Ms. Mentor

Do I Hafta Publish?

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Question: I went to grad school because I love literature. I've been force-fed a diet of dullness (heavy theory), but I still enjoy reading and talking about novels. I'm writing my dissertation slowly, not enjoying it, and I don't think I ever want to write academic prose again. But I do want to teach. Will I have to continue writing and publishing these turgid things?

Answer: Ms. Mentor often hears your query from her spies at academic meetings, and she imagines a car full of wriggling, hot, and dusty tots wailing, "Do I really hafta publish?"

You know you will have to teach, and that's scary, but it's a known beast. You stand in front of fidgeting adolescents who glare at you, daring you to teach them composition. Sometimes they click their pens, as if smiting a mosquito. A few are attentive; most are there because they have to be.

But you figure that it's a training ground. Eventually you'll teach undergraduate majors, or teach novels, or at least get much better at the modes of rhetoric, or however your college expects writing to be taught. You'll feel more confident and engaging. Students may even catch your puns.

And yet, unless you publish something, you're unlikely -- ever -- to get that full-time teaching job that will give you the more engaged students and the opportunity to teach "your specialty": Jane Austen, the white whale, the heart of darkness. You won't get to talk about postcolonialism or queer theory or feminist criticism, or much that really gets your juices going.

The job "market" is an apt term. You have to join the crowd of jostling Ph.D.'s and sell yourself. Everyone is smart, has stellar grades, has a brilliant dissertation, and at least one recommender who says so. Nowadays nearly everyone has won a teaching award.

So why should Anywhere U hire you?

And that's your career motivation to publish -- to rise above the madding crowd.

Ms. Mentor admits that other things can push you forward: an Ivy League degree at research universities; a religious background at evangelical colleges where a "Statement of Faith" is part of the packet. Midwestern roots are a bonus if you apply to teach in rural Iowa or North Dakota. (Everyone's been burned by East Coast sophisticates who "cannot bear to live in a place where there is no first-class opera company" -- a snobbery that makes Ms. Mentor shudder.)

It's also possible that someone on the hiring committee will fancy your Welsh name, your history as an embalmer, or your interest in obscure Canadian trendsetters. You can't control that, although Ms. Mentor knows you'll obsess about it anyway. If there were jobs reserved for southpaws, thousands of academics would suddenly claim to be lifelong lefties.

For among those who want permanent careers in the humanities, desperation does rule. Only about 40 per cent of Ph.D.'s in English will ever get tenure-track jobs, and there's no "real world" to absorb them easily, as there is for chemists or economists. Some imaginative Ph.D.'s in philosophy once set up shop as listeners, getting paid to hear people spill their problems by the hour -- and literature Ph.D.'s would be even better for Confidantes R Us. They like melodramatic stories, and they know the penetrating questions to ask: What was she wearing? What did he say? What was the hegemonic discursive context for the articulated significations?

But Ms. Mentor digresses. Your story will be much improved -- and your job prospects immeasurably enhanced -- if you have publications. That is your unique niche, the feather in your coffee, the cream in your cap. Without it, your Mom will still think you're special -- but she isn't hiring today, more's the pity.

How to begin? You have, in fact, been working all your life toward publication. Ms. Mentor presumes that you enjoy writing; if not, you have perhaps misspent your youth. You've undergone a very long apprenticeship in grammar, punctuation, spelling, and diction. You know how to support a main point with specific examples. You may not write with much flair (that's often frowned upon in academic circles), but you know how to manipulate the jargon.

You may also have some very original things to say. Ms. Mentor hopes you do, for a dissertation is supposed to be an original contribution to knowledge, or at least to your knowledge. If it doesn't fascinate you, there's truly no reason to do it -- nor any reason to subject the reading public to your obscure maunderings. The late literary critic Leslie Fiedler used to claim that academics have a great tolerance for boredom, and Ms. Mentor wishes we were not so generous.

Ideally, you've had seminars in which you've learned what makes a publishable article. If not, you (or your graduate student organization, if you have one) need to organize a series of workshops on publishing, with star faculty members telling you how they did it and what you can do, especially with journal articles. Your department Web site and graduate-student handbook should list faculty publications and interests. Choose the most-published and the biggest names, plus a couple of newly hired hotshots. Invite them to speak at the workshops, and flatter them intensely, and ask them to name the best journals in your subfield. Have them tell you how to target your writing to a journal's needs and audience, and how to approach editors. Make sure your classmates attend the workshops enthusiastically. You're sharing the keys to the kingdom.

You can also, in the privacy of your own study, read William Germano's two essential texts, From Dissertation to Book and Getting It Published: A Guide for Scholars and Anyone Else Serious About Serious Books. They are your bibles for book writing.

"But I just want to teach!" you wail. Without a publication or two, or some unique talent, you're apt to languish in the adjunct pool (making $2,000 a course with no job security) for as long as you're committed to academe. Publishing, whether in obscure journals or popular magazines, will give you a name, a face, and a distinction. If you want to move from a community college to a liberal-arts college or a research university, it's the only path.

Ms. Mentor, finally, advises you to write every day and keep your writing muscles moving. Keep a pseudonymous blog if it frees your creativity, but not if it's a substitute for your dissertation, or for writing that'll get a separate line on your vita.

Anonymity doesn't pay off, usually, although many academics claim that they know who's written the letters that Ms. Mentor answers. Certainly, scads could have written -- and maybe did write -- this month's query. Ms. Mentor encourages everyone to claim it and to enjoy the notoriety.

Ms. Mentor knows that it is never gauche to brag about your writing and how it's improved, amused, and consoled the world.

Question: To combat writer's block, should I emulate D. H. Lawrence, who prepped for writing by throwing off his clothes and climbing mulberry trees in a frenzy, or Dame Edith Sitwell, who stretched out in an open coffin every day before she wrote -- or should I find my own best practices?

Answer: Yes.

Sage Readers: Ms. Mentor's February column on academic romance inspired numerous confessions from lovelorn readers. Physicists were praised, and dentists were decried. Obviously, much more lab work needs to be done.

As always, Ms. Mentor invites queries, comments and rants, especially for forthcoming columns on disabilities, religion, and homophobia in academe. Anonymity is guaranteed, pseudonyms are welcome, and identifying details are always pureed.

Ms. Mentor rarely answers letters personally, but many readers have found help in her Chronicle archive; in her tome, Ms. Mentor's Impeccable Advice for Women in Academia; and on The Chronicle's forums.

Ms. Mentor, who never leaves her ivory tower, channels her mail via Emily Toth in the English department of Louisiana State University at Baton Rouge. Her Chronicle address is ms.mentor@chronicle.com

Her views do not necessarily represent those of The Chronicle.