"A dissertation is not a book"

If you search the internet for advice on turning your dissertation into a book, that is the sentence you will see most often. Advice columns repeat it a lot, certain that you don't believe them. I believe them, I really do! But when it comes to the specifics, I'm at a loss for how to proceed. Things they say:

• Cut down your overabundance of citations: Okay, I can do that.

• Remove your methodology and lit review sections: I barely had these. Basically, I should cut most of my (short) introduction.

• Write more engagingly for a non-specialist audience: I've done that all along. I know this, because my supervisor called me out on it a lot.

• Rearrange everything to a) say the most interesting stuff first, and b) make your argument emerge.

The last one is what I'm struggling with. Unlike American PhDs, I didn't have hermetically-sealed chapters that each handled separate authors. I had themes that bled into each other. I spent the last few months before submission moving things around between different chapters. I simply don't know where I would move things again, having spent a lot of time finding the right place for them.

So am I deluded? Did I actually manage to write a dissertation that doesn't require total reorganization? These are the decisions I weigh as I prepare a book proposal. I moved onto that project after I finally sent off an article I'd been working on for ages (including two trips to Lincoln). What a relief that was! I dearly hope it gets accepted.

In the meantime, end-of-term festivities kicked off with the choir's annual advent carol service and wine-soaked dinner yesterday. I have the rest of the week to pack up for winter break and consult any books that might inform said book proposal. The weather has turned windy, gray and miserable, guaranteeing that the annual Fairbairns race will be the usual uncomfortable experience. On we muddle...

Counting magpies

For most of the autumn, I've felt extremely unsettled -- more so than ever before. With the wisdom(?) of experience, I was relying on the fact that this, too, shall pass. So I muddled through each day, trying to balance what everyone wants (which is a firm plan of wtf I'm going to do next) but really wanting to avoid dealing with any of it. Surprisingly, I was greatly refreshed by attending my ten-year Stanford reunion. Many, if not most, of my fellow Cardinal Class of '05-ers are in unsettled professional situations: changing career paths or generally having taken a while to end up someplace unexpected. That was comforting to hear.

Now back in England, I am trying to face the coming months of uncertainty with fortitude, but I notice that I've taken to a particular brand of casual omen-reading. There's an old nursery rhyme about the fortunes indicated by how many magpies you see. It's also the namesake of one of the first bands I liked, Counting Crows:

One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for girls
Four for boys
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret never to be told

(You can read more about various versions of this superstition here.) Magpies are very common in Cambridge, including the backyard of the wonderful house where I live. So when I glance out the kitchen window and see magpies, I've taken to counting them. Of course, I don't actually think these birds are predicting my future. But it's possible to not believe in superstitions yet do them anyway -- in which case, can you really be said not to buy into them? Do you touch or knock wood if you've predicted something good to happen?

My favorite Victorian, John Mitchell Kemble, liked to argue that the old pagan gods still lurked within daily life in superstitions, place names, and expressions. And as much as we claim to be more reasonable than our medieval ancestors, there's something deeply attractive in trying to detect a message behind what you see, whether it's the patterns of the leaves I'm currently watching blow off the willow outside the library, or the number of stark white and blue-black fluttering wings. So I count. And then I carry on.