Ms. Mentor

Is Your Book Really Coming Out?

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Question: What does "forthcoming" really mean? Suppose somebody coming up for tenure had a book manuscript being considered by a publisher for over a year. And suppose the author ("Wally") put the book on his CV as "forthcoming." But suppose someone powerful in the department ("Professor Peevish") got very angry and said that was deceptive, and was prepared to take steps.

Who is right? Is there an official rule? I would tend to say "under review" or "in the final stages of review," but that's more because I worry about the evil eye than because I'd find it actually dishonest. We have several tenured colleagues whose books have been "forthcoming" for years, and one suspects that if one called their alleged publishers . . . but that is not the sort of thing a good person does, really.

When does "forthcoming" begin, at conception or at birth?

Answer: As a schoolgirl, little Ms. Mentor never indulged in spitballing and squealing. Even when a class discussion degenerated into a mosh pit of diverse learning styles, she would be the one shrieking, "Define your terms! Define your terms!"

Ms. Mentor has noted in the ensuing years that "Define your terms" has a quieting effect on expressions of rage and controversy. And so she has become a Definer, whose sacred task it is to reveal the lurking real meanings of such terms as "forthcoming."

And yet, Ms. Mentor knows that the issue isn't really whether a book is a zygote, or gestating, or incubating. "Forthcoming" can mean "at the idea stage" or "inchoate." It can be a mote in the mind, a song on the wind, a glimpse of the ineffable not yet reduced to the dry mundanity of words.

The key point is whether the people in charge want to give you tenure.

Neophytes may believe that academics write books solely to advance the frontiers of knowledge, with nary a thought for sordid material gain. Indeed, a love for the esoteric is supposed to be a ne plus ultra and raison d'etre of the mundus academicus. But if that were solely the case, scholars might spend years -- indeed, generations -- exploring the really fundamental questions: What is the meaning of life? What are the good, the bad, and the ugly? Why do they still serve clam chowder on Fridays?

Instead, a newly hired Wally at a research university has five or six years to get his first book published. If he fails, he's unlikely to get tenure (lifetime job security), which means that he's fired and he may have to go out and get a job in the Real World. (Ms. Mentor indulges in the obligatory genteel shudder, while knowing that thousands of recovering academics are quite happy never to interact with footnotes or sophomores ever again.)

Meanwhile, back in the ivory tower: If Wally's book is accepted by a publisher, he's met the research criterion for tenure in the humanities at most institutions. (Literature and history departments traditionally require a book; other fields want significant articles.) His colleagues will presumably vote to tenure him, and enjoy the fruits of his knowledge for the next 30 years or so. Everyone will be secure and happy.

But it appears that Wally's book is not quite accepted, and the liminal stages before the actual physical book appears can be dangerous for an untenured scholar. The rules vary. The definitions waver.

Some departments think it sufficient that a book be under serious consideration by a publisher. (For the intricacies of academic publishing, Ms. Mentor recommends William Germano's Getting It Published). If Wally is considered a "fine mind" by his colleagues, they may vote to tenure him even if the book is undone (brilliant but latent). But other universities may want a publisher's letter saying that Wally's tome is accepted, pending revisions. Still others may want to see a final contract, with tentative publication date (the classic definition of "forthcoming").

There are also those who insist that by tenure time, Wally's tome should be "in press." (Ms. Mentor envisions large, shaking machines churning out copies, while committees debate Wally's merits as teacher, researcher, and department citizen.)

Some years ago, in one notorious case, an Ivy League university refused to tenure an up-and-coming scholar who later became one of the stars of queer theory. But at the moment a committee was voting on his tenure, his book was only in galley proofs. It was not yet a bound volume, and so it "doesn't really exist yet," the senior professors reportedly sniffed.

Self-styled "stringent" departments have denied tenure to scholars unless their books have been reviewed in academic journals (which takes at least a year after actual publication). Some have denied tenure for bad reviews, or for no reviews ("Your work isn't important.").

And yes, all of that smacks of injustice, and while Ms. Mentor assures young scholars that stinginess and meanness are not rampant, senior faculty egos do sometimes come out and play over definitions of a term. Professor Peevish may have high and honorable standards. Perhaps he's a bit of a pedant. It's unlikely that he's read Wally's manuscript, and he may simply be fussing over a procedural point. He may think Wally is deceptive rather than confused. But late in the day, with tenure vote coming up, Wally has one thing he must do, besides propitiating all gods and hoping for an actual contract from a publisher:

Wally must placate Peevish.

Ideally Wally has discussed his book all along, from the time he arrived at his university. It may have been the subject of the job talk that got him hired; he may have given university presentations about it; he may have gotten media attention. He should have talked frequently about his book -- to get feedback, but also to self-promote. He should have chatted about it amiably with senior professors and asked their advice. That always wins fans.

Now it is incumbent upon Wally to take Professor Peevish to lunch, praise the Peevish oeuvre, and do whatever he can to make nice, to curry favor, and to win support for tenure (and the votes of the Peevish clique, if there is one). Yes, he is buttering up, and Ms. Mentor knows there are hotheads in her audience who will condemn Wally as a toady and a lackey of the system. But being chronically oppositional and ornery nowadays in academe is a sure ticket out the door.

Wally wants to stay inside, where it's warm -- and where the real intellectual riches of academe become available. Once tenure is no longer just "forthcoming," and your first book is in your hand, all those people who thought you were a nerd in high school will be eating their hearts out and wishing they were a swan like you.

Er, that's what they should be doing, Ms. Mentor says.

All right, that's still forthcoming.

Question: During an interview, how can one redirect back a stupid question, to see if the interviewers have any concept of what they are asking?

Answer: Slyly.

Sage Readers: Ms. Mentor's column on sexual fraternization evoked anger from past victims, suggestions that Title IX officers be informed, and recitals of troubling stories. One correspondent argued that people of different genders are not necessarily "soulless vermin and sensitive vessels," and recommended further study.

Ms. Mentor, as always, welcomes rants, queries, and comments, including answers to a reader who wonders about the difference between "mad geniuses and the simply insane." Ms. Mentor rarely answers letters personally, but all communications are confidential, details are blurred, and no one will know if you are the mad genius -- though they will have their suspicions.

Ms. Mentor directs eager readers to The Chronicle's forums as well as to her archive and her tome, Ms. Mentor's Impeccable Advice for Women in Academia.

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.