already written might belong in the diss, and if they do, where. Those seminar papers were not for naught! 
4. Revise your outline. Did you find that many of the "pieces" you inserted don't have the perfect fit? Revise your outline (i.e., the individual chapters as well as the larger diss) so that they do. And all the pieces that were left on the cutting room floor? See if you can't reframe things further to make those fit, too. After all, you wrote them—they must be related to your larger scholarly project. [Note: OK, by no means should you be unreasonable and try to shove things in where they really don't belong. Just keep in mind that your diss will continue to evolve anyway, so you might as well front-load the evolution and give yourself a head start.]
5. Figure out the sources you need. This is easier if you've written grant proposals, but given your revised and filled-in outline, list up all the sources and pieces of information you'll need. Is it something you can look up in an article, in a book, on the Internet, in an archive? Build yourself a plan that enables you to collect the things you need, when you need them. (Maybe it'll even include a trip to an exotic location!) Prioritize, and be flexible. There will always be more things you'll need, and always things you won't be able to get to. That's OK—you can save them for your book project.
6. Now—write! No, really. Start with the first paragraph of the intro, or the last paragraph of your conclusion. Start anywhere, but just be sure to write. The damned thing's not gonna write itself; at some point you have to move from planning to writing. And let's hope it'll be a fun process.

Do this at the end of every quarter to celebrate turning in grades, and you'll be done with that puppy without even knowing what hit you.

As a friend of mine (who had a Ph.D. in some sciency, bioengineering field or whatever) once said: at some point you have to lay out all the papers you've got, put them in an order that makes sense, figure out what's missing, and go churn out the missing pieces. That's what ABD is about, really—a whole lot of figuring out, and a whole lot more of churning out. Enjoy.

GSA #9: On Giving Conference Presentations

This dude is about to go give a "presentation"...in his undies...!

I realized that the main reason why I write these posts is because I need to discipline myself into practicing what I preach...

Presenting at conferences is a great way to explore ideas and get feedback and questions. But there's also something huge about the opportunity to practice giving presentations that I'd totally forgotten. (Shut up. I'm an idiot. I know.)

After having a blast at PAMLA and spending time with awesome people, I am resolving to do the two following tasks for my next presentation.

Go off script. Oh come on, conference presentations are only 12 to 20 minutes long. If your idea of getting people to become engaged with your work is by reading off of letter-sized paper for that long, you've got some rethinking to do. Besides, when (not if) you give a job talk, that shit is like 45 to 50 minutes long! You might as well practice giving lovely (and long) presentations (with visuals) when you're given that opportunity (which might be rarely for those of us who don't teach our own classes).

(I understand that some people can read beautifully from a script, and if you are one of those people, more power to you. I am not. I also think it's fine to have a partial script or an outline as long as it enables you to stay focused, make eye contact with audience members, and riff a little. I saw two of my friends giving such presentations at PAMLA, and I was like...that's what I should be doing!)

Practice. Why, why, why do I always leave presentation preparations 'til the last minute? Somebody please kick me. At least I've moved beyond that point of forcing my companion to look for a Kinko's with me near the conference site. But conferences are opportunities for you to get "out there" as the awesome scholar that you are—don't blow them! People remember you if you are good or bad, and then kind of forget you if you are mediocrely somewhere in between. (That's an actual word? Wow.) And if people are going to remember you, it'd better be because you were polished and professional—because then you get to make friends and join awesome projects in the future!

[At some point I want to go to a conference just to go, without having to present anything. If anyone has suggestions for a good conference to crash, I'm all ears.]

GSA #8: On Submitting Abstracts to Conferences

I love going to conferences for three reasons: 1) visiting cool places with subsidy, 2) getting feedback on my work from an unfamiliar audience, and 3) expanding my academic (and social) network on my own terms. And since I received a question on how to go about submitting to conferences (e.g., writing up an abstract from scratch or what), I decided this would be a good time for me to articulate my own conference submission system.

As I mentioned in a post on how I appreciate conference abstracts that at least gesture toward making an argument, having a paper already written makes it easier (I think) to write a more convincing abstract. At the same time, I often use conferences as a space to explore new ideas and take a break from my dissertation project (even if things end up connecting anyway).

To that end, I (like most people) take one of two approaches to submitting abstracts to conferences:

1. Take a paper lying around and write an abstract based on that, or
2. Write an abstract for a paper I want to write, that also fits the conference field/theme—for an ongoing project, for a potential future project, or for fun

Approach #1 becomes easier the more seminar papers you accumulate each term. Presumably out of those papers there should be one or two that you'd be interested in developing in the direction of the conference field/theme. (Early in my Ph.D. career I gave conference presentations based on a paper I wrote in undergrad and even a paper I wrote in high school—shut up, it was my Extended Essay for the IB Program, and it's still a paper I'm hoping to return to and revise into an article one day. Apparently my interest in gender, modernization, and Japanese literature was already in place at the tender age of 16.)

Approach #2 is good if you can make yourself write the paper just for the conference, and even better if you can write it as a seminar paper too—because then you've just killed two birds with one stone! Plus if you can get comments from the prof before you head off to the conference, your presentation will be even more polished. And thus, your coursework and research mutually develop each other.

After you write the abstracts (and papers), you can put them in your "dissertation folder" if you think they belong there. Whether they get accepted or not, after a while you start accumulating words that help construct backgrounds, potential arguments, and threads of future exploration. 

I'm seeing all these CFPs this quarter for grad student conferences, and I get kind of wistful that I can no longer apply to them. (Grad student conferences tend to be cheap (even free), and with excellent food.) Anyway, freshly off the PAMLA boat, my next couple of posts will probably deal with 1) the actual giving of the presentation and 2) organizing panels. Probably. Maybe.

[That was the view from the gate for my flight out of Haneda Airport last Wednesday...in front of Hokkaido Kitchen. Man, did their curry smell good...]

GSA #7: How to Write a Ph.D. Dissertation (Part 1)

Psyyyyyyych! (Or is it "sike"?) As if I am able to write such a post. In fact, this is a post on how to write any ol' book-length project, but I just wanted to write a post using the above title. As my friends gear up to defend their dissertations—yay!—and I gear up to start revising my 200+ page monster—nooooo...—I thought it would be nice to recall some of the methods I used to "write a Ph.D. dissertation".

There are multiple books out there precisely on this topic (like this, this, and this—the top 3 hits for an Amazon search for "how to write a dissertation"). My cohort was told by our former Director of Graduate Studies (that's what it was called back then) that these books actually help, a sentiment that was echoed by my GUIDE mentor. Being me, of course, I went to check one out at the campus library—but since the popular ones were (believe it or not) already checked out, I borrowed Alison B. Miller's Finish Your Dissertation Once and for All! Apparently she got her Ph.D. in psychology and has a project management background, which actually suited my working style. (Never mind the fact that the title makes writing a dissertation sound like an excessive drinking habit that you need to kick.)

Anyway, if there are 10 ABDs in the room there are probably 10 ways to write a dissertation, so here I merely articulate what I ended up doing, in order to analyze it a bit and improve it for my next stage. (And of course, this is geared more toward the humanities than anything else.)

1. Take advantage of seminar papers—Any reason to write a paper is a good one, more so if you've got a prof responsible for giving you feedback (you hope). You can synthesize a whole term's worth of readings and discussion into a 10–20-page paper! Too bad for me, though, I am no longer taking seminars...which then makes it important that I...
2. Take advantage of (conference) presentations—(The motivation for this post, in fact, is a presentation I have to give in November for the grad students in my department.) Jot down the questions and comments you get, regardless of what you think of them or who asks/gives them—it's free feedback, take it!! (And honestly, the only reason I've been to cool cities like Boston, Toronto, and Singapore is because I've had conferences there. Conferences are a great opportunity to hear interesting presentations, and who knows, maybe you'll even find yourself a part of a book project.) 
3. Keep files and folders of your ideas—That means Word (etc.) files for things that interest you and Finder folders for all your papers, QE materials, conference abstracts, etc. Keep your words and find a place in the diss for everything—for now. (You can delete them later.) As I've said before, I'm better at editing than I am at writing—and I can only edit if there are words on the page. Besides, I write my dissertations like I cook my dinners: I don't pick out a recipe and go buy the necessary ingredients, I look at what's in my fridge and figure out what I can make from that. So: I look at what random papers are in my folders and figure out what dissertation I can write from them. It doesn't produce great meals, but at least you don't starve.  
4. Have a writing group—Nothing like good ol' peer pressure to churn out a dissertation! Have (bi-)monthly deadlines, meet up for coffee to give feedback, or just sit together in a room and vow not to leave until you've written the full 120 minutes (with breaks in between). It's such a good feeling to know you have company in moving these projects forward.
5. "Write Like a Motherfucker"—I didn't come up with that, one (TPII talks about who did), and two, I actually didn't write like a motherfucker my last year in grad school. (Other things in life happen even while working on these projects.) But writing is your job: You don't write only when you have brilliant insights, you don't write only when you feel like it. The fact that being an academic isn't a regular 8-to-5 job doesn't mean that you can't treat it like one—and sometimes you just have to work through it like you would any other job, while trying to strike that mythical work/life balance.

GSA #6: Conference (and) Abstracts

To this day, I've never had an abstract accepted to the MLA conference. It's a funny feeling—a part of me is like, "Who cares? It's just a giant meat market with little regard to Asian Lit anyway...why should I go?" But another part of me is like, "Dammit, why won't you let me in?!?!" It's like Virginia Woolf (er, Nicole Kidman) says in The Hours: Even crazy people like to be asked.

But the last few months have been abstract season, which means I've been churning out a lot of abstracts—and reading a fair amount, too. I usually follow the advice from The Professor Is In on how to write conference paper abstracts, and it makes me feel better about what I submit. I understand that there is both some amount of formula to these things, as well as the need to be original and true to your own style/scholarship. But there are certain necessary ingredients for a good abstract, and the advice is a good place from which to start.

Especially in organizing conference panels (third time's the charm?), I always get a little confused when I read abstracts without an argument. You tell me what you're going to study, you tell me why it's significant...but for crying out loud, are you going to have anything interesting to say about it??

We know that conference abstracts are a guess at best: that when it comes time to write the actual paper (two weeks before the conference), it'll look different from what you proposed six months before. And I think that's good—it's a sign that, even in those six months, you've learned and thought about more things to make you write a better paper. But without that initial guess, how will you know which direction you're headed?

Book Renewal Fetish

This morning I went to the city library to return some books and check out some more. But when I got there, the sign on the door said...CLOSED. Apparently I'd missed the memo that today was the day for the library to sort out its materials. ::sigh::

Throughout my Ph.D. program I constantly had books upon books checked out of the library. During coursework it was for writing my seminar papers, which meant that at the end of finals week I could return most of them and bring down my checked-out books count to a single digit. While writing my dissertation, I constantly had books on hand I needed to read, more books for which to procrastinate on my writing, more books to fill up my desk space (or two). I'd read through them and take notes, or I'd read parts of them, or I'd read none of them and just gaze longingly at their spines—with a promise that I'd read them after I wrapped up whatever draft I was working on.

What I couldn't get enough of was renewing books. All I had to do was log into my account online, click a couple of buttons, and voilà! I could keep all of those books sitting on my desk for another six months! (Was it? I forget.) It was like proof that I was working: Look at all these books I have checked out! I must be making progress on my dissertation!

Yeah, right. When I moved to Japan I didn't bring that many books, knowing my stay here was temporary. And now I have this lovely office with (count 'em) EIGHT floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and I only have a handful of books sitting on them. Nowadays I check out just as many (or more) books than I did as a grad student, but I actually read them all, and I read them a lot faster.

I'm taking up a "no renewal" policy, kids. No more clicking online buttons for me. I check out the books I need, take down the notes that are useful, and return those puppies to their homes. I feel a lot more efficient, and I feel better (in my own little world) that if there are others who need the books, then they don't have to wait a long time to get to them. It's like a strange form of "recycle, reduce, reuse"—it's up to you! Even if my bookshelves do feel a little lonely.

To Apply, or Not to Apply

(Wait, didn't I have a post title like this somewhere else a little while ago?)

It's a funny thing trying to decide whether or not to apply to a particular job post. Last year it was like, "Anything with the word 'Japanese' in it, I'm applying!" but this year it's like, "OK OK, no need to be so voracious here." Like, like...

There are jobs that I clearly can't apply to (not my field, not my time period, etc.), and then there are jobs where I'm like...is this a job I want over the one I have now? And would I want to apply (ever) to jobs in particular geographic locations, when I know that my heart belongs in sunny California?

And what of the question of research vs. teaching? Why the valorization of research institutions over teaching institutions, when I'd much rather be in the classroom teaching than in my office writing? Or am I spoiled even to have such a preference?

A Ph.D. Entrance Exam!

これ。これが好きなんです・・・！

This is the thing I love whenever we have an event in our building. The organizers put up signs everywhere that say "Do not enter"...like, ENTER AND YOUR HEAD WILL EXPLODE. I love it.

Today our department is having entrance exams for our Ph.D. program. I had forgotten that we had such things as grad school entrance exams, even though my parents had talked about them before. (Specifically, my mother talked about how my father had wanted to get into the grad program for a particular department but had to go into a different department because he wasn't smart enough to pass...while my father sat there looking kind of awkward.)

Oh, entrance exams. I'm so glad I never had to take them. I'm sure I would've failed them anyway, seeing as how I don't study and my parents weren't ones to send us to cram school. And the only thing that saved me in the States was SAT II Writing...

Grad School Awesomeness #3: Affording Life as a Ph.D. Student

Look at me, trying to make smart purchases...

I was lucky when it came to affording life as a Ph.D. student.

After finishing my undergrad and M.A. (at a pricey but reputable school), I worked for three years at a decent job and paid off my undergrad loans before starting my Ph.D. I also worked nights and weekends during that time at what will always be my favorite job, a gift shop in The Mission that paid minimum wage but came with wine on the weekends.

During the Ph.D. program I worked my 50% TAship and occasional extra gigs—readerships, writing tutoring, etc. I had some money saved up from previous years so that I didn't have to take out a loan. My "rent" was a mortgage that my parents and I were paying off together, even though my share was less than half the going rate for the condo in which I lived.

In short, I got lucky. I was lucky enough to have TAships and other financial support while at UCSD. I had a background that empowered me to get into a college that enabled me to get a job (even if it took a few months after graduation). Of course, I worked (in multiple senses of the term) both before and during grad school. But in general, I got lucky.

But how does one afford life as a Ph.D. student, especially in the humanities, a degree that takes five to seven (?) years to earn, when one is paid $2,000 a month (if that much) for nine months out of 12 (and when even that isn't guaranteed)? How does one pay for rent, groceries, utilities, Internet, going out to eat, and picking up occasional treats? How does one support a family and cover medical expenses? How does one budget for conferences that require registration, airfare, and lodging? (And what is one expected to do during the "drought months" of August, September, and October?)

I think about this in terms of the overall scheme of "financial education" for growing up in the States (or anywhere else). Maybe some people are taught at a young age how to manage their money. Maybe some people get one of those kiddie accounts when they're young, and by the time they hit 18 they already have a few grand to their name. Maybe some people are trust fund babies.

But for a 1.5-generation immigrant kid whose family members got Green Cards just as her older sister was starting college, there was no "financial education". My family was ostensibly "middle class", even if we didn't know what that meant, with enough money to be comfortable but not enough to do anything with it.

The things I'm learning "to do with it" is a topic for a different post, but in talking with my friends in grad school and people who've yet to start their programs, I've decided what I would tell my own kids about affording life as a Ph.D. student:

"Work a real job first, then start a Ph.D. program."

I don't say this to be discouraging, or to suggest that this is the right and only way. (Oh, my poor children.) I've a good feeling that my kids would work through college and pay off their own debt. But I'd tell them also to go work a "real job" before pursuing grad school. (And, no, an M.A. program is not the kind of "real job" I'm talking about here.) It doesn't have to be one that gives them benefits (though that'd be nice) or gives them business cards (since that's an unforgivable waste of natural resources). I'd tell them to work at least one year, possibly two, maybe even three. I'd tell them to save up enough money to be able to live for three to six months with no other income (a.k.a. an "emergency fund"). I'd tell them to learn what it means to work with other people, where not pulling their weight means others have to pick up their slack. So that they'd understand that, in some industries, there are consequences to missing a deadline, not replying to emails, not keeping appointments. (They'd be fired.) I'd tell them to experience an alternative to grad school, so that they'd know what they were working toward in the first place. Then once they had that work experience and money saved up, I'd say to them, "OK kid, now you're ready to go be a starving grad student."

They might say, "But mum, it's really difficult to save up three to six months worth of living expenses." And they'd be right—but I'd tell them that it's not going to get any easier with a Ph.D., either. That looking for, finding, and keeping a job is difficult, whether you go to grad school or not.

But most of all, I'd tell them to work a real job before starting a Ph.D. program because I want them to arm themselves. I want them to have the work experience, the financial resources, and the sense to be able to get through a Ph.D. program and the accompanying experience of being on the job market. I want them to arm themselves because there's a chance that no one else will be there to help them or to stand up for them. If they encounter a great mentor, I couldn't be happier; but even if advisors want them to get hired, even if departments want them to get fellowships, that doesn't always happen. And it's up to my kids to arm and defend themselves. (I also want them to see the professors around them doing all the things that would get them fired in any other job, and be able to say to themselves, "I'm not going to be that kind of a professor." Because they'd owe it to their colleagues and, more importantly, to their students.)

I don't believe that education, especially undergraduate education, is something that we should have to take out loans in order to get. A grad program may be a bit more iffy, but it sure isn't the kind of thing that should weigh people down with a 5-figure debt (or higher) upon completion. Without a doubt, there's a whole lot that the university (as well as the government) should be responsible for in making grad school affordable. But I also think that, if we're serious about doing a Ph.D., we have to be serious about being able to afford it as well—and we have to be professional and prepared enough so that we don't suffer our way through it.

Grad School Awesomeness #2: Some Things to Do Before Applying

This is a second in my "Grad School Awesomeness" (GSA) series, and it too is a modified excerpt from the same email conversation as the first post on whether to Ph.D. or not. Today's post talks about things one can do to prepare to apply for Ph.D. programs in (comparative) literature. (I sound like a total jerk in these emails, but such is life...)

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I think past experiences and interests, however related they are (or not) to the Ph.D. field, are integral to who you are, as well as to your thought process on applying to Ph.D. programs. To be honest, I encourage the Ph.D. path with anyone who is interested, even given the caveat that I mentioned in my previous email...but that's because I believe that anyone who is interested in higher education should have access to it and the opportunity to succeed in that environment, regardless of what happens after graduation.

You know, having a foreign language or not isn't a big deal—of course, I imagine most Ph.D. programs want you to have English plus at least one foreign language, but it's also good to know one foreign language well rather than two only so-so. You can also apply to English lit Ph.D. programs and not really have to worry about foreign language skills as much; it's with Comp Lit programs that foreign language skills become crucial for the admission process...

I'm gonna take the liberty to suggest a few things to put on your to-do list this summer (if you aren't teaching and have time).

1. Read some good books, both for "academic" reasons and for fun
2. Read some "theoretical" texts
3. Read some books from academic presses (Duke University Press, University of California Press, University of Minnesota Press, etc.)
4. Write a "seminar paper" as a writing sample

I should explain a bit:

1. Read some good books—I imagine you already like to read, so this shouldn't be too painful. But think of all the books, classics and pop fiction, that you've been wanting to read—and read them! Considering those you've read in the past and have liked, start a list of the texts and writers that appeal to you. These can be texts that become your objects of analysis later on.

2. Read some "theoretical" texts—Grad programs will vary on how much they emphasize "theory"; my department REALLY emphasized theory (as do many other programs in the UC system), and programs develop reputations on their theoretical/intellectual approach in this way. (This becomes crucial in your professional development, because it determines your (perceived) intellectual "fit" at different departments when you're applying to jobs.) At UCSD, all first-year Ph.D. students take a three-quarter theory sequence: first quarter is about Marx and other "big name" theorists; second quarter is about gender and sexuality; third quarter is about postcolonial theory. (That's a gross oversimplification of the sequence, but so be it.) You can probably find reading lists for "theory" courses that give you an idea of what you might want to read. Something like this list from UPenn is a place to start, though it's somewhat skewed...

3. Read some books from academic presses—In any Ph.D. program, you'll be "reading" both primary texts (novels, short stories, film, etc.) and secondary texts. How well you know your secondary texts (the stuff from "academic" presses and others (Routledge, Verso, etc.)) will define how rigorous you are as a scholar. Given your research interests, you can visit the Websites of some of the presses (those three are pretty top-notch) and see if you can find books that interest you. Check them out from the library and flip through them. Take notes as you read, note the primary and secondary texts they analyze and cite, and see if you notice any texts that get mentioned repeatedly (and try to read those if you have time). Your initial questions and musings provide a great place to start reading. (Also, as you start narrowing down your choices for programs to apply to, try to read the books by professors that you'd be interested in working with.)

4. Write a "seminar paper"—As you read these books, if you decide that you need a writing sample as part of your application package, check out the guidelines for the applications and figure out the number of pages you might need for such a writing sample...then write a "seminar paper"! (You can google "how to write a seminar paper" to get some suggestions.) As a grad student, you'll be writing a number of things—seminar papers, project proposals, fellowship applications, dissertation chapters, journal articles. But at least during your coursework years, for each seminar you take, you'll most likely be expected to write a seminar paper. In my department, since we're on the quarter system, they tend to be pretty short—10–15 pages. (My friends in other departments write 20+ page seminar papers, though, so I'm not sure what's up with that.) But pick the number of pages you want to aim for (with standard formatting: 1" margins, 12 pt. font, double-spaced) and write! You can always cut the paper to make it work for schools that require fewer pages. But take all the good books, theoretical texts, and academic books you read over the summer, and try to come up with your original thesis/argument. It doesn't have to be a ground-breaking thesis, just something to show your application reviewers that you know how to read texts, synthesize information, and output an intelligent paper. Whether or not you enjoy this process of writing the "seminar paper" is crucial—because that's essentially what you'll be doing your whole time in grad school (in addition to teaching) . . . :)

Grad School Awesomeness #1: To Ph.D., or Not to Ph.D.

I...didn't know how else to title this series. But since I'm in the process of, well, processing some things about my grad school experience, I thought I would do myself a favor by casting it as something that was pretty effin' awesome.

But as I've been in correspondence with a woman who is debating whether or not to apply to Literature Ph.D. programs, I've realized that my grad school experience was, in fact, pretty awesome. There's more to go into about that, but that's going to have to be a different post.

And since lately I've been talking with people about all the things I wished I had heard when I was in (or preparing to start) my program, I thought—all this stuff like what I'm writing to this woman, why not post it here so that I don't feel like I'm completely slacking?

So the posts in this series are for consumption by anyone who is considering applying for Ph.D. programs in the humanities (or social sciences, probably), at UCSD or elsewhere. They're modified versions of emails from the aforementioned (longer) conversation, but the general ideas remain the same.

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. . . Since you already have an M.A., I assume you're familiar with the process of applying to programs based on advisors whom you would be interested in working with, in addition to taking into account how the overall program fits with your intellectual approach. (Very quickly: I had no idea how to do any of that when I applied to Ph.D. programs. I'd gotten my B.A. and M.A. at the same time (from the same school), which meant I never went through the process of applying to grad programs before. After getting my M.A. I worked for a few years, during which I decided to go back for a Ph.D. I didn't know what was involved in writing an application or choosing schools, so I chose based on geographic location. (I'm from southern California, and I was working in San Francisco, so it made sense to stay in California.) I got accepted to UCSD's Literature Ph.D. program and to the M.A. program at Purdue (I have family there)—and between those two, it was easy for me to choose UCSD.)

It can be hard to glean information from department Websites beyond the superficial—so I'm glad that you're actually contacting people. We do have a good program at UCSD, and as you say, there is a lot of freedom and working across national literatures that is a big draw for those who are interested in that. The reality, though, is that it can be hard to put together a program that works well for you in terms of depth—there's a lot of variety you can be exposed to, but you have to make some concerted effort in order to develop the kind of depth that you would need to be really good in your field.

An example: I am an East Asian comparative literature scholar (with a focus on modern Japanese literature), and there is not a single person in our department who does what I do. This is an issue with both the department and the university in general—California doesn't invest a lot of resources into public higher education, which means schools like UCSD take a pretty substantial hit. What's more, because UCSD places so much emphasis on science and engineering, humanities departments like ours often get the short shrift in terms of resources. This has made many of our faculty members leave—which happened with my former advisor and her partner. On top of that, we have had difficulty maintaining a strong East Asian studies community here at UCSD (for similar reasons to the above), which then made it difficult for me to find coursework related to my field of study. In short, I didn't have faculty from my department who were directly involved in my development as a Japanese literature scholar.

Buuut, of course that's not to say that people haven't supported me. In fact, I have had amazing professors who have been there for me, read my fellowship applications, gave tips on the job search, etc. But these were people outside my field of Japanese studies, and sometimes outside of the department as well. And again, because resources are tight, professors are having to stretch themselves as well—teaching larger and larger classes, grading more and more papers with fewer TAs, etc. Professors are human too, and they just can't be there for all of their graduate students in the way we want them to be.

With that said, I really enjoyed the six years I spent in UCSD's Literature department. I learned a lot, I met some great people, I got to go to Japan for a year on a Japan Foundation fellowship that I was awarded because of the training I'd received here...and now, I've finished my program and am starting a teaching job, even if it's temporary. These are all wonderful things (that sounds weird coming from me...sorry), and I couldn't have done them without the support system I had here. Plus I've benefited from our emphasis on cultural studies, and serious critique of structures of power that dominate our lives—even if we don't always practice what we preach in terms of resisting them (or at least not replicating them). A degree from UCSD is something to be respected—but it can also be difficult to finish the program in a fulfilling way.

I hesitate to name specific individuals who stand out as supporters (though a good number of them come to mind immediately), and for two reasons: 1) a prof who is good to me may not be good to other grad students; and 2) you will most likely spend most of your time and energy interacting with the prof closest to your research field, which I think isn't Japanese literature. This second point is particularly important: Of course, after you arrive at a graduate program, your research interests and approach will change and develop—they should, that's the whole point. But the initial step of getting accepted by a program, and for at least your first year, you want to have identified someone who is aligned with your scholarly interest, rather than aligned with your "personal fit" (e.g., how supportive they are).

One more thing: your decision to apply to a Ph.D. program or not, to start one or not once you've been accepted, which program you choose to attend—these, I imagine, are all things you will think about in the coming year, sometime between now and next April. I admire that you want to teach at the college level and that you are eager to jump into academia again after having worked upon getting your M.A. What I do want to stress (and others will remind you of this as well, even if we come from different perspectives) is that you have to do a Ph.D. program because that's what you want to spend six+ years of your life doing. You have to do a Ph.D. because you love it—because you love to read, because you love to write, because you love to teach bratty undergrads at low pay, be stressed out about qualifying exams, not get enough sleep for 10 weeks straight, etc., etc. Because in those six+ years, you may have awful professors, you may get rejection after rejection for fellowships, and at the end of it all, you may not have a job lined up at all. I'm lucky because I was offered the job I'm starting in August—but I can genuinely say that, if I didn't have that job, I'd still be happy finishing my Ph.D. and going out and looking for a non-academic job. For many of us (especially in the humanities), that is a tough situation to have to accept. And we can spend seven, eight years staying in a Ph.D. program, always looking for that college-teaching job we thought we would get once we finished our Ph.D. None of this is meant to be a deterrent, but it's important to me that I say it. I don't know what your personal situation is like, I don't know if you have family to support—but no matter what program you decide to go to, I think it's good to have that perspective, to know that a Ph.D. in the humanities may not actually get you the job you wanted to get.

OK, this has gotten far too long... I know you don't have to apply until the Fall, but maybe thinking about these things will let you do some traveling over the summer to check out some of the campuses . . . !