No more self-imposed creative limitations.
am highly skilled when it comes to adapting to lengthy guilt trips. So skilled, in fact, that sometimes I actually forget how to get back home to Guilt-Free Land. Since I entered grad school (roughly X years ago), I haven’t really allowed myself much of a creative outlet. My thinking, especially as procrastination on my doctoral work grew stronger, was something along the lines of, “If I have the time to illuminate this initial, then I should be devoting that time to my dissertation.” Instead, I devoted that time to effectuating a stealth downward-spiral into self-doubt and severe depression. Go figure.
This blog, coupled with my second, more design-oriented blog, has been INVALUABLE with respect to me gradually allowing myself more and more creative liberties. Over the past year, I’ve produced more crafty and artistic projects than I had completed in the previous five years combined. No exaggeration. And it’s been such a boost, not only for my mood, but for my motivation, my pride in myself for being productive and producing work I’m happy with… and that confidence and productivity seep into the academic side of my life as well. So, now the key is to find the balance between the creative and the intellectual. Which seems slightly ridiculous, because the two are hardly mutually exclusive. Yet, for some reason, in my mind, I had categorized them as such. I went into my undergraduate career planning on majoring in Fine Arts. I dropped it before my freshman year came to a close, and I moved onto French and English literature. Once I made that switch, it was almost as though I tucked away all my art supplies, donned a beret and became “French girl.” Funny, huh? Considering France’s relationship to artistic revolutions.
Anyway.
So I’m now reacquainting myself with my artistic side. I’ve been doing a lot of paper repurposing, but I’ve also been drawing a lot in my sketchbook and re-honing my lettering and calligraphy skills. Fortunately, it’s been a lot like riding a bike. (Big sigh of relief there.) My fire lit instantly, and it glows brightly. And I plan to keep stoking it as much as I can. Note: as much as I “can” does not equal as much as I “want.” Have to remember the dissertation… May graduation… I think I can.
In the meantime, I’ve finally decided to get my butt on Etsy and attempt to make some money off of my fun little creations. Shameless plug, yes. Sorry sorry. But, please remember, I’m a poor grad student with overdue medical bills. Self-preservation, baby.
I’ve already featured some pics of my new Etsy shop over at Words & Eggs, but I know that I have some followers here that don’t follow W&E. So, here are a few images of my favorite items in my shop: paper packs, mixed paper Paper Clips Journals, custom lettering, and customized handmade family trees. Please take a look, and feel free to contact me or convo me with any questions! Thanks to all of you for your continued support, and for creating a lovely little inspirational community here for me…
The thing with creativity and inspiration is that you never know when it’s going to flood the gates… or when it’s going to completely dry up. For now, I’m taking full advantage and bathing in the flood waters. I’d love the financial opportunity to continue to do so. Please let me know if you’d like to work with me and/or brainstorm any projects. There are LOTS of options for family trees: Christmas advent calendar trees, anniversary trees, newborn baby trees featuring baby stats, friendship trees… the list goes on. They make great, unique birthday and holiday gifts!
OK, I’ll stop plugging myself now.
Thanks again,
LY
The task of the translator…
or my dissertation, I’m undertaking an English translation of a nineteenth-century drame romantique by Alfred de Vigny, which has resulted in lots of sifting through translation theory and methods.
Walter Benjamin, the great German critic, philosopher, and translator, has written extensively on the motivations and moves of a translation and the (often mind-numbingly humbling) “Task of the Translator,” which serves as the title for Benjamin’s 1923 introduction to his translation of Charles Baudelaire. It becomes a bit difficult to reconcile my feelings of paralyzing inadequacy when I realize that, essentially, I am attempting to give (an English) voice to a man who existed at another time, in another land… and who did, indeed, speak English. In fact, he translated works from English into French — works of Shakespeare, no less! So… who the h*ll am I??? (I just had the urge to shout, “Who am I? I’m Jean ValJean!” but I refrained). Unfortunately, Benjamin doesn’t exactly provide an answer. But he does provide some illuminations on the purpose and power of translation, which nicely enlighten on one hand:
. . . a translation comes later than the original, and since the important works of world literature never find their chosen translators at the time of their origin, their translation marks their stage of continued life.
and further terrify me on the other:
A real translation is transparent; it does not cover the original, does not block its light, but allows the pure language, as though reinforced by its own medium, to shine upon the original all the more fully.
Ugh. Pure language. “Pure” language? I fear I do not have the holy grail to language purity. (Does anyone?) Way to kick me while I’m down, Benji.
(Benjamin image from HERE; Initial “F” from dailydropcap.com)
Letter to a slightly annoying first paper…
ear Paper 1 Draft 1:
I had such high hopes for you, I really did. But grading so many of you really deflates me. And makes me want to eat Kit Kats.
Sincerely,
That graduate student/professor person in the fetal position on the sofa.
P.S.) But you really do have great ideas. If you could only present them well, you know?
My pathetic reality.
The truly pathetic part is that my graduate stipend doesn’t even meet the average amount listed below.
From the always entertaining/depressing PhDcomics.com.
Timeline of an Unfortunate Week
Sunday
I woke up with my eyelids crusted shut. Once crusties were painfully removed, they revealed a very pink eye and swollen eyelids. I pretty much resembled a cyclops.
Monday
I was diagnosed with pink eye by the same man who once criticized my verbiage when I declared that “I suffer from clinical depression.” He felt that I was giving too much power to the illness. I felt that he had an unfortunately crooked toupée and Urkel pants, but at least I had the common decency to keep it to myself.
I began dropping prescribed liquid into my eye socket, which I soon discovered to be somewhat counterintuitive. The eye drops surely helped clear up whatever havoc was being wreaked, but the liquid proved sticky. And my eyelashes were pretty well set on their sticky quota. Thus began the semi-permanent Cyclopsdom for the next several days.
Tuesday
I haven’t acknowledged this on my blog yet because it’s just been completely horrific and perpetually saddening. But my brother-in-law’s 11-year-old niece (whom I affectionately refer to as my “niece-in-law”) was in a near-drowning accident two weeks ago. She remains in critical condition in the Pediatric ICU of a local hospital. It’s been quite touch-and-go. There have definitely been some semi-miraculous improvements but, overall, she has quite a long path to tread before she can be considered “out of the woods.” She lost a lot of oxygen to the brain and there continues to be swelling. She is unconscious and remains on a ventilator. Some of her organs have begun functioning well (her kidneys, for example, are working well and she is able to relieve herself, which is a good sign that she can at least digest in some manner). Unfortunately, she seems to take two paces forward, but then about 10 leaps backward. It’s unbearably frustrating and heartbreaking.
On Tuesday she suffered a severe seizure (ventricular tachycardia – where the heart experiences severe arrhythmia) and the doctors had to bring in a crash cart to revive her, which they did. Very rough day for everyone, especially her parents who were there (and who remain with her constantly, 24/7) and witnessed the entire episode.
Due to my pink eye quarantine, I was (and remain) unable to visit the hospital.
Wednesday
Despite all that had been going on, I somehow managed to complete a draft of my new Dissertation Prospectus. Have I mentioned that I’ve decided to shift my original topic? Yeah. It’s a good move, I promise. In any case, the Prospectus completion marks the one shining star of the week, the one sparkly positive in a week from hell.
Throughout the day, however, my throat began closing up and, as a result, angering me.
I was still a quarantined cyclops, mind you.
Thursday
I woke up with the typical eyelid crustation, but newly accompanied by aches throughout my entire body, specifically focused on my upper body. And particularly honing in on that large chunk of matter between my ears.
At approximately 4pm, I donned a snow hat, gloves, and Smart Wool socks before slithering underneath a fleece blanket. It was 80°F in my apartment.
Friday
For the first time all week, I woke up without my eyelids crusted shut. So that was an improvement. The swelling and pinkness was about 85% gone. Another improvement. My aches from the previous day seemed to have mostly hightailed it as well. And I no longer needed my snow suit.
Unfortunately, I could barely swallow. Correction: I could swallow. But every time I did swallow, it felt curiously as though shards of glass were being lodged in my throat and forced downward in Psycho-like fashion. Which I suppose would be OK if I were some type of sideshow act in the circus. But I’m not. Though, I bet a glass-swallowing cyclops could make a killing.
I felt quite certain I had strep throat. Strep and I were pretty frequent playmates throughout junior high and high school, and you just don’t forget someone like Strep. So I swung by my university’s health center to get a throat culture. Unfortunately, it was game day, and baseball fans kindly selected the spots right in front of a STUDENT HEALTH CENTER for their parking needs. So I did a few drive-bys (in vain), and then I went back home, none the wiser.
Later that night, I was sitting on my bed reading through blogs on my laptop (common occurrence), and I had a full glass of orange soda sitting on the floor next to my bed. Poor location choice in retrospect, considering that three extremely important, extremely valuable piles of books/articles also sat on the floor next to my bed.
One kick of the foot later, and all books and articles were splashed with a vibrant shade of orange. Now, I can deal with the pink eye, the Cyclopsdom, and I can even deal with swallowing shards of glass. But when the life of my most precious literary children are threatened??? Hyperventilation, shock-and-awe, and general denial ensued.
The most tragic of all: my two Pléïade editions of Alfred de Vigny’s works were among the orange soda victims. PLÉÏADE EDITIONS!!!!! Granted, I got one of them (the less important one for my studies) used. But Vol 1 cost me roughly 55 €. That’s roughly $80, FYI. For one book. One book containing all the works I will reference in my dissertation. And works that I cherish. That are now tie-dyed orange.
Among the other Orange Soda Victims (OSV): the latest edition of the MLA Handbook, 3 library books on translation theory, my most recent copies of The Bell Jar, The Sorrows of Young Werther, and Jim Morrison’s The Lords and the New Creatures, my Oxford French-English Dictionary, and a handful of rare articles and texts found online or via Inter-Library Loan that I had printed out and collected in a binder. Which was laying open.
So that was fun.
Saturday
Another day, another glass shard in the throat. My university’s health center is closed on weekends because apparently university people don’t get sick on Saturdays and Sundays. I guess I never got that immunization. So I ended up at a local ER, waiting 500 times longer than necessary for a stupid throat culture. A bajillion years later, I received the diagnosis of “Pharyngitis: presumed strep,” accompanied by a prescription for penicillin and the following happy parting gift from the doctor: “If your aches and ear pressure continue, I’d suggest you return to your health center on Monday to make sure you don’t have mono.”
Later I found out that my dear niece-in-law had another severe seizure. And it is likely that they will need to amputate a foot and portions of her fingers due to blood clotting.
Because I now have strep and am a veritable contagion, I remain unable to visit the hospital. Or anyone/anywhere, really.
Only I would get pink eye and strep in the same week. While also ruining hundreds of dollars in research material. Ending up unable to visit my dear little niece-in-law in the hospital. 
New Week
This next week can only be better, right? After all, tonight marks the Season 3 premiere of Mad Men on AMC! So, in celebration of the return of the best show on television (according to me) and the glory it promises to bring to my life this week, I give you the following links:
1. MadMenYourself.com
Were I teleported back to 1960, I might look a little something like this:
MadMen yourself by clicking on the link above!
2. When Cocktails Were Office Supplies: Mad Men’s “Alcohol Department”
Great New York Times article, “Sixties Accuracy in Every Sip,” by Robert Simonson.
3. 15 Feminist Moments From Mad Men
I have to admit that a couple of these “feminist moments” are questionably “feminist,” but it’s still a collection of great clips from past seasons involving all of the Mad (wo)Men.
4. Is Mad Men a Feminist Show?
For an article purported to focus on feminist politics within the show, Matlack pays a suspicious amount of attention to Don Draper and his beguiling ways.
5. A Return to That Drop-Dead Year 1960
New York Times article by Ruth LaFerla, which focuses on Mad Men’s close attention to 1960’s fashion detail.
Image source: http://lulubliss.typepad.com/
6. Banana Republic launches Mad Men-inspired campaign
No, seriously. This Washington Times article confirms it, along with the expression, “That’s very MadMenish,” as a complimentary assessment of one’s stylish outfit.
Top 5 reasons why the semester needed to be over (and now, thankfully, is)
ast night marked the official end of the semester: final papers graded, catatonic state (barely) avoided, semester grades submitted, congratulatory bag of Reese’s Pieces consumed, alarm clock deactivated… I could have even slept in ⎯that is, if the Insomnia Plane didn’t have the annoying habit of touching down just as I was adapting to the rhythmic rumbles. But still. The point is that I could have slept in.
Yes, the semester’s end marks a very positive move for me.
Top 5 reasons why the semester needed to be over (and now, thankfully, is):
1. Turns out that one of my students is a raging misogynist. Or at least likes to pretend he is when composing a graded, argumentative essay in response to Susan Sontag’s text, “Woman’s Beauty.” Fortunately, I did not discover this interesting/disturbing tidbit until the day after our last class meeting. I’m guessing I would have found it rather difficult to listen to his in-class commentary without seeing the phrase “abuse of feminine power” constantly flashing like a running film in front of my eyes. It’s a good thing the semester’s over.
2. A few weeks ago, I had to report two of my students to the Dean for plagiarism. One student immediately confessed to having copied/pasted an entire paragraph from an online book review. Best case of a bad-case scenario for a non-confrontational coward such as myself. The second student, however, insisted, for over an hour, that he had done nothing wrong. Let’s call him Jimmy. Jimmy is a Chinese ESL student and a first-year student at the university. Now, according to Jimmy, apparently, in China, the internet poses as a virtual free-for-all, where “borrowing” someone else’s words (or whole sentences, or whole paragraphs) amounts to the distribution of a veritable MVP Award: you reward the ingenious word-play of the creator by (sloppily) integrating word-for-word examples into your own essay! What an honor! Oh, and the kicker is that, the actual creator? you know, the one you’re paying homage to by stealing borrowing his/her stuff? Yeah, s/he remains completely anonymous and receives no credit whatsoever! Because, let’s face it: that would be embarrassing, all that complimentary behavior and free publicity… it can just get to be way too much. Yes, it’s much easier to let Jimmy pass your words off as his own. Oh, and by the way, it’s not thievery, silly! Because, see, Jimmy shares the ideas of the actual wordsmith. So he’s not stealing the ideas. Not at all. He’s sharing them. And rewarding the person who came up with the best method of relaying those ideas. Altruism at its finest, really. Jimmy’s such a do-gooder. Yes, it’s a d@mn good thing the semester’s over.
(*Just for the record, I do not for one second believe that China’s rigorously controlled internet actually functions in this manner. I do, however, believe that my student is highly misled. But I did get through to him. Two hours and several — well cited – examples later.)
3. One day, mid-semester, one of my very gracious students raised his hand and gladly offered me the following commentary regarding a poem I had assigned: “I think it’s completely pointless.” A touching moment for any educator. In his defense, though, the poem was heavily layered… and written by Arthur Rimbaud, who’s sort of (in)famously obscure… but still. The many layers proves that there are many points. Not a lack of points. Surely not point-less. So… so there! Ugh. Thankfully, he won’t have to read Rimbaud anymore. The semester’s over.
4. I share an office with about 10 other graduate students, but I’m fortunate (and sufficiently “senior”) to maintain a desk that’s sort of tucked away behind a partition, adjacent to the desk of another graduate student. Let’s call her Betsy. Betsy and I rarely pop up in the office at the same time. This is a good thing. This is a very good thing, because when Betsy does pop up in the office, she emits a quick, barely-there “hello,” which becomes upstaged by the emergence of red smoke, devil horns, a pitchfork, and a smug-@ss mouth from which a ferocious litany of questions spews in my very specific direction. What Betsy lets loose is the equivalent of a verbal ambush of the doctoral variety: the intent is to severely batter and permanently scar my ego. And preferably my intelligence as well, which then manifests itself via a split-infinitive, like the one above. F*ck. Anyway, the verbal ambush generally goes a little something like this:
BETSY, SEEMINGLY POPPING OUT OF NOWHERE (“nowhere” being the eternal flames of Hell fire): Well, hell⎯How is your work? You’re defending soon, right? (cue sick, twisted devil smile) You have finished your dissertation, no? NO?! Well, how far are you? When will you be done? You’ve been here a long time… What do your advisors say? Are you in touch with them? Are they helping you? Are you working on your dissertation this summer? Do you have funding? When do you plan on graduating? …
ME (taking advantage of Betsy pausing to stick her pitchfork further up her @ss): I don’t know, Betsy, but how nice of you to be so concerned. OH, NO! Wow, would you look at the time… I’m supposed to be somewhere…
ONE OF MY STUDENTS (with an impeccably ill-timed entrance): Hi, Professor, I’m here for my scheduled meeting with you.
ME (to myself): F*****************************CK…!
BETSY PROCEEDS TO BLOW RED SMOKE FROM HER FLARING NOSTRILS WHILE GIGGLING DIABOLICALLY AND STABBING ME IN THE CEREBELLUM WITH HER PITCHFORK BEFORE DISAPPEARING.
So, yeah. Jury’s out on whether or not I will retain my desk/office for the next academic year. It’s quite possible that my department will eject me since I am now teaching for a different department. I may become office-less. Very sad. Anyone have any leftover cardboard boxes I could use…? Oh well. At least I don’t have to think about that right now. The semester’s over.
5. In case Betsy or anyone else cares: I *am* working on my dissertation this summer. FULL-TIME, in fact. I figured I might as well take advantage of the Federal Student Loan program while I still can and, at the same time, FINALLY finish this thing that’s been almost a decade in the making. I deserve it. Right? Right. So, not to steal the thunder of Miss Cleo or Latoya Jackson or anything, but… I have a distinct feeling that the pogs of my not-so-distant future will include frequent (or at least semi-frequent) references to my life as a full-time dissertator. Which will probably involve a crushing need to vent frustrations, to seek humor in the not-so-humorousness (?) of the situation, to run ideas by anyone who cares to read, etc. etc.. Oh yeah, and I’ll probably just rip on myself a lot, too. But it’ll be good. I’ll be productive. I NEED TO BE PRODUCTIVE. I NEED TO WRITE MY DISSERTATION AND FINISH THIS D@MN DEGREE.
Thank goodness the semester’s over. Thank goodness it’s (academic) summer.
This list was prompted by the lovely Anna of abdpbt and her series of Listless Mondays. Check out her lists HERE.
(*Initial L found HERE)
‘O New Yorker: so close, yet so so far…
hile I casually used to flip through issues of The New Yorker during house- and dog-sitting gigs for my (very tenured) professor and her (very blind, very diabetic) Bichon Frisé, I’ve always thought that the $5.00 price tag (oh fine, $4.99) on one flimsy issue proved a bit, shall we say, grandiose. And not only because I’m lucky if I can scrape together the $1.40 round-trip toll to visit my sister twice a week. Or that sometimes I stiff the toll-taker by a nickel because apparently my fingers lack sufficient traction to hold on to 70¢ in change without one renegade nickel flopping freely into oblivion, never to be seen again. Until it inevitably clogs up my Dustbuster. (B@stard.)
Anyway. Back to The New Yorker. For five smacks, I’d expect, at the very least, The New Yorker displayed in letterpressed type on the cover. Which might even be hardcover. The inside flap of which would present the reader (in this case, me) with a round-trip Boston/NYC train ticket for an all-expenses-paid weekend to explore all the museum exhibitions, theatrical productions, book signings, film premières and other pages and pages of “Goings On About Town” that tease the reader (again, me) like a madeleine to a Proustian scholar (only analogically me). I’m pretty sure that Condé Nast would become terribly disheartened to learn that one of its aspiring readers (me, “aspiring” because impoverished, because a grad student, because no one else will pay me to read cool books about elusive 19th-century French poets) falls by the madeleine-lined wayside, incapable of gaining access to the true essence of a New Yorker/New Yorker. It’s tragic, really.
Especially when David Sedaris gets added to the mix.
www.newyorker.com
David Sedaris ranks right up there with Mahatma Gandhi and the inventor of Mountain Dew on my Esteemed List of Personal Heroes (ELPH). I’ve read all his books, listened to him on audio tape at the bequest of my sister, and then (accompanied by same sister) attended a live Sedaris reading (as opposed to a dead Sedaris reading) in Providence, which was pretty much the highlight of my existence. I mean, other than being born. And drinking Mountain Dew for the first time. OK, and maybe my first trip to France. And the first time I tried a Reese’s Peanut Butter Egg. But other than that… TOTAL highlight. So, I was perusing the magazine rack of the local pharmacy recently, trying to gauge whether LiLo or OctoMom was winning that week’s tabloid contest, when lo and behold, my eyes stumbled upon a Sedaris in the rough… on the cover of the April 20th New Yorker.
D@MN YOU, NEW YORKER!!!! (*cue ferocious fist shake to sky) Must you always stand symbolically between me and my Sedaris-madeleine-’o-brilliance?!? So unfair. Must my decision to be a poor grad student for the better portion of my adult life always come back to haunt me and further distance me from a member of my ELPH???
I couldn’t take it. My resolve weakened, and my debit card pounded through my wallet. I’m pretty sure it was Morse code for “S-E-D-A-R-I-S.” Next thing I knew, The New Yorker was rolled into a shopping bag. Next to a 24-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew.
I suppose Sedaris’ article, “Guy Walks Into a Bar Car: Lost Loves and Lost Years,” was worth the five bucks. OK, it was. I mean… obviously. After all, his reflection encompassed the following jokes, which I will generously offer you here (see how I save you money?). Sedaris recounts a 1991 train trip he took from Chicago to New York, during which he spent most of his time in the bar car:
JOKE #1
David Sedaris is a prolific writer, just like Gandhi. (Image source: http://blogs.sfweekly.com)
Across the narrow carriage, a black man with a bushy mustache pounded on the Formica tabletop, “So a nun goes into town,” he said, “and sees a sign reading, ‘Quickies⎯Twenty-five Dollars.’ Not sure what it means, she walks back to the convent and pulls aside the mother superior. ‘Excuse me,’ she asks, ‘but what’s a quickie?’
“And the old lady goes, ‘Twenty-five dollars. Just like in town.’”
JOKE #2
“All right,” called the black man on the other side of the carriage. “I’ve got another one. What do you have if you have nuts on a wall?” He lit a cigarette and blew out the match. “Walnuts!”
A red-nosed woman in a decorative sweatshirt started to talk, but the black fellow told her that he wasn’t done yet. “What do you have if you have nuts on your chest?” He waited a beat. “Chestnuts! What do you have when you have nuts on your chin?” He looked from face to face. “A dick in your mouth!”
“Now, that’s good,” Johnny said. “I’ll have to remember that.”
“I’ll have to remind you,” I told him, trembling a little at my forwardness. “I mean… I’m pretty good at holding on to jokes.”
See? Aren’t you glad you hung around and read my entire blog/post/pog? Maybe I should have titled it “The New Yorker, Mountain Dew, Gandhi, Proust, Sedaris, and Dick.”
Wait a second. Wait one GOD-D@MNED SECOND!!!!!
I just Googled (as any self-respecting, lifetime grad student would do) and found the Sedaris story ONLINE. FOR FREE. AT THE NEW YORKER.COM.
Oh, that’s just fabulous. F*CK. I could’ve bought three round-trip tolls to visit my sister with that five bucks!!!!
Which brings me back to: D@MN YOU, NEW YORKER!!!! (*cue even-more-ferocious fist shake to sky)
(*Initial W found HERE)
Letter to an Over-grown, Over-protected, Scared, Spoiled Baby:
nd by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt. And you are so obsessed by your coming necessity to be independent, to face the great huge man-eating world, that you are paralyzed: your whole body and spirit revolts against having to commit yourself to a particular roll, to a particular life which Might Not bring out the Best you have in you. Living takes a very different set of responses and attitudes from this academic hedony . . . and you have to be able to make a real creative life for Yourself, before you can expect anyone Else to provide one ready-made for you. You big baby.
-Sylvia Plath, in a letter to herself dated June/July 1953. (The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. NY: Anchor Books, 2000, pp. 545-546)
But I can’t help but feel that, were she gazing back at me now (me, huddled under a blanket fingering the cool, slick, escape-promising remote), she’d probably write me a very similar letter.
(*Initial A found HERE)
I have a stalker. Her name is Dr. Gina.
he other week, I pogged about a creepy, ill-capitalized postcard that I had received in the mail from one Gina Hiatt, PhD. In just a 3″ X 5″ space, Doc Gina had the audacity not only to suggest that I may be an impostor who doesn’t “deserve” my degree, but she also declared herself the Almighty Creator and Possessor of a highly mysterious Dissertation Toolkit. One can only assume that the contents of said toolkit work to hammer out a Dissertation Toolshed that houses little Dissertation Worker Elves that massage dissertating hands on command in order to allay the inevitable carpal tunnel symptoms. Oh, but the hand massages can occur only after the Dissertation Elves whistle while they work to insulate the Dissertation Toolshed’s walls from any potential research-shattering wind gusts. That Doc Gina thinks of everything. I’m tempted to deem her the Ultimate Tool, but I kind of don’t want VH1 to sue me. Also… Sarah Palin.
Potential hand masseuse. (Image: http://thedigitalfortress.blogspot.com)
So, in my “P.S.” from the Doc Gina postcard pog, I mentioned that curiosity got the better of me and I ended up registering with www.TheDissertationToolkit.com so I could snoop around, research the Elves, size up the tools’ dullness, etc.. I was too appalled to follow through and take the Impostor test, though, because, I mean, WTF? Also, even if I were to place even minimal, microscopic stock in the psychology behind such a “test” and its scoring rubric, I would maybe want to know who has taken it upon him/herself to deem me an undeserving impostor. Who forms Doc Gina’s Impostor Police Department (DGIPD)? I mean, the DGIPD must be a highly deserving squad of PhD holders, right? Must.
But, as it turns out, I didn’t even need to surrender myself to the DGIPD, for Police Chief Hiatt decided to hunt me down personally — TWICE! — within only 60 seconds of my registration with her police state! She’s tracking my every move. I have, thus far, received eight emails from her — that’s about one email every other day. One such email, suggestively titled “Now is a great time to get writing momentum!”, focused on Spring Break as the perfect time to hike up my shirt and get busy with my dissertation. Dissertator Gone Wild. Guess when I received the email? Answer: the day before my Spring Break began! Coincidence? I think not. I am being watched, tracked, and yes, stalked. I may need to get a restraining order. Can you get a restraining order against the Chief of the Impostor Police? Sh*t. Not only is she tracking my academic calendar, but she’s also becoming increasingly aggressive with her sales tactics. If you’ll recall, my trip to her website yielded Doc Gina’s capitalistic endeavor, The Academic Writing Club. There are three options for Writing Club members: one 4-week session for $70, four 4-week sessions for $230 (holy crap! you save $50!), or “The Long Haul,” which is twelve 4-week sessions for just a measly $610 (clearly the best deal). It’s free to find out if you’re an impostor or not, but if you want the Elves, you gotta pay up. And they’ll hunt you down and totally f*ck with you — consciously and subconsciously, via totally tweaked out dreams — to beat you into submission.
The most recent email I received from Doc Gina was entitled “A story about procrastination…”. Thank you, but I can do without your threatening ellipsis, Chief. But, apparently you and the Elves already have me somewhat by the girl-balls, so I still clicked on the d@mn message, which duplicated a message that an Academic Writing Club member wrote to Doc Gina so as to extol the brilliance of the Club and the altruism of the Almighty Creator:
Image: http://www.bredekorsmo.com
I used to sit at my desk most of the day, getting nothing done and feeling horrible about myself. What I’ve noticed is that since joining the Club, I feel motivated to get my check mark and sign in and see how you all are doing. It’s been tremendously helpful to share this experience with others who are in the same situation, in getting me to be motivated and work in discrete chunks of time. I write more easily now, but even better is the fact that I feel better about myself, and have more time to actually have a life!
(You’ll notice that I talk about the Writing Club quite a
bit – I can’t help it! This is the heart of how we support
graduate students in completing their dissertations, and I
just love it. You can find more information at:
http://www.academicwritingclub.com/)
Curious. I’ve never seen a letter that advertises a club and includes links to the website of the person to whom the letter was written. I mean, Anonymous Letter Writer Person employs the second-person “you” in the fourth line — “to see how you all are doing” — so s/he is addressing Doc Gina and her/his fellow Club Members. So… where’d the parenthesis come from? I have an idea. But, then again, maybe this is a new letter-writing style of which I am not aware. Maybe I just don’t receive enough letters. But really, how can I when my mailbox is overrun with postcards from the DGIPD?
Police Chief Hiatt, PhD (image found here: http://www.academicladder.com/)
Well, in case Anonymous Letter Writer Person didn’t convince you to fork over $600 you don’t have (because you’re a freakin’ grad student), Doc Gina and her minions will shove extremely convincing testimonials in your face on their website, like the following from Assistant Professor ___ at ___ University. Maybe Assistant Professor has entered the DG Witness Protection Program or something and that’s why s/he refused to identify her/himself. But check out the compelling testimonial and tell me it doesn’t hook you:
“This Academic Writing Club ROCKS!
The discipline PLUS the support is the best thing that has happened to me in a long time (career–wise).”
- Assistant Professor
WHOA. I am BLOWN. A. WAY. By the way, the bolding is all Assistant Professor’s — not mine — so s/he must really mean it. Not just anyone can get away with using a monosyllabic in such a passionate manner. Also, I love that Assistant Professor stipulates that the AWC is the best thing to happen to his career, but not to his total life. Because then that might imply that Assistant Professor doesn’t really have a life outside of his career. Let alone sex. And, while I’m a bit perplexed that a virtual police state has proven to be the highlight of Assistant Professor’s career… who am I to judge? Clearly Assistant Professor knows something I do not. Clearly Assistant Professor’s elves are working double-time on Assistant Professor’s toolshed and hand massages. And anti-wind gust toolshed insulation. And forming a community of deserving dissertators. And… AH! You can’t get me, Gina!
RESTRAINING ORDER!
By the way, it’s come to my attention that Doc Gina also maintains a blog, appropriately called The Academic Police State. Just kidding. It’s called the Acidemiblog, and you can find it here. Careful, though: you know the blog is just another control tactic.
hee hee
(*Initial T found here)
Writer’s Block.
oday, I opened the mailbox and a little postcard came fluttering out. I bent over to pick it up and caught sight of the large bold letters creepily staring back at me:
STRUGGLING TO COMPLETE YOUR DISSERTATION?
My Pavlovian response to this question was, of course, to scream out “DUH!” and then immediately turn around to see if anyone caught me talking to a postcard/myself. Coast was clear. I proceeded inside my apartment, stripped myself of wool coat, overly stuffed teacher bag, and scuffed Danskos, and then I plopped on my couch and read the fine print of the creepy postcard that somehow predicted my internal disserterror:
Need practical, concrete & specific tips and techniques, along with creative, outside-the-box solutions that will help you finish your dissertation and maintain your sanity and self-esteem in graduate school?
The heavy use of coordinating conjunctions and odd choice of a random ampersand notwithstanding (why a bajillion “and”s but only one ampersand?! WTF?), I still felt as though Big Academic Brother had been peeking through my windows and decided that now was the perfect time to mock me via the US postal service.
So I immediately closed my drapes.
And then I turned the postcard over. And that’s when I discovered that there is apparently something called a “Dissertation Toolkit” that has been available to me this whole time, without my knowledge, thanks to the altruistic and not-at-all-capitalistic motives of Gina Hiatt, PhD. On the back of the postcard, Doc Gina lays out 10 bullet points that describe the “tools” she will generously make available to struggling dissertators (after having proceeded through website-led goose chase). Two “tools” with which I take issue, and which I reproduce verbatim here:
* How Academia Messes with your Mind (and what to do about it)
* Self Assessment: “Do You Deserve a Ph.D.?” Find out if you have Ph.D. Impostor Syndrome!
Gina Hiatt, Ph.D. (Clinical psychologist and gatekeeper of the tools)
OK, first of all, tool #1. If I have reached dissertator status, clearly I am already planted rather deeply in the academic soil. Therefore, I probably have already been “messed with” rather extensively, and I’ve probably played several rounds of trial-and-error with potentially (in)effective actions and reactions (or, more probably, I’ve chosen avoidance as my non-solution of choice). That being said, if I haven’t already been academically jaded, and if I did happen upon your questionable little “toolkit” only to find that I have been even more of a naïve moron than I had previously thought, well… I’d probably want to launch my Oxford French Unabridged (very blunt object) dictionary at my adviser’s very disheveled, Balzac-obsessed head. (notice I said that I’d “want to launch” the dictionary, not that I would launch the dictionary. I am as non-violent and non-confrontational as they come. See above comment re: avoidance.) Why would I want to read all about how my chosen career path is “messing with” me before I’ve even been legitimately accepted into that career path?! If I’m being messed with, I know it. So shut up, Doctor Gina.
Oh, and while you’re at it, you might want to expand your “toolkit” to contain a guide that explains proper capitalization for document titles. Seriously.
Next, tool #2: the “Ph.D. Impostor Syndrome”?!? Do I “deserve” my Ph.D.?!? My initial, very academic, doctoral response to this “tool” is an intensely guttural F*CK YOU. (what were you saying about people messing with me?) But, beyond the expletive, I guess I’d just like to state that, seriously, if ANYONE proves masochistic enough to put themselves through years and years of self-doubt, constant scrutiny and judgment from those who will decide your fate at the eventual defense, fatally dwindling self-confidence, loss of nights and weekends that do not involve reading/grading/writing/planning, living off of pizza and caffeine, massive guilt complex if we choose to read any non-dissertation-related material (“pleasure” reading? what’s that?), draining of all self-worth and self-esteem and self-assurance and SELF, development of multiple personalities that alternate between student/teacher/child/adult/inadequate/in control/powerless/powerful, etc.etc…. TRUST ME: THAT PERSON DESERVES IT. And if ANYONE, let alone some pseudo-doctor equipped with a so-called dissertation tool belt, tries to tell a dissertator that s/he doesn’t deserve the Ph.D. for which s/he has sacrificed all of the above? Well, once again: F*CK YOU.
And, newsflash: we ALL feel like impostors. We’ve felt like impostors and like we’ve been “playing school” from day one. A much more appropriate “tool” would be one that explains why we ARE deserving and why we are NOT frauds. Where’s THAT tool, huh?
Which brings me back to: F*CK YOU.
P.S.) Curiosity got the better of me and led me to Doc Gina’s website: www.TheDissertationToolkit.com. My first attempt, I got an error. Which then led me to believe my computer got a virus. And then I got scared. But then I tried again (see above re: masochism), and it connected. There are several PDFs (free access, go figure). I will spend time checking out the “Ph.D. Impostor” PDF and let you know what I find. I looked at it briefly, and it appears as though there is some type of suspiciously crafted Impostor Test. If I fail, sh*t will hit the proverbial fan. In any case, Doc Gina has also created the Academic Ladder Writing Club to foster a community among dissertators and relay methods to motivate and enhance dissertation writing. Does her altruism know no bounds? The Writing Club and all of Doc Gina’s dissertating tools are available to all… for either $70, $230, or $610, depending on your commitment. And if you’re deserving.
P.S.S.) If, by some chance, one of you readers has joined the Academic Ladder Writing Club, I would LOVE to hear your insights and how it’s helping you. Please comment or e-mail me!
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