#Humanities tenure track jobs are drying up

[ereana]

Alhaitham X Cyno - If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to flirt by giving me books.

The first book arrives on Alhaitham’s desk two weeks after he finally steps down from the role of Acting Grand Sage. There is the possibility that it was left there earlier as he’s been on leave the past two weeks and it’s the first time he’s set foot in his old office. However, a quick glance shows no sign of dust, the pages are crisp leading him to conclude that the book has been dropped off in the past few hours.

Unfortunately, it is his first day back so he can’t spare the mystery too much thought; merely noting the title as one he’d been interested in purchasing for himself before turning his attention to other matters. Namely, untangling the bureaucratic mess his replacement had left for him. Alhaiham clicks his tongue in irritation, his handover file had been very clear and he’d even put aside a few hours to walk through some of the more difficult tasks of the job. 

He sets the apparent gift aside and gets to work, making a mental note to complete an evaluation of Bandi’s performance for Human Resources. Despite his annoyance it is a welcome relief to submerge himself in the dull, easy duties of the Grand Scribe after nearly eight months as the temporary head of Sumeru’s government. As he starts to restore order to his office Alhaitham can only think of three benefits to his tenure as Acting Grand Sage.

One, his opinion that becoming a sage would not contribute to a peaceful life has been proven true. There will be no need to wonder over what ifs in his old age.

Two, the increase to his salary.

Three, it had afforded him the rare opportunity to work with two individuals whose company he enjoyed. Lord Kusanali was fair, knowledgeable and ambitious in her plans to change Sumeru into a better country for all of its people, even the ones who did know accept her as their god. What she lacked in experience she more than made up for in her drive and wisdom.

Then there was Cyno.

Alhaitham flicks a glance over to the book sitting innocently amongst the stacks of paper. It’s a nonfiction text about the history of Watatsumi Island.

Cyno, he thinks with a degree of exasperation, is a conundrum. One which Alhaitham has yet to fully solve despite devoting many hours contemplating the subject.

The second book appears three days after the first.

This one is wrapped in plain brown paper and left on his doorstep. Alhaitham nearly steps on it in his sleepy early morning haze, but luckily he spots it in time to prevent such a travesty. There is no tag or other indication who it is for but as Kaveh is still trying to keep his current living situation secret Alhaitham assumes it is for him. Peeling off the wrapping reveals a collection of essays penned by several of Fontaine’s leading engineers centered on the subject of airship design.

The familiar pulse of intrigue makes him open it and, without sparing a glance to his surroundings, Alhaitham makes his way to work with his head buried in his new acquisition. If his headphones pick up the slight rustle of leaves as he walks down the street he gives no sign of it beyond the smallest curl to his mouth.

The third book takes longer to appear. Three weeks in fact.

Alhaitham is in a sour mood when he finds it. Despite his best attempts scholars are still tracking him down with an eagerness that matches some of the matra. They barge into his office, book up any and all appointment slots and accost him in the halls to plead their cases. No matter how firmly or how often he reiterates that the power of the Grand Sage now lies with someone else they still come to him. Complaints, please for advice, unsubtle offers of influence that he makes a record of to file a report on later; he can’t get away from them.

Even the replacement sages seek him out on the excuse that as one of Lord Kusanali’s trusted people his opinions are worth listening to. When he dry points out they could contact Lord Kusanali herself for such things they protest about bothering the archon with such minor issues. Privately Alhaitham thinks that Lord Kusanali would be happy to speak to her council of sages considering she hand-picked them herself but refrains from mentioning it. The last time he voiced a criticism to one of the new sages the woman had nearly resigned in a show of penance.

As a result it takes him a few moments to find the offering. Once again wrapped in brown paper it sits on a high shelf in a tucked away corner of the House of Daena, a little known spot that Alhaitham flees to when he needs some peace and quiet.

The book is a lengthy poem written in one of the lesser known languages of Liyue.

Alhaitham runs a finger over the title but does not open it. Instead he leaves his sanctuary, striding purposefully towards the exit.

He finds Cyno in the Razan Garden. The General is perched on one of the thick branches of the Divine Tree staring out across the first and Alhaitham uses his vision to teleport next to him. He drops the book in Cyno’s lap before sitting down beside him.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to flirt by giving me books.” He states calmly as though his heart hasn’t been racing from the moment he found the newest gift.

Cyno peers up at him through thick white lashes feigning confusion for a second — a second which causes ice to form in Alhaitham’s veins at the thought that he’d miscalculated — before it melts into a grin. 

“When did you realize it was me?” 

“I had suspicions from the first and was sure after the second. You were one of few people with access to my office who would also be aware of when I was returning from leave. There aren’t many people in the Akademiya who could move about so stealthily that I wouldn’t be able to find any trace of them. That number becomes even smaller when it comes to knowing what I would enjoy and what books I don’t already have in my personal library or in the House of Daena. You were also away on a mission for three weeks which is the gap between the last book and this one.” Alhaitham lists off, neglecting to mention that he had counted every day of those three weeks until Cyno was back in the city. “And you let me hear you outside my house so if this was meant to be a surprise then you’ve failed.”

Cyno doesn’t deny it. If anything he looks satisfied about being caught.

“An impressive display of deduction.” He says and Alhaitham is helpless against the spark of warmth in his chest at the honest praise. “But of course since the scribe claims to know better than other mere mortals will he please enlighten me as to why he thinks I did this?” 

Alhaitham is not an idiot. He sees the mirth in ruby red eyes and hears the teasing note in Cyno’s voice as he leans forward, intruding on Alhaitham’s personal space. There has never been a more welcome invader.

“Undecided. There are several options and I need more evidence before settling on a definite answer.” He narrows his eyes and closes the distance between them even more, until he can see the wet sheen on Cyno’s lips. “But I would say if flirting had been the intention I would have expected the General to be more upfront about his intentions given his propensity for decisive action.”

A challenge. As it always is with them.

And Cyno rises to it beautifully, reaching out to pull Alhaitham into a kiss that steals the breath from his lungs.

The third book drops to the ground with a thud as Alhaitham’s hands are much too busy to catch it as it slides off Cyno’s lap.

#genshin impact #haino #cytham #my writing #alhaitham #cyno #m #my genshin otp

[llflorence]

When you are old - Human AU, professors, there was only one office, Rated E

Aziraphale was an old soul. 

He always had been. From the time he could talk, it was said he was wise for his age. Intelligent, dignified, he enjoyed the finer things in life. A well-versed book of poetry penned by an esteemed writer, the firm press of piano keys to a time-worn tune. He loved old movies and ancient gardens and hand-me-down baking recipes and long-forgotten, grown-over graveyards. Some thought him odd, set in his ways, stuffy. But he loved what he loved, and it made him happy. Why would he ever change?

Aziraphale lived a simple life. He woke each morning with a prayer of gratitude for his historic two-bedroom home. He showered and shaved and dressed for the day. After tea and breakfast, he mounted his vintage Azor Amsterdam (a very good bicycle indeed), and set off for the campus. His leather book bag rested safely in the forward basket like Toto and Dorothy.

He was getting on in years where he sometimes had to walk and push the bike up the hill near the park. Fifty had come and gone, but he still felt seventeen. Even if his body had accumulated extra baggage, his mind was sharp and agile. And besides. Age was just a number.

Aziraphale was lucky. He had a good job as a tenured professor in the English Department, teaching three classes a semester. His colleagues were more than amiable, several of them having become fast and firm friends. He had a nice stash put away, portioned his salary into a decent 403b, with enough money left over for frivolous things like root beer floats with chocolate ice cream and summer-colored sprinkles.

All of that changed with the entrance of one Anthony J. Crowley. 

It was August. The summer was winding down, and the school year gearing up. Staff had returned, faculty soon to follow. His building had scheduled an informational meeting to welcome newcomers and catch up with the old. The department head had oodles of Big Ideas he wanted to share, even though Gabriel didn’t have the greatest track record of follow-through.

Still, the appetizers were always lovely, and the conversation was scintillating.

The glorious smells of freshly ground coffee and sweet, steamed milk welcomed Aziraphale as he entered the eating establishment. It was a venue he’d visited twice before. They offered an eclectic menu, vegan and vegetarian-friendly. If Gabriel did anything right, it was to put on a good show with an inviting atmosphere. And this place met the bill.

Aziraphale waved at Sociology-Anthology. The professors there shared a secretary with the English Department. This meant that whenever anything needed doing, the two departments would cross over, meeting in her office, fighting over territory and who needed what first.

Criminology was there, too, at least two out of the three of them. Though Aziraphale didn’t have an imagination open enough to figure out what curating future police officers had to do with literature and poetry. It was probably just the collapse of resources; more cuts to save the bottom line.

He stopped at the first table for a glass of sparkling something, pausing to sniff its contents before tasting. It proved to be something along the spectrum of apple to pear. Passable, if dry and tart.

He greeted Technical Writing with a handshake, accepting the slap on the back in congratulations for Aziraphale’s newest published work. It was nothing, really, just a spot of poetry he’d been working on for a few years. But sometimes it was nice to be recognized.

“Oi! Professor!”

The sound of that melodic voice, pure and simple and joyous, brought a surge of warmth in Aziraphale’s chest. He’d grown quite fond of the two adjuncts over the past few years. Taken them under his wing, so to speak. They’d both blossomed and flourished and branched out in the fullest way possible, and the radiant smiles on Eric and Muriel’s faces were a sight to behold.

“Hello, Dears,” he crooned, laying a gentle hand on each of their shoulders. Muriel had sprouted patches of freckles over their soft, flat nose, and Eric sported beautiful, long, sparkling lashes. They both looked well-rested and refreshed, eager to begin another year. And eager to spill with the latest gossip.

“Did you hear?” Eric hissed, beckoning Aziraphale to take a seat with them. “They’ve hired a new prof in Cosmology?”

Muriel, too excited to wait for his answer, flapped their hands and picked up where Eric left off. “He’s straight off sabbatical, working on his book. Something about gravity waves, and LIGO?”

Aziraphale sucked in his chin and tilted his head. ”Hm. Cal-Tech. Very impressive. I imagine they’ve brought him on to pick up the pace with retention rates in the scientific fields.”

Eric chortled and shared a look with Muriel. “Oh, he’ll retain ‘em, all right. I have a feeling they’ll be filling his classes like wildfire. The waiting lists will be miles long.”

“Yeah,” Muriel gushed. Their cheeks flushed rosy with excitement. They raised an unhurried hand, fanning themselves daintily. “He’s definitely going to create waves.”

Aziraphale huffed. “I suspect you young people crush on all the older professors.”

Eric looked scandalized. “No! Not on you, not at all!”

Muriel was backtracking faster than Aziraphale’s humility could keep up. “Of course not! You’re more of a father figure.”

Eric nodded enthusiastically. “Right. Father. Where this guy is more of a Daddy.”

The two youngsters giggled, leaning in towards each other, sharing a moment of unbridled glee. Aziraphale smiled, amused, mildly curious. If he read Generation Y’s signs correctly, the newest Physics instructor was handsome.

Aziraphale was decent enough looking. He took care of his skin and his teeth, practiced self-care, and rode his bike daily. If he happened to overindulge a bit on – well, on everything – who in their right conscience could equally judge him?

“How was your summer,” Aziraphale redirected, noting the delightful way Muriel leaned onto Eric’s shoulder. There was something platonic about it, something wholesome, endearing. Two of his favorite people in the world getting on so well warmed his heart.

There was a shared retelling of travels, to the Ozarks, the Upper Peninsula, the ocean. Both spoke with such animation it was like being part of the live-action. Aziraphale nodded and exclaimed and generally felt proud of the quests the two young people had accomplished.

As they spoke, Aziraphale’s mind drifted. Back to the unfinished drawing on his easel. To the rising bread dough on his windowsill. The new sheet music on the piano. He hadn’t traveled, but he still had a lovely summer himself, alone, unbothered. At home. Part of him wished he were back there right now.

But time marched on, and future generations depended on him. Who would guide them through dangling participles and that delicate tipping point between over- and under-describing?

Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap and smiled as his colleagues drew up memories and painted exciting retellings. And when Gabriel entered the building, commanding the attention of all gathered there, Aziraphale considered escaping through the back door on the way to the lavatory.

He didn’t, of course. He stayed. Aziraphale stayed and he listened to the corporate wafflings of a man so far in the bureaucratic shift, he risked falling into the abyss, never to be Humanities again.

Aziraphale humored his boss, greeted him warmly when his speech was done. It wasn’t Gabriel’s fault he was a pompous blowhard; he’d been designed that way.

“So,” Aziraphale posed, taking a step back when Gabriel leaned too far into his space. “We’re to move offices again? I’ve heard?”

Gabriel stared blankly at him for two seconds too long. “Oh! Yes! That’s right! They’re remodeling the offices in Tower to take care of the leaky roof. And that means we all get to be a little bit cozy for the first semester.”

Aziraphale didn’t like the sound of that. He’d only occupied his single office for three years now. After sharing for years before that, constantly shifting office mates, the thought of having another was unbearable.

“Oh? When will we find out where –?”

“All in good time,” the man drawled, rocking back on his heels. “There are still two weeks left until freshman orientation.”

Gabriel patted Aziraphale’s shoulder awkwardly, bouncing with misdirected importance along to Human Resources. He didn’t know. They were weeks from the beginning of the semester, and the department head didn’t know where their offices were.

“Oh, dear.”

Imagine Aziraphale’s surprise when, exactly thirteen days from then, he received an email from the chancellor. 

We appreciate your patience as we work to secure the safety of our faculty, staff and students. Office numbers are now posted on the Campus Portal.

Imagine Aziraphale’s surprise when, upon logging in, he discovered he was to be sharing an office in the science building with the new professor in Cosmology.

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose just below the reading glasses and sighed.

He packed up his bike the very next day, bright and early, intent on claiming the desk with drawers that locked. He parked his bike, looped the chain through the tire, and hefted his bag over one shoulder.

The Science Building lay perpendicular to the English Department, cozying up to the two-story library and campus store next door. It was an older section, much older than Aziraphale’s short tenure. It was notorious for musty smells and loud, echoing halls, and not because of the experiments in two large labs.

The halls were empty, his footsteps falling on dull, worn tiles. He followed the numbers on doors, searching for the assigned seven-seven-seven, armed with a key and a foreboding sense of doom.

Aziraphale needn’t have worried about drawers. The two desks that occupied the space didn’t have any. There were no windows, no bookshelves, no storage space at all. Just aging dark wood paneling on the walls, the two pieces of Ikea furniture pushed together like naughty children forced to hug each other in a timeout.

The heavy plank of a door closed behind him, rattling the ancient hinges and Aziraphale’s composure.

He exhaled heavily, set his bag against the wall, and pushed one of the desks into the far corner. Then he collected his nameplate and desk calendar out of his personal things. He set them on his desk and staked claim to that portion of the room.

With no chair, there was little else he could do. He’d have to wait until Maintenance chased down something suitable and —

The door flew open, banging against the wall with the force of a sledgehammer. A clatter sounded in the hallway, and a talk, dark, gangly someone shoved a chair on rollers through the entryway.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, quite taken aback. The chair skidded to a stop as it connected with the desk. And then another chair rocketed into the room, colliding with the other and toppling over.

“Goodness!”

If Aziraphale was shocked and startled by the unannounced entrance of flying furniture, it was nothing compared to his reaction to their pilot.

It wasn’t the dramatic upsweep of burgundy-red coils and the angular frame. It wasn’t the warm, California-brown skin, the completely unnecessary dark glasses worn indoors. And it wasn’t even the hipster black-on-black ensemble that hung off the man’s shoulders in an unfairly attractive way. At any other time, the combination of these characteristics would send Aziraphale’s heart into overdrive. 

But the way the man said his name was unforgivable.

“Hiya, ‘Ziraphale! How’s it going?”

He completely left off the first syllable, negating the importance of his identity, a proverbial thumbing of his nose at any sense of first impressions.

Aziraphale’s disgust caught in his throat. Never mind the positively aristocratic nose, the sensual hint of an underbite. The unmistakable air of confidence, the flirty tease of hair on his chest. It didn’t matter he swaggered inside like he owned the place, bending elegantly to set the chair right, smiling with moviestar quality and impeccable grace. He was a flash bastard, and Aziraphale decided he strongly disliked the man.

The new professor leaned against the desk in the center of the room, crossing one long, thin leg over the other at the ankles. He grinned unabashedly, waiting for Aziraphale’s response, capable-looking fingers spread wide over his knees.

“Oh, excuse my manners,” he exclaimed, abruptly pushing away from the desk and taking two steps in Aziraphale’s direction. “Anthony J. Crowley. Gen R.”

He offered a hand, peering over the sunglasses with wide, striking amber eyes. For a moment, Aziraphale was caught looking, drinking in the animal-like qualities within, like a wolf, or an eagle. But it would take a lot more than a stunning set of peepers to get Aziraphale to shake a man’s hand who couldn’t even get his blessed name right.

“Charmed,” he hummed, lips set firmly against the surface of his teeth, hands clenched at his sides. Mr. Crowley raised one eyebrow quizzically, a feat Aziraphale had attempted and failed many times. He straightened from his forward-inclined state, kicking out one foot and cocking his hip to the outside.

“So, we’re to be ‘mates, eh?” 

Aziraphale didn’t trust the way he drew out the ‘m,’ making it seem dirty, insinuating innuendo in the vilest manner possible. It was crass. It was uncultured. It was – well, it was infuriatingly alluring.

“Appears so.” 

Aziraphale watched as Mr. Crowley’s gaze swept from tip to toe and then back again, ending with a coy smile and the smacking of pink lips.

“Any allergies?”

“What?”

“All-er-gies.” He strung it out as if Aziraphale were stupid. “You know. Rashes, hives, uncontrollable sneezing. That kind of thing.”

Aziraphale huffed, drawing himself to his fullest height as if he were above such trivial chatter. “I heard what you said. I just needed clarification.”

Mr. Crowley’s chin dimpled as he nodded. “I’ve got a carload of plants I’ll be stashing here. Brightens the atmosphere. Cleans the air.”

Aziraphale scoffed, gesturing to the absolute water closet of an office. “There’s hardly room for two people, let alone decorations.”

“Oh, they’re not just for decoration,” the man argued, shifting from one foot to the other, still grinning. “They’re family.”

Before Aziraphale could open his mouth to protest, one such specimen appeared in the doorway, a broad-leafed, pod-bearing monstrosity held securely in the arms of one Muriel the Adjunct.

“Oh!” They startled, allowing the potted leaf-bearing object to be lifted from sturdy hands. “You’re here too! How wonderful!”

Aziraphale bit back the snarl that threatened to vocalize and forced a smile. “You’re helping. That’s – very kind of you.”

Muriel wiped their hands on their cutoff jeans. “Yes. Mr. Crowley needed a hand, seeing as his were full with the two chairs. Isn’t it great that he brought one for you as well?”

Aziraphale shifted his gaze from Muriel to Mr. Crowley, noticing the smugness with which the man slouched once more against the desk. “These are your chairs?” he asked, hoping he sounded appreciative of the gesture, even though he very much intended to procure a chair of his own, with much better lumbar support.

“Yep. One for you. One for me. Figured it was the least I could do, knowing what it can be like sharing an office with me.”

Aziraphale couldn’t determine whether the man was teasing or not. “That was – decent of you.”

“Wasn’t it now?” The strength of Mr. Crowley’s smile was as powerful as two suns. He really did think highly of himself, didn’t he?

Muriel cleared their throat, looked proud and absolutely honored to be carting the man’s things around like a servant. “Right. I’ll just run down and collect the rest of the plants.”

And they were off with the jauntiest of steps.

Aziraphale rounded on Mr. Crowley, intending to scold the man for taking advantage of Muriel’s kind and overzealous nature. But the professor had removed his sunglasses and was peering down that elegant nose, a self-assured grin on the most perfect of mouths.

It was honestly quite stunning.

“It was good to meet you,” the man crooned, voice dripping like the smoothest of honeyed concoctions. “I’m sure we’ll be great friends before the semester is through.”

Aziraphale highly doubted that. They didn’t seem to have anything at all in common.

“You as well,” he offered, never one to be impolite.

Anthony Crowley, with his suave hair and clothing, sun-kissed skin, and frankly unprofessional demeanor for one of such stature, gave a little salute and slunk past Aziraphale and out the door. There, he paused, backed up a step and leaned once more into the room.

“By the way,” he drawled, one hand on the doorframe, sunglasses dangling from long, manicured fingers. He nodded in the direction of Aziraphale’s cornflower blue cardigan. “Nice jumper. I have the same one. Wouldn’t it be wild if we both wore it on the same day?”

His smile widened to gremlin-like proportions, and then he disappeared, leaving Aziraphale wondering how things could possibly go more wrong.

He looked down at the soft cabled material, at the swell of his abdomen over the top of his substantial beltline, running a hand over the faint column of buttons from the shirt underneath. It was one of his favorites, wonderfully soft and incredibly comfortable. He looked over at the potted plant, thought of the youthful, energetic enthusiasm of Anthony J. Crowley. And suddenly, he felt very, very old.

“Well, ol’ boy,” he said to himself, reaching for his bag and pocketing his key. He’d forego moving the rest of his things for another day. He suddenly didn’t feel much like returning to work, anytime soon. “Looks like you’re in for one hell of a semester.”

On AO3

#ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #llflorence

[rughydrangea]

Life update time. After seven years, I’ve left California. Considering that I was originally not at all happy to be moving west, I ended up heartbroken that I had to leave that gorgeous state, with its lovely dry weather and chilly nights and great food and the most beautiful nature imaginable and my gorgeous beloved Pacific Ocean. But I moved to CA for grad school and I have now finished grad school. I submitted my dissertation last week, and in so doing fulfilled my final requirement for my PhD. It doesn’t feel real, but it’s true. 

Even more unbelievable, I got a job. In academia. That was not a given and I’m still in shock. I have a three year position at a small liberal arts school teaching Russian language and literature. As far as non-tenure track positions go, it’s ideal. I’m almost unbelievably lucky, to get to do what I love and what I just spent the last seven years training to do. Not every humanities grad student can say that.

So now I am in a place that feels as far from the Bay Area as possible, in rural Pennsylvania. The cherry on top of this surreal sundae that is my life is that I’m back in PA, my home state, after 20 years away--and just in time, as my parents moved back to Pittsburgh, my hometown, a few months ago.

So that’s my new life, I guess? The new job starts in August, and nothing feels real. But I have been watching TV and have a backlog of posts to reblog, so a deluge is coming!

#1 #2 #3 #4 #5 #real life

[jeannereames]

Hello, Dr. Reames! I love your work (and am very excited to read your novels very soon!). I am thinking of doing a phd (not history or classics, but maybe sort of related to Alexander) but I'm scared that I'm not going to have the motivation to go through with the whole thing... Do you ever lose motivation and get discouraged when researching/writing and how do you deal with it? I know that this is completely unrelated to Alexander/ancient history so feel free to ignore it☺

Hi, there! This reply is going to be in 3 parts. First, about my own motivation…

I think everybody (even Alexander!) has periods of feeling discouraged. It’s part of being human. This is especially true when something you put days, weeks, or sometimes *years* of effort into doesn’t work out, or isn’t well-received, or comes back with “revise and resubmit.” Ha.

So, real life recent example:  About a year and a half ago, I finished an article that took me (literally) 5 years to research and write, because it combined research into two different areas, only one of which is my research area. It took a huge amount of reading, and I’d even presented it at a couple of conferences, where I received good feedback. It was supposed to be published in conference proceedings, but that fell through (not my part of it, the entire publication didn’t happen because the editor quit). So I had to shop it around to journals. It went out to three readers, and all three returned it with “Revise (substantially) and resubmit,” + large *additional* bibliography (mostly not in English) in the area not my field. Two of the readers thought my chief point was valid, but needed more support. (The third just flat disagreed with me, but it’s academia; that happens.) But that was after it had been presented 3xs already, and revised after each.

OTOH, I was pretty discouraged. But OTOH, the suggestions and reading lists were helpful. These are blind reviews, so it wasn’t personal. And the entire point of peer review is to help a book or article improve. Lord knows, nobody wants to put out something that will get you laughed at. But after all the time I’d already spent on it, it was still really discouraging as I’d thought it in pretty good shape.

Almost everybody in academia is going to have an article or three turned down, or a book refused, etc. And after a while, it can be really hard to keep trying. And it’s not just in academia.

Do you know how long it took me to sell Dancing with the Lion? 15 years! I got my first serious query from an agent in 1996. (The first words of the novel were written in December of 1988–that’s how old it is.) That agent eventually decided it wasn’t for her. I’ve had a couple others since…same thing. I’ve sent out probably around 500 queries to agents or publishers. In fact, I’d put the book AWAY and started a completely different trilogy (which I’m in the middle of now), because I figured it would only sell later.

Then I happened to read comments about Madeline Miller’s A Song for Achilles written by an English professor and new acquisitions editor at Riptide. She liked it, but there were a couple of things she really didn’t like. And they were the very ways (I thought) my novel was different. So I emailed her. She asked for sample chapters, then the whole thing, and finally, Riptide offered me a contract. They’re not a major press, they’re a Romance publisher primarily, but they were willing to take a chance on my coming-of-age historical, so I grabbed the opportunity. Now the book is out (well, the first half is), and it’s getting pretty decent reviews.

So persistence can pay off.

That said, if someone else had told me that story 10 years ago, I’d have snorted and said (in my mind), “Maybe it did for you. Maybe I’m just a bad writer and I’ll never succeed.” I’d also just been through a divorce and was having trouble selling my house in the housing bust, etc., etc. So a lot of things in my life were pear-shaped at the time, and that can make it really hard to keep trudging.

The “Dark Night of the Soul” is a real thing, and we all go through it.

The only way I get through it, myself, is to remember things in the past that went well, times I succeeded. Plus, I’m just a really stubborn SOB. Ha.

But discouragement is normal, and there will be points in everybody’s life where not just one or two things are going wrong, but it seems as if EVERYthing is going wrong and you’re just a total failure. You have to believe it’ll get better.

Now, part #2, about motivation to complete a degree. It’s a bit like the AA motto: one day at a time. Or really, one semester at a time. One hurdle at a time. When I first got to Penn State, the long, long road ahead made me freak out a little, but Gene Borza (my advisor) told me to take it in bites. And to remember that other people had made it through; I could, as well.

Also, don’t let yourself get thrown by “Imposter’s Syndrome.” This is the feeling that you don’t belong somewhere: in grad school, in a PhD program, in a department (or really, ANY arena). You’re not as good as the others. Minorities, women, and first-generation college students are those most likely to suffer imposter’s syndrome, but it can hit others too, such as the children of academics (I’ll never measure up to mom/dad), etc.

Last, part #3, and this may seem an odd coda to all the above rah-rah cheerleading. But as a (now former) graduate program chair, I would be terribly remiss if I didn’t put out a warning.

Not only is the field of humanities in trouble right now, in the US and Canada, and elsewhere, too, but the entire university system is changing. This latter is especially true in the US, but I hear rumblings from other places. Partly, this owes to the rise of online education. But even more, it’s what I call the “Wal-martization” of the university, where tenure-track lines are being replaced by a bunch of part-time instructors who have to teach 6 classes just to make enough to EAT. “Adjunct” professors, even those with PhDs, are paid a pittance. It’s absolutely immoral and ridiculous.

Universities are turning into profit more than education, with a degree seen as “job training” instead of learning to think critically and exploring Big Questions, which are increasingly viewed as a waste of time. Administration levels are increasingly bloated with deans, assistant deans, supervisory boards, etc. They’re (mostly) not teaching, but their paycheques are high. Tenured faculty positions are being eliminated. Colleges and unis realized that they could turn over a lot of (especially intro and survey) courses to part-time instructors for a *fraction* of what they paid tenured and tenure-track faculty, but still reap high tuition.

When I was finishing up in the ‘90s, I was teaching as an adjunct while writing my dissertation, then for a bit after, as was expected for “teaching experience” before being hired. The phenomenon of the “Visiting Assistant Professor” (or VAP) was *starting* to gain traction, but was still usually just a year or two until these people would find a tenure-track position (VAP is not tenure-track). But now, I know people who’ve been VAPping for YEARS. And some just give up. Also, adjuncting like what I was doing has gone from “teaching experience for a real job” into “the only lane for employment” for a lot of PhD (and some MA) graduates. Especially women PhDs get caught in that trap.

These are the realities of where we are right  now.

And THE MOST USELESS DEGREE ON THE PLANET is a PhD in the humanities. I say that as one who holds it. With a few exceptions, a humanities PhD prepares you for pretty much one job: being a professor. And those jobs are winking out of existence with frightening speed. This is a change that has accelerated over the last 10 years, and especially over the last 5. We’re turning out PhDs with no available positions. Museum studies, Classics, archaeology, philosophy are in even worse shape. SOME history PhDs are more popular. This year, H-Net has a bunch of Latin American positions open, for instance.

An MA in history (or related) is still useful. There are certain jobs that like them, ranging from state jobs like the Park Service to the FBI and CIA.

But a PhD? Think loooooong and hard before investing that time and money. This is not a matter of *you* not being able to do the work to get one. It’s a matter of the university system as we’ve known it crumbling away under our very feet. I have no idea what the American university will look like in 10 years. And once you have a PhD, it educates you out of most other jobs.

So that’s the unfortunate bad news. And I’d be a very irresponsible advisor if I didn’t tell you the truth. IME, people who really want a PhD will ignore me and go after it anyway. But at least you’ll go in with your eyes open.

#encouragement #dealing with discouragement #imposter's syndrome #academia #PhD track #Adjunct Hell #Think twice (and then a third time) about getting a PhD these days #Humanities tenure track jobs are drying up #asks

[marie-dufresne]

Little Shooting Star

🧬 Main Verse Page 🧬

Little Shooting Star: It’s time for science, and healthy little interns make excellent test subjects.

Marie had found a rhythm down in the laboratory. Since she wasn’t actively involved in any research, she had taken it upon herself to ensure the professor was well taken care of, as he didn’t seem to have any interest in doing it himself.

At six, six-thirty, seven, seven-thirty, and eight, she presented him with a fresh cup of coffee. Between the hours of seven and eleven, she refilled his water every forty-five minutes. At noon, tea accompanied take-out lunch. Water until two. From two to five, she alternated water and coffee on the half-hour. At six, another take-out meal served with either cola or whiskey depending on the progression of his day. Then it was water every forty minutes until eight, where she put on a pot of coffee, placed his clean mug next to his diary, and left for the night.

On Mondays she re-stocked the cabinet with cigarettes. She couldn’t stand the stench of the things, but it was not her place to tell him to quit so instead, she made herself busy emptying out his ashtray as often as she could. This also allowed her to count how many he’d had, and be at the ready to switch out his empty pack for a fresh one without him ever having to move from his task or pat his coat and mumble, ‘the fuck are my smokes?’

It was a system that worked. She stayed out of everyone’s way while still being useful. Hojo would never admit to being impressed, but he found himself moving in sync with her, despite his days being largely unstructured to begin with. Perhaps having an intern wasn’t the worst thing that had been foisted upon him.

A few months into her tenure with him, he found himself on a stool in his office, a small side project having failed its first go. With his legs up on the highest rungs, he pursed his lips, staring at a severed arm on a tray, watching the liquid he’d dropped into the gash he’d cut…do absolutely nothing at all.

He gave a little grunt. How disappointing.

Marie appeared in the office then, right on time with a steaming coffee. He almost ignored her, but the underside her arm caught his eye.

“How much do you know about cell regeneration?”

She laughed, completely unfazed by the decaying arm before her. (It wasn’t the first time.)

“Nothing? Come on, professor,” she teased, taking his long hair in her hand, gently twisting the ponytail around her wrist before returning it to his back with a flourish, “you know that.”

Hojo spun on the stool, taking hold of that hand and feeling the silky flesh of her wrist. She was always touching him. Why?

“It’s time for a lesson,” he decided, his grip tightening as he pulled her over to the table and pressed her arm down, yanking her slightly while he brought up two leather straps to secure the appendage in place. His concoction hadn’t worked on the dead. Perhaps on the living.

Marie was easy to overpower, easy to stun, and found herself unable to resist being restrained and she stood, slightly hunched over the steel table, eyes wide. Why would he need to restrain her?

“All living things are able to regenerate to some degree,” he began, pushing the severed arm out of the way and presenting her with an amber bottle of swirling fluid, “let’s see if we can help the process along, hm?”

“…what?”

He ignored her soft concern and gestured to the bottle. “That there is liquid Cure. Or at least a prototype of it. You and I are going to work together to see if it works. Since you aren’t equipped to use materia, consider this compensation for your participation. If it is successful, of course.”

Her….participation?

“I don’t…I don’t understand. Materia is magic. How can you just put it in a bottle?!”

An annoyed brow piqued at her question and he swiped a recording device from his desk before thrusting his face barely an inch from hers.

“There is no such thing as magic, Fuzzy. Only incompetent idiots who can’t grasp the concept science will tell you otherwise.”

He didn’t give her a chance to question him further, pressing a button on the device and turning from her.

“Liquid Cure test number two. Subject is living. Human female in her late teens, generally healthy with no known defects…”

Marie pulled at her arm, trying to free it from the straps, and the leather cut into her skin, the friction of the raw edge unkind against the tender flesh.

“I—I’m not a test subject!” she protested, shoes slipping against the polished concrete, giving her no footing. How many times had she been told to wear rubber soles?

“Everyone is a test subject,” he replied, an offhanded remark as he pulled open a drawer, retrieving a fresh scalpel and lowering himself to his chair, rolling over to where he’d trapped her. “Life itself is an experiment, isn’t it?”

Eyes wide, Marie’s gaze darted from the blade to his face, back and forth, trying to decide whether he was playing a cruel prank on her or if he actually intended on cutting her open. He seemed serious, scooting his chair over before he stood, adjusting his glasses slightly as he peered over at her arm.

“A little bit of advice to you, since ladies are so fond of exsanguination. Should you ever feel the desire to make an attempt on your life, you’ll end it far quicker if you travel down the road—“ he trailed a fingertip down the length of her exposed arm, giving her a little smirk before he made a little pass across her wrist, “—than across.”

What? …was he giving her…suicide tips?

 Her throat got tight and she tried wiggling again, shaking her head so violently, she might as well have been vibrating.

“I don’t want to do this,” she told him, chin wobbling as the tears built up along her lashline, spilling over and leaving ugly tracks as they fell. “I don’t—no, no, this is not—this is not my job.”

Hojo let out a little breath of air through his nose, turning to look up at her, undeterred by her tears.

“Whether it’s your job or not doesn’t matter to me. I have an opportunity, so I’m taking it. Now hold still and don’t scream. I have a headache.”

His hand was on her arm then, ignoring the way she thrashed against the restraints and her pleas for him to stop. Every ‘sir’ or ‘no’ or ‘please’ fell on deaf ears, his eyes focused only on the limb beneath his blade. He wasn’t the reckless madman she was no doubt painting him as. He knew where to cut safely, how to cut safely and, if he hadn’t successfully liquified Cure, how to stitch her up so she wouldn’t bleed out. She was perfectly safe, even if the blood spilling up over her arm and pooling on the steel beneath her suggested otherwise.

Satisfied with the incision, he reached over for the bottle. “Stop moving,” he warned, “you’ll die faster if you keep panicking.”

Marie felt one of her fingernails crack right down the middle, so strong was her grip on the lip of the table she was confined to. She obeyed, perhaps more out of shock than anything else, eyes fixated on the sight of her own mutilation before her, desperately trying to make an excuse for it.

It was for science. For science. For science. If they were successful, if he was successful, they could help people with this discovery. It would be a good thing.

Clenching her fist, she squeezed her eyes shut when he reached for the bottle, and prepared for anything worse than the searing pain shooting up her arm. What she felt instead, was cold. It was a pleasant cold, like drinking iced water after chewing a minty stick of gum, or the soothing chill of menthol gel on a congested chest. It tingled slightly, like the way a limb comes back after being asleep and she opened her eyes, fist still clenched beneath the leather straps.

“Well look at that.”

Her arm was…fine. Bloodied, but in tact again. The professor ran his hand over the soft flesh, feeling for the wound, rubbing at it to find weakness, but even he quirked a brow and gave a satisfied hum.

Marie couldn’t find it in herself to speak. She was unable to move, to think, to comprehend what she was seeing. It seemed more to her than she’d imagined everything. It was far easier to believe that she’d hallucinated the incision than it was to believe her body had simply healed itself within seconds.

She didn’t register him unbuckling the straps and freeing her arm, or the wet cloth he tossed at her. Ten minutes passed by and not a single muscle in her body had moved. She wasn’t thinking. Her existence was floating somewhere else, somewhere out of tune with her surroundings, and it wasn’t until Hojo took hold of her chin, forcing her to look at him that she came back.

Her lips moved, but just barely, in a small whisper that tried to be ‘what?’, but died quickly on her tongue.

“I said, clean up.”

She turned back to the table, her neck moving in a mechanical, rusted manner, taking in the blood that coated her skin, drying and caking around an invisible wound but from there, was unable to do anything else.

Hojo pursed his lips, a short breath of annoyance huffing out his nose. Her stomach was strong. He appreciated that. Her mind, however, he found lacking. She was in shock, and there wasn’t much to be done about it now.

He kicked his chair over to her, pushing her down into it and shook his head, swiping up the cloth and returning to the sink. Fine. He’d do the cleaning then. It was just a little blood.

Honey, not vinegar.

He cleaned the table first. It was easy work and done quickly, sanitized, and like new. The beauty of metal. He nudged a second chair over with his foot, catching himself as he plopped onto it, then scooted over to his assistant, taking her arm in his hand as he began to tend to the steadily drying stickiness on her arm.

“You…you did well,” he told her, rubbing the burgundy from the little light hairs on her forearm, “and…you’re fine now. You’re going to be fine.”

Or at least he thought she could be. Who knew what side effects she could suffer from. Not many, he predicted.

She relaxed a bit, blinking and watching him tend to her, before she heaved a sigh. Good, she was coming around.

“I probably would have said yes.”

Hojo looked up, taking in the murky splotches of makeup beneath her eyes and on her cheeks, realizing he’d never seen her any less than put together until now.

“If you had just asked,” she clarified, “If you had asked to try it out on me…it would have been easier.”

He let out a small chuckle, wheeling back to the sink and wetting a new cloth. So lost in his enthusiasm, he hadn’t even considered asking. Easier to beg forgiveness and all. Not that he had any intention of begging her forgiveness, but if she had denied his request, having forced her into the experiment regardless would likely have bit him in the ass afterwards.

“Well I’ll remember that next time,” he mused, rolling back to her and lifting the damp cloth up to her cheek, wiping away the smudges.

“I don’t want to think about a next time right now,” she admitted, one little corner of her mouth turning up just a hair, “I’m all scienced out.”

He nodded, understanding. He supposed he had acted a bit rashly. He’d grown accustomed to the way she made things work for him. He’d grown spoiled; he wouldn’t jeopardize it just yet.

“Go ahead and go home for the day,” he suggested, pressing the bottle into her hand and curling her fingers around it, “rest up and call if anything unusual happens.”

She was staring again and he dipped his head, conceding, “…whenever you’re ready.”

He placed a cup of water down on the table, then resumed his work. She left shortly after, bidding him good afternoon and stopping to be sure there was a fresh pot of coffee on for him to retrieve in her absence.

There was silence for the better part of the rest of his day, the hours spent arranging data, calculating, and projecting. It wasn’t until somewhere after nine that the phone rang and he answered without much of a thought.

“…professor? It’s Marie.”

The assistant? He perked up a bit. He hadn’t expected a phone call from her, truth be told. Cure was a pretty reliable materia and liquifying it hadn’t exactly been rocket science. Something no one else had yet managed to accomplish, but still a simple enough process.

“Ah…good evening, Fuzzy. Is everything alright?”

There was silence on the other line for a moment, and a little bit of rustling. He heard the jingle of keys.

“I’m coming back,” she told him, “there’s….there’s something you need to see.”

“Oh?”

“Sir I’m…glowing.”

She arrived within twenty minutes, and he found amusement in the way she barely scanned her badge in before she came bursting through the doors—the exact opposite of how she’d left. There was a smile on her face now, wonder in her eyes, and when she reached him, she took him by the hand, pulling him into his office and shutting the door behind them.

“Look,” she breathed, holding out her arm to him and grinning as she flicked off the light, exposing a hundred or so little aquamarine dots twinkling beneath her skin, dancing along the length of where the incision had been.

This was a surprise. It had…separated during the moments of curing, leaving behind traces of pure mako trapped beneath. It wasn’t much, probably not enough exposure to cause her too much long term harm, but he’d monitor her regardless. It would be interesting to see—the long term effects of constant minimal exposure.

“You really are a wonderful specimen,” he marveled, taking her arm and examining it in the darkness, how vividly the mako shone through, “my little shooting star.”

He couldn’t see it, but she smiled.

She didn’t realize, but he felt the way her heart quickened at the affectionate words.

#only takes her about 25 years to realize he's off his rocker but hey that's typical for her #Hojosynthesis #professor hojo #hojo ffvii #ff7 hojo #ff7 fanfic

[darkcozyforest]

Quotes from my Stagecraft Professor Spring 2017

Okay I am going to preface these quotes by saying that this is a man probably in his late 30′s early 40′s originally from Pennsylvania and now in Missouri. He, along with his wife, has done work in the theatre for his entire professional career. He is the king of dad jokes because he is one. And he has been through hell and back with medical issues that he has gone through or his family has gone through. That said, let us begin:

“White People are like olive oil mayo. We’re not really sure why we’re here. We’re not really good for you. We don’t really taste good.”

“’She’ is a an option. Let’s start breaking those gender barriers. He or she is allowed.”

“Theatre is someone doing something and someone to watch it”

“Hamilton tickets are up to what like 3/4 the GEP of Ghana?”

“You didn’t go to see Spider-man Turn Off the Dark because it was good. You went to see it to see who would get injured that night.”

Yea I mean I guess you could say that Jeffrey Seller has a pretty good track record. Hamilton, In The Heights, Rent, Avenue  Q...”

“Boston took second in the Poker game and said we’re not taking 2nd we’ll take two ones and that is why they are Local 11.Talk about petty”

“To those people who say you must be an actor I say not anymore because I grew accustomed to things like food and shelter.”

“Break down those gender barriers!!”

*When talking about where the Rock and Roll hall of fame was* “IT’S THE NORTH COAST! There’s like a shit ton of water up there!”

“I have never seen someone want to be swallowed by their own asshole so much in their life. He said nothing good ever came out of South Korea and I said ‘oh you mean like my wife?’”

“The Backstage Handbook is the greatest non-religious book known to man.”

“Nails are easy. Put it in, bang it with a rock or a hammer or your friend.”

“I am blue color all the way. Like fuck the man. If you are in administration you are like a turd on my shoe.”

“The president of our university is like our flu shot.”

“If you know anything about opera well... Save that for Monday.”

“Next time someone tells you that women don’t belong in the shop two things. A: BULL FUCKING SHIT! Some of the best carpenters I’ve seen in my life are women. B: Women think things out better than men. Dating back to cavemen when men would just focus on the same thing til it died and women would look at the whole thing.”

“This is the circulur....lar. saw La-la la-la.... Wicked? No nobody?”

“No show tunes playing during shop. You all get distracted and then try to one up each other and then you get hurt acting like idiots.”

“Pi are not squared. Pi are round.” *talking about circle formulas*

“Authority throne? I think that’s what our president uses to tweet out every morning” Other student: “Did you just compare me to--” Professor: “Yupp! Moving on.”

Me: “Then why do we call it a podium?” P: “Because we’re all fucking ignorant. It is a lectern and if any of your professors say it is a podium you walk up to them a slap them across the face and say ‘No that is a fucking lectern”

“Oh...Single clown tear of not caring.”

“And here we have the dead body in the river for a week grey traveler. Look at it. Have you seen CSI Miami? It’s the same color as those dead bodies.”

“You need to know what the Bible, Torah and Qur’an say. And you need to be able to quote Star Wars, Harry Potter and know who fuckin Indiana Jones is.”

“You always wanna be ‘something fucking something’ never “fucking something something. Like if you hear someone say Fucking Billy Bob, you know Billy Bob is an idiot. But if you hear someone say Billy fucking Bob, you know Billy Bob is a badass”

“What the fuck you said it was dry? Yea dry not cured dumbass.”

“For any of you in off campus housing with borderline slumlords for landlords.”

“If I wanted vandyke brown, which is the sexiest brown ever-- Vandyke brown is like being hugged by your favorite coffee and favorite chocolate as it holds you and just whispers it’s gonna be okay. One day I will be able to go steady with vandyke brown but until then it is just a fleeting tryst.”

“Audra McDonald is like vandyke brown in human form. My wife and I were watching the Tony’s one night and for all of you who are in this class because you are actually doing something with theatre you know who Audra McDonald is and you know that she is a gift this world does not deserve. Anyway we were watching the Tony’s and Audra comes out to start singing and I turned to my wife and said ‘I would leave you for Audra McDonald’ and my wife turned back to me and said ‘Good ‘cause I would leave YOU for Audra McDonald.”

“What do I care? I’m tenured. I can do anything short of killing you assholes.”

“My God you read the back of a hotpocket but you can’t read the back of a can of paint? You just wasted $200″

“Very good! Blue’s Clues seems to have paid off”

“We removed Spongebob from his home in pineapple acres, split him in half and now paint with him.”

“Google screaming death sounds of natural sponges”

“The shop hires do immediate death. I am patient. I wait years and years to the perfect time and then get my revenge.”

“Let’s split the tools into tools that can kill you and tools that can’t”

“And here we manipulated spongebob to make a paint cover for a roller. Someone somewhere said hey spongebob bend over and then there ya go”

“Soooo..... ELECTRICITY!”

“You’ve all shuffled your feet across the carpet then touched a friend...or your son because the fucker did it to me first.”

“9/8 time is the holiest of time signatures. It’s a Trinity within a Trinity. Thank you Johnny Bach.”

*Talking about bights in rope* “Think about it, you wouldn’t want a bite in you. Or...well... maybe... you would..... BUT you wouldn’t want your mother knowing you had a bite in you. Well played Mr. Benson (his name)”

“I don’t call you student #12. You a have a name. So do they.”

“Oh my God spell ferrule, it’s in your book.” Me: “What if we spell it with a and u (we had been giving him shit about spelling). Professor: “I will fail you for the course”

“You can make paint brush handles out of anything. Wood, plastic, metal, bones of failed students as I sit at my work bench late at night fashioning them for the next semester.”

*student dabs after giving right answer* *Mr. B gives them look of disappointment* “Hardly dab worthy.”

“The heat is distributed unevenly. Kind of like wealth in a capitalistic society *laughs sarcastically then gives deadpan* Tell me I’m wrong” 

“On today’s episode of how to get away with murder in the theatre.”

“Here we have an athletic director to talk about money and how it should be spent. We’re either going to get funding for the next season of shows or learn how to dispose a body.”

“If you’re gonna murder someone, use a revolver so your casings don’t go flying.”

“Mental illness is a real thing. And it is completely okay to reach out. If you are struggling, let someone know. Because we care. I care. They care. You matter to someone even if you don’t think so.”

“There are two types of performers. Moths and cockroaches. Moths run to the light, cockroaches scurry away. Be the moth.”

“Negligence is you failed to check. Criminal negligence is you were aware and you ignored it. And now for all of you theatre teachers in the class you can be charged with criminal negligence if you get the wrong rigging equipment because I just made you all aware and it says so in your syllabus and will hold up in a court of law ha ha ha.”

“I know that look. That look either means that the cat is in the microwave, the bathroom is flooded, or there’s a mud covered swamp monster. And we don’t have a cat.”

“There are no unimportant parts in the theatre. You don’t have to act either. And now you all have like 8 columns of just some of the jobs in the theatre. How many require acting? One.”

I told you at the beginning of the semester to pick a statement. I can or I can’t. So go ahead and pick one again. Sometimes ‘I can’t’ is chosen for you. The senior who is in a wheelchair will never be able to dunk a basketball in the NBA. But she tries her damndest to do everything else in front of her. ‘I can’ takes effort. I have tried all semester to get you to believe that you can do anything within your power. You have to at least try something first. Can you get ‘I can’t’ out of your vocabulary? You already have so many people telling you that you can’t do something. So don’t tell yourself. Because you sure as hell won’t hear it from me. So you shouldn’t hear it from yourself either.”