Marginalia by famous authors re: famous authors

Sometimes I (more than) think all of my work and interests revolve around cross-textual conversations like these… I like marginalia because it makes that conversation a thing more explicitly than allusion, appropriation, or other forms of intertextuality.

Despite being absolutely thrilled that I successfully navigated the trials and tribulations of the PhD application process and landed a spot at my top choice program, I want to be careful not to approach this topic in celebratory tones only. Given the current economic climate and the impact the downturn in the economy has played on higher education, this is not a decision I took/take lightly, and I think that’s an important thing to say. I think of the purpose of this entry as two-fold, and will be split into two entries, the second to be released at a near-future date: 1) it’ll allow me to take my position on the very hot-button issue of whether or not pursuing a PhD is worth it, and 2) it allows me to offer my particular stance/rationale as a creative writer pursuing a doctoral degree in composition and rhetoric (instead of the potentially more obvious choices of literature or creative writing).

The State of Things

For many out there, the argument is, why bother? From the ”So You want a PhD,” videos on YouTube, to Lynn O’Shaughnessy’s “12 Reasons Not to Get a PhD” (which include relatively widespread statistics that fewer than 60% of doctoral candidates complete their degree in 10 years, and that more than 50% of faculty with jobs are part-timers), to Rebecca Schuman’s “Thesis Hatement: Getting a literature PhD will turn you into an emotional trainwreck, not a professor,” (wherein Shuman says “When it comes to graduate school, you should just chuck the ladder before you try to climb it,” and offers a lot of the scary realities of the dissertation and job market trials and tribulations), to the Economist‘s “The Disposable Academic,” (wherein the author re-emphasizes output of PhDs does not match job demand in the market),  to Mary Anne Mason’s article “The Future of the PhD,” (wherein the author urges program faculty to take greater responsibility for their doctoral candidates’ potential futures outside of academia)… the picture being painted is far from rosy. Even if you do secure a full-time teaching job, your teaching philosophies are tested by consumerist expectations of higher education (which is understandable, students want the most “bang for their buck,”) and the arrival of MOOCs, among other things I’m sure yet-to-come. Being a college professor, far from “the least stressful job,” in America, requires individuals to prioritize teaching, service, and scholarship differently than might be desired, and in the case of women in academia, “[m]ost women, it seems, cannot have it all—tenure and a family—while most men can.” (This is saying nothing, of course, about the plight of the adjunct professor, whose situation is just now becoming a more visible component in the conversations surrounding higher education and is certainly a position in academia I can continue to avoid, if possible).

Shortcomings of the “Do/Do Not Get a PhD” Arguments

I don’t intend to shortchange the value of the statistics or opinions thrown out by the articles above. The statistics are important and the opinions are warranted. It seems to me, however, that the pieces written by graduate students are more about finding solidarity in the struggle, when I’d rather they tell me what they’ve learned so I can better navigate the system. On the faculty end, the arguments seem to be cautionary tales aimed at weeding out the those candidates who are pursuing the degree because they’re not sure what else to do, or who are thinking about the PhD only because they love the subject are of their research, rather than offering any real solutions for how to develop those passions in a practical way.

Clearly passion for your research area is the baseline requirement, but Pro-PhD sentiments often do express overly romanticized notions of advanced study as pursing what one loves (and being paid to do it), or “to achieve something significant,” so I don’t really blame the authors of those cautionary tales at all. I’d absolutely argue that the pursuit for new knowledge, the time to write, and the significant conversations with my faculty and peers are good primary reasons to pursue an MFA (the incredible value of those years for me, even in hindsight, is perhaps for another entry), but thinking about the PhD in this way seems like a real misstep, and I think it’s important to have current professors emphasize that wanting to learn for the sake of learning is not enough. Anyone considering the PhD should be thinking about his or her passions AND the practicalities of future employment in academia.

Fortunately, professional development experiences are becoming more common, and there are some voices out there giving good practical advice about publication submission, attending  professional conferences, and the like (Lennard J. Davis) that express how doctoral experience is transferrable to non-academic jobs (Angela Brintlinger), even and those that call on their colleagues to accept fewer PhDs to reduce the saturation problem (Leonard Cassuto). I think these articles take a spin on the conversation that doesn’t get emphasized enough: that programs are thinking a lot about how to help their students gain experiences beyond scholarship, and offering more and more support for navigating the job market when the time comes. Clearly I think professional development opportunities should be an important part of a potential candidates decisions during the application phase, but I’m not sure the word gets out enough that this should be the case.

Reasons Why I think the PhD is Worth It (for me)

Before I launch into my list, I have to be clear about the benefits and limitations of my position on the value of the PhD. I’m a couple months away from actually becoming a doctoral candidate, and therefore have yet to have the experiences that may enlighten or change my perspective on these issues. I do, however, have insight from the process of applying, and the experiences I’ve had “on the other side” of graduate study during the last three years. It largely these experiences that have made me feel prepared for the PhD, and thus more convinced of its worth for me, personally. Ok, here I go:

1. I was accepted to a program that is a good fit for my interests and personality. The fit of the program is incredibly important. While some would argue that you should go to the program that gives you the most money, I think this is short-sighted. By all means, it’s important that the stipend be enough for me to live on, but my top priority was finding a community of peers and faculty who will support and foster my scholarly interests, and whose own scholarly work will challenge and inspire my interests to evolve in yet unforeseen ways. The biggest draw for me to my program, aside from scholars on faculty whose work I admire, was the current students. My program has several other students with MFAs pursuing their degree in composition and rhetoric, and I knew as I was considering where to apply that if their projects were being supported then mine would be, too. My other top choices would have provided this same kind of environment. Had I not been accepted into such a program, I would have reapplied to programs next year hoping for a better fit. I can only hope that my experiences there deliver on the promise of these sentiments, but everything I’ve learned since my initial acceptance tells me that this will be the case. I hope that the value here is self-evident: I am going to the program that, I think, will help me do my best work.
2. I’ve reached a certain level of what I am capable of doing in my field of interest, and the doctorate will give me the time and community I’ll need to do more and do better. My interests in creative writing and composition studies have a lot of crossover (this will be the subject, in part, of PART 2 of this discussion), but engaging in composition studies through the particular lens of Writing Center theory and practice could only take me so far with those interests (don’t get me wrong, I think my work will always have implications for Writing Center work as well… again, watch out for Part 2). Had I been interested in pursing a position as a Director of a Writing Center next in my career, my current position would have allowed me to do that, and I might not have needed to pursue the doctorate. But since my interests have shifted toward first-year writing and writing development, I need the time, space, and community that will help me develop these interests with greater clarity. While I could do this on my own (as I did when writing the article that became my writing sample), I see a lot of value in setting aside the time to truly dedicate myself to my scholarly interests. If I manage to do so successfully, the value of the PhD will be in that I’ll have a greater range of opportunities available to me when I complete the degree.
3. The PhD will help me as a practitioner (as a teacher) as well as a scholar. Fortunately in my field the balance between theory and practice is ever-present, but my sense is that is not always the case in other disciplinary areas. My scholarly interests have much to do with the ways in which I teach and will teach, so everything I pursue in theory has a direct correlation in practice. In short, the PhD will help me form even better links between the theoretical concepts of my field and the practice of teaching. Having a variety of teaching experiences and a secure philosophy of teaching will only benefit me as I enter the job market. I’m fortunate to have had the time I have already had to test out and develop some of my concerns over the last five years, and I wouldn’t feel as prepared as I do to pursue the doctorate without those experiences. This leads me to my final point:
4. I have ample “real-world” experience that will be an advantage during my doctoral studies, in the practice of writing my dissertation, and in future job-searches. In addition to three years of graduate coursework, I have six years of experience outside of being a student (three years in medical publishing, and three years in Writing Center administration and teaching). My interests evolved and narrowed significantly during the last nine years since my undergraduate degree, and I can’t imagine approaching my doctoral studies without this sense of focus. This will help me as much as the experiences from my other terminal degree; I already had to sit a significant essay exam and completed a book-length project, and having had those experiences will help me feel confident about comps and writing my dissertation. This is not to suggest those things won’t be incredibly stressful, but I am also much more mature as a human being, and more aware of the impact my study habits (and even sleep patterns) have on my brain, and the ways in which I can maximize productivity without sacrificing relaxing and socializing. I feel as though I am in a position to make the most of my time in the program, which can only help me feel prepared for the future.

Athough this rationale is very personal, I hope those of you who are considering the PhD can see the value in what I’ve offered. Ultimately, if I had to boil it down, I think the PhD is worth it if, and only if, it’s the next necessary step for the kind of work you see yourself doing in the future, and when, and only when, you’ve gained enough experience otherwise to let your interests develop and narrow. I feel as though I’m standing on this precipice at exactly the right moment, and that gives me confidence and optimism in this process.

In Part 2 of this discussion, I’ll talk about the particular angle of my decision to pursue a degree in composition and rhetoric, rather than degrees in creative writing or literature, and why to me that is the obvious choice. I’m hoping I can reveal some things about what kinds of people actually pursue degrees in comp/rhet, and perhaps broaden the scope of interest for those who think creative writing degrees are the only option for creative writers.

Until then… thanks for reading.

Here is a space to tell the stories of process and product; Vogler presents the work as living things. The other poets/artists included in the issue are Jill Magi (with images and process notes from a new bookish project of procedural notes that will be kept in clay boxes), Kate Eichhorn (with poems documenting the process of cataloguing videos from the Feminist Video Vault) Eric Goddard-Scovel (whose process is computerized though exposes reading intimacy with Gertrude Stein), Tirzah Goldenberg (whose poems are “gathered and gleaned” from Dead Sea Scrolls), and Nico Vassilakis (whose visual poems nod to composer Conlon Nancarrow). I’m so grateful for my work to appear with such incredible company. I feel as though I’ve intruded upon these works in the most delightful way. Please do, also, intrude.

I go through periods of time where I live like a hermit. While I do go to work, I generally wake up, go to work, go home, I work/write/sleep, and get up and do it all over again. On the weekends I might venture out to get coffee or stop by the farmer’s market, but otherwise I return to my home office and sit in front of the glare of my computer screen for hours on end taking breaks only to stir whatever big pot of soup or chili or stew I have cooking on the stove or to eat from said pot of food. I do see friends on occasion, but more often than not the friends have initiated the hang time request, and I often also neglect personal email and gchat (things that when I am not being a recluse I do frequently and with great attention).

It’s no surprise that as a writer/scholar/thinker I often become more reclusive when I’m working toward a goal or deadline; as of December 1st I finalized a draft of the article derived from the ideas about nonce genres articulated earlier on this blog. Dec. 1st was the goal and I met it. There’s something about needing to get work done that inspires this kind of bunker down, dig in, work-hard-but-forget-to-play-hard mentality for me. My periods of solitude, I’m sure, would seem to be exactly like that seductive life-of-the-writer ideal people expect (and I perpetuate it through my Facebook and Twitter statuses, for sure). I do, after all, work on my computer in a small warm room surrounded by books on shelves and on the hardwood floor underneath my feet. There is always a warm steaming mug café au lait or loose leaf black currant tea or snow monkey tea—or else there is always a mug of coffee or tea half-finished, ignored and cooling during particularly productive periods where my fingers do not leave the keyboard keys.

But I don’t actually buy into that romantic image of the writer/scholar/artist alone in his or her office, deep in the throngs of creative action or else taking long walks or staring out the window waiting for lightning to strike. In fact, I specifically teach several articles to my students about where good ideas come from written by authors and scholars who specifically question and complicate the concept of the “eureka” moment so often touted as an inevitable (albeit mysterious) event for writers (see Flower and Hayes, “The Cognition of Discovery,” and Steven Johnson’s TED talk on “Where Good Ideas Come From”). This romantic ideal, along with the romanticized notions of the writer at work, are endlessly perpetuated in portrayals of artists or in descriptions by creative individuals themselves.

What is not as visible, however, is the level at which these great moments of solitude are simultaneously great moments of collaboration with other writers. While I may neglect to connect with real human beings socially the energy otherwise spent socializing is far from lonely, as it’s in these times that I am best living with and conversing with the ideas of others I am writing with and against. As many of my students argued so intelligently in the recent assignment on where good ideas come from, written works (especially essays that require evidence from outside sources) are textual enactments (or, I’d say, materialization) of collaboration and conversation. Often in writing instruction we use “conversation” as a metaphor for how students might incorporate other source material into their essays, but I’m coming to feel (with my students’ help) that collaboration might be the more appropriate. As Johnson articulates:

We have this very rich vocabulary to describe moments of inspiration. We have the kind of the flash of insight, the stroke of insight, we have epiphanies, we have “eureka!” moments, we have the lightbulb moments, right? All of these concepts, as kind of rhetorically florid as they are, share this basic assumption, which is that an idea is a single thing, it’s something that happens often in a wonderful illuminating moment.

But in fact, what I would argue and what you really need to kind of begin with is this idea that an idea is a network on the most elemental level. I mean, this is what is happening inside your brain. An idea — a new idea — is a new network of neurons firing in sync with each other inside your brain. It’s a new configuration that has never formed before. And the question is: how do you get your brain into environments where these new networks are going to be more likely to form? And it turns out that, in fact, the kind of network patterns of the outside world mimic a lot of the network patterns of the internal world of the human brain.

The essay is one such environment. Although Johnson isn’t directly talking about writing, his idea can easily be applied to the writing process. Several of my students made this leap, and intelligently so. Like the coffee shops where groups can gather to exchange ideas and build on those ideas, the essay is also a place where an author or authors get to put all these ideas and voices into one “room” and work through the ideas so that those new configurations take shape. The essay is a materialization of the networks of ideas that lead up to “new” and refreshing ideas.

The idea of the essay as room is not new, indeed written works as rooms goes back to Emily Dickinson and Gertrude Stein. My purpose, however, is not to conjure up the Burkean parlour metaphor (see Brufee) where an individual enters such a room, offers his or her position and takes part in the conversation and then departs and the conversation continues. Rather, this time of relative solitude coupled with the recent work my students have done has reminded me that it is a writer’s engagement with the ideas of others that helps new configurations (the argument, the thesis, the claims) to materialize in written work. It’s collaboration: working with and against the ideas of others, adopting some and resisting others. Negotiation and concession are necessary gestures in all collaborations, aren’t they?

It makes sense to me now, then, that my favorite part of the writing process (and I am sure this comes from my work in and for writing centers) is when I finally send the work to a reader, and my conception of audience materializes. My readers take part in the negotiations I’ve entered into with others’ texts and help me to arrive at a clearer understanding of the meanings I’ve constructed. It’s that moment that the work steps out from the bonds of purely intertextual conversation and into true life conversation and collaboration. My trusted readers for this article offered thoughtful responses and questions, suggested other scholars I might consider, and paraphrased key moments of my argument as they were working their way through it. They also offered their own ideas as true-life counters or concerns to my claims which then allowed me to acknowledge those potential counters and thereby strengthen the claims I came to build.

Networking ideas together through writing is revealing and does, sometimes, initiate a kind of “ah ha” moment that feels a little like a lightning strike… but I never feel solely responsible for those ideas, nor do I feel they’ve been gifted to me by some muse or heavenly intervention. The ideas I offer in writing (in all writing… in scholarship, in this blog, in poems) are perhaps equal parts others I cite, the great many texts I’ve read and written previously, and the feedback and views of my readers, as well as my own workings in relation to those other ideas. What my students thoughtfully articulated what I’ve been having trouble with, is that what is truly original is the ways in which the author has arranged that network of ideas on the page (the individual authors’ decisions for how to make material that network of ideas). Ideas in essays might initially take shape by chance or by following the ideas as you would in conversation, but the great value of the writing process is that the author can revise and reshape those ideas and the negotiation of those ideas to suit the needs of the individual work. It is, perhaps, only through craft (the shaping of the text) that written works achieve “originality” which are then seen as the author’s own.

I am pleased to share that “Cinncinatus of the West,” “Luxury and Lack,” and “To Entertain,” three poems and their corresponding ceramic pieces by my friend and collaborator Stephanie Rozene, are up at The Offending Adam’s special issue on Politics and Poetry. These poems are excerpted from the larger 24-piece collaborative project, Simultaneous Contrast, which we initially shown as a part of the “DIS-arming Domesticity,” gallery exhibit in Wallingford, PA in 2010. We’re so pleased to have a “printed” home for these works and offer many thanks to Andrew Wessels at The Offending Adam for his support and giving this project such a wonderful home in this special feature. Along with our project, the issue also features Craig Santos Perez and Kristin Sanders. [Read an excerpt from Wessel's introduction to the issue and praise for TOA after the jump]  Here is an excerpt from the introduction to the issue:

Bits and pieces of language from this political morass like “horses and bayonets” or “binders full of women” have become trigger points for the creation of art. Many of the Internet memes that have been created using these phrases, while oftentimes still retaining a political message, claim a primary fidelity with aesthetics rather than politics. While to some degree these are jokes used to release some of the tension and frustration of the political process, they are also simultaneously making a claim for art as a restorative and necessary pursuit.

Which leads me to this week’s issue here at TOA. In the spirit of the election season (and also in the spirit of rebelling against the election season), we present a group of writers who both confront and reject politics through an aesthetic act. On Monday, Craig Santos Perez displays the political perspective of the disenfranchised and colonized of Guam, where the island and residents of Guam become little more than a place for the Presidents’ plane to re-fuel. Kristin Sanders writes a series of poems analyzing and questioning the idea and physical reality of the feminine by responding to art by Brad Bourgoyne that is then redacted, made invisible.Moriah Purdy and Stephanie Rozene bring us a collaborative work with poems by Purdy accompanying ceramics by Rozene that explore the various conflicting ideals, paradoxes, and personas implicit in the complex roles Presidents and First Ladies play as host and hostess of the United States.

If you are not yet aware of The Offending Adam, visit its virtual pages immediately and explore thoroughly. Wessel’s team really puts together a beautiful, engaging, challenging site for poetic works. Their support of collaborations, in particular, seems unprecedented. Other collaborations featured on the site include, but are not limited to, a recent collaboration between Wendy Xu and Leora Fridman (Oct. 8th issue), and a call and response series by Rusty Morrison and John Gallaher. The site takes full advantage of the web medium so that, rather than feeling like a journal slapped onto a website, the features feel like conversants in the larger conversation between reader, writer, and editor. To quote the “About,” page: “What makes The Offending Adam unique, beyond our embrace of the online medium, is an emphasis on the relationship between contributor, journal, and reader. Our contribution process is not a static send-wait-reject/accept. It is a dynamic process between contributor and editor resulting in a publication accompanied by an editorial statement. The journal is a bridge between writer and reader, and we take that responsibility seriously.” More of this is needed in our community, methinks.