Hand me that fake beard

I'm not planning to join the CIA, but I am considering new identities. I moved home from Cambridge a year ago, which was a year after I graduated. Am I still an academic? The answer is: sort of. I've kept presenting at Victorianist conferences; heck, in November, I participated in a hilarious staged reading of a melodrama of Jane Eyre, in which I played Mr. Rochester! I spend some hours at the library each week, theoretically working on a variety of articles and the aforementioned conference papers. I also spend more hours on my paying editing jobs.

I knew the state of academia before I started my PhD, and I've never felt that being a professor was the only thing I could possibly enjoy. Nevertheless, trying to figure out what alternate career would be intellectually stimulating enough to keep me engaged day after day is proving a challenge. I apply selectively to jobs that seem to fit the bill, and generally get no interest -- even when I'm extremely (over?) qualified. The silence is maddening, in no small part because you don't know where you stand.

So it has gone for much of the last year. Recently, though, I got some nibbles of interest -- some from academic quarters, and some from the techie world where I've been learning the ropes. That has re-energized me enormously. My dual life continues for now; I even made double-sided business cards: one side representing my work as an "independent scholar," and one as an editor. No fake beards required as yet!

A jaunty jaunt and an overwhelming autumn

I went back to the UK! (Temporarily.) Since I sang with the chapel choir for two-thirds of last academic year, I got in on one more tour to France, though in the end it was extremely light on singing music. We began in Ste Anne d'Auray, where we have ongoing friendly relations with the Academy of Sacred Music. Having practiced with their teenage choristers, we took a long bus ride to Paris, where we did our best to survive an epic heat wave. There we performed our one and only concert: singing Fauré's Requiem in the church where Fauré was the organist, La Madeleine. Back in Ste Anne, we sang mass at the cathedral and took a trip to the seaside. The weather was gray and drizzly, but I think we were happy to finally be cool again. And my carpool car stopped to check out one of the many sets of standing stones outside the town of Carnac.

When the choir trip was done, I had another week to spend in Cambridge. I tinkered with emails and such in the mornings, then headed to the University Library for lunch and the afternoon hours. It was nice to make focused progress on my latest research project, and of course to see old friends.

Since coming back, I have been overwhelmed with all of the tasks I have going at once. The spinning plates are beginning to wobble, honestly. It's a combination of paid work (from several sources), a conference paper to research and write, a book chapter that's way overdue for revising (I hate revising), the long-gestating book proposal, and job applications. Whew! If I make it through the first week of November, things should calm down a bit. Then I can look back and be a little proud of how many things I managed to accomplish, albeit while missing every single deadline.

Reading and rowing

I have a PhD in English literature. It follows that I rather like reading. But when you make something your job, it's no longer about pure pleasure. One major feature of being (mostly) a non-academic again has been that most of my reading is just stuff I've been wanting to read. People give me books, and many have sat on shelves for years (the books, not the people). Now... at long last... I'm reading them.

The Help was very good, even having seen the movie on one of my many international flights. I delved into the universe of Dune, with its Tolkien-esque depth of mythology that is constantly alluded to with minimal explanation. I just finished The Name of the Rose, and I have to say, I do not understand how that beast ever became a bestseller. It's largely made up of Umberto Eco showing off how much he has researched medieval monks and theological debates that I couldn't possibly care less about. Next, I'm going to try for a book that doesn't annoy me with an author who seems to be daring his reader to wade through all his scholarship (real or invented). I wonder if my tastes have been affected by living so long in older layers of the literary canon.

Meanwhile, I also took part in my first rowing regatta in the U.S. We did very badly, which gave me pause about how long I'll stay at this rowing club. I love the people, but I spent most of my time in Cambridge losing in rowing competitions, and I've had enough of that for this lifetime. But we had a fun day out, and I have found my Trinity Hall pull-string backpack (a graduation gift from the college) to be very useful.

Speaking of Cambridge, I'll be going back for a visit at the end of this month, and I'm quite excited. When I pause and immerse myself in the full-body memory of living there, I'm filled with happiness and gratitude for the time I had there. Thank goodness I didn't get into any PhD programs in America; I would still be mid-degree and not nearly so happy. Whereas now I get to go back for one last choir tour and sing with a very special group of people who brought balance to my most advanced academic endeavor.

Several times in the past few weeks, a trick of light or sound when I first wake up has made me think that it's raining outside, but of course it doesn't rain in the Bay Area in the summer. Ever. Dare I say I miss the English moodiness a bit? Sure, I can drink tea here (and I do), but it's just not quite the same as an underlying social bond. So I'm looking forward to revisiting the good and letting the bad slip out of sight in my rose-colored glasses. I just have to choose what book to bring along.

"We all are changed by still degrees"

It's always a treat for me to stumble upon an apt quotation. The other day, I was editing one of my former dissertation chapters (more on that later), and I found Tennyson reflecting that it's only right that

                changes should control
Our being, lest we rust in ease.
We all are changed by still degrees[.]

There's no doubt at all that I changed by "still degrees" during the PhD, but my life is also in the process of changing slowly. For now, I have a balance that works for my multiple desires, but it feels very just-for-now, which keeps me itchily looking for what's next. Even though I'm not at all ready to commit to only one direction. Here's the latest:

Work

It may sound petty, but I am so ready to be earning money again. My tech editing gig has been bumped up to 20 hours a week, which is a huge surge in income compared to my student days. The trick is getting myself to do those full 20 hours in a job that doesn't require me to physically turn up very often. Part of me drools over how much I would be earning if I worked full-time, but a) it's not clear whether I'd like the job if I had to do it all the time, b) I really, really value my flexible schedule, and c) I need time in my schedule to do:

Research

This one feels like it has dropped off a lot since I got back from Cambridge, but I wonder whether that's actually the case. Even in that extra year that I spent in England after graduating, with supposedly nothing to do but research, I didn't accomplish an impressive amount. In my current life, I usually spend one afternoon (four hours) a week in the Stanford library, compiling a massive list of William Morris's off-rhymes. I'll write about that project in depth in another post, but I think it will be really cool in the end -- if I don't get bogged down in trying to be comprehensive about minutiae. (Ha!)

Rowing!

Remember that thing I used to spend a lot of my time doing? I researched local rowing clubs, and there aren't a lot of them. Both of the ones I contacted were slow to respond, but eventually I had a practice outing with each. I think I'm going to join the one that trains on a reservoir up in the hills. Among other things, it really does make a difference to be out in the fresh air someplace pretty. It's invigorating for the spirit as well as the body. But it does involve getting up at 4:00am, so I'm a bit wary of committing to doing it multiple times a week.

So that's where we stand, ladies and gents. Each week slides by with me trying to do as much as I can of work and research. I also browse job postings, trying to imagine what I might like doing as a full-time working adult. I vacillate between confidence that I'm a highly skilled, intelligent person and the depressing feeling that I'd have trouble convincing others of my value to their company. But since I'm not ready to throw in the towel with regards to research, I shall carry on with the current structure for the moment.

Life in transition

Well, I'm back. The England adventure is over, and it feels very strange to say that.

Right now, I'm taking my new life one day at a time, and I'm focusing my thoughts on reorganizing my bedroom. It's something I've felt needed doing every time I came home for visits, but I never had the time. Now there is both time and necessity: I've returned with three suitcases of clothing, and boxes of books and miscellaneous items will be headed my way soon. I have to find a place to put everything, and possibly get rid of some things I haven't missed while I was away.

I'm no psychiatrist, but I'm self-aware enough to realize that part of my enthusiasm for this project is that it gives me something to do that I can control. I'm literally bringing order to chaos as I shop around for a bookcase that will fit what little wall space I have left and research the options for creating more closet shelving. It also helps that my old roommate (whom I liked very much!) has moved out, and she had a lot of stuff in the common spaces. Although I miss her cheerful presence, I can make more use of the living room now that her furniture is gone. My professional future may be murky, but by the time I'm done, my apartment will have a place for everything, and everything will be in its place. Even me.

My new IKEA bookcase,
plus a newly framed photo of PhD graduation

When not sorting, shifting, or assembling, I continue the part-time editing work I've been doing for about a year and a half. The company has been very patient and flexible with me as I traveled the world, and I want to repay that generosity with some fixed dedication now that my life is a bit more stable. It will take time to work out my new routine, including extracurriculars, so I focus on the satisfaction of getting a little bit more off the floor each day. And it is very satisfying indeed.

The final stretch

Greetings and a happy new year to all!

My six weeks in the U.S. were full of travel. I'd found cheap airfare from London to L.A., so I started with a week there, including visiting Disneyland with a friend who knows all the trivia about it. After a week in Palo Alto, I swung through Seattle to visit my grandma on the way to my brother's family in Boise. That's where I celebrated Christmas, along with my parents. And almost immediately afterward, I was off to Los Angeles again, joining the Stanford Band for a third trip to the Rose Bowl.

In mid-January, I returned to England for the last couple months of the visa I received under the Doctorate Extension Scheme. I have said several times that I was going home, and yet I kept putting it off. The nominal reason was that I'll probably never again have the chance to live here for months at a time, just doing research, singing, and rowing. Why throw that away? But as you might guess, it was also emotionally difficult to pull the plug on this entire other life I've built up. I love my life in California, so returning there is not a punishment by any means. But some part of me is worried that it will be like Cambridge never happened.

It was only this weekend that the emotional part really struck me, though. Until now, when people asked how I felt about leaving, I told them honestly that I was at peace with it because I simply had no choice. I don't have to pick one of my lives; my time here has come to its natural conclusion. But suddenly yesterday I really realized that I will have no place here anymore. Even the idea of taking my books off the shelf and watching my room drain of my personality is depressing, whereas before I was focused on the logistics of how I would do it all.

I know it will all work out, but every now and then we have to give ourselves grieving space. I've just been reminded that I'll be needing that.

"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.

Playing detective

There's a chill in the air. The crush of tourists has eased, and there is the faintest tint of red at the tips of the tree branches. Which means: it's time to apply for jobs! Just over a week ago, the MLA posted its annual jobs list, so I now have a meagre list of potential academic positions for which to apply.

The Tennyson monument outside Lincoln Cathedral

Having recently read up on how to make myself an attractive candidate, I'm more aware than ever that I need to get some publications out the door. The one that is closest to done has involved a lot of detective work, which has been surprisingly rewarding -- except when I think that I'm probably chasing a flee on a mouse in the corner of a palace and probably no one will care about the minutiae I am carefully footnoting.

Essentially, I transcribed a portion of one of Tennyson's notebooks, and I've been tracking down the books from which he pulled vocabulary, definitions, and short quotations. Step one -- which I did as part of my dissertation -- was to figure out what his abbreviations stood for. So, G.G.N. = a Renaissance play called Gammer Gurton's Needle. Step 2: from which edition of what book did Tennyson read each of these things? This has involved looking up publication histories and checking what books the poet or his father owned. I also finally -- after five years! -- made the trip to the Tennyson Research Centre, where the lovely librarian set me up to look through potential sources.

All this has been absolutely reliant on Google Books, which has proven invaluable. Sometimes the tiniest thing will put me onto the right track. Which dictionary did he use for the definition and examples of "lettan"? There are three possibilities with almost identical wording. But Tennyson spelled a particular Old English quotation using eth (ð), and two of the three dictionaries spelled the same quotation using thorn (þ). So, thanks to some squinting at the tiny text shown here, I had my answer. Whew!

There's no doubt that this is new information. Will anyone care? Well, that's for the journal to decide. My goal is to send the article on its merry way by the end of the month -- and then on to the next thing.

Unsupervised

My friend Jessica is about to hand in her PhD, and watching her go through the final throes of editing, footnoting, and formatting has thrown me into vivid flashbacks to this time last year. One thing she has said several times is that she doesn't know what she'll do with herself when she doesn't have this project hanging over her every day. It's a valid question, and I find myself taking stock of how I've spent the last year. But much more than looking back, I face forward, contemplating the blank of an unknown future.

A strange thing happens when you're an aspiring academic with a finished PhD and no job to go to. You have to: 1) come up with proposals for what you'll do next, 2) start publishing articles from what you've already done, and 3) begin the process of turning your dissertation into a book. In between doing those things, you must 4) apply to jobs for which you're not yet an appealing candidate. I've always liked organizing to-do lists into neat spreadsheets, and thus I am building a list of jobs for which even my supervisor says I shouldn't bother applying. Sigh.

So I turn my energy toward publishing, which includes doing new research to add onto what was in my dissertation. This is a thing I can control! I will burn through the work and spit out material so that I will have more citations to my name! Rawr! ... or so I tell myself. It has been refreshing and scary in equal measure to feel my way out onto new ground. For one article, I want to look at what some other Victorian poets were doing, as compared to Tennyson. I realize I know almost nothing about them, so I start poking around some introductory sources. So far, so familiar. Then I start finding relevant bits that I snatch up and hoard like the magpie that I am.

The really unnerving thing is that from here on out, I am literally unsupervised. When I produce a draft of something, I can't hand it to my supervisor for insight into what is innovative or obvious. Many of my original bits of research were suggested to me by others. Now I'm supposed to trust my own instincts, I suppose. And make use of my academic network, such as it is. Right now my nose says: "Sushi?" Okay, maybe that's my stomach. Be right back.

July holidays

When you travel alone, selfies are
a necessary evil.

June wound to a close with me pushing to complete the exam marking I'd been assigned so that I could fly away for summer holiday times. For some reason, the cheapest flight home was on Turkish Airways, so I took a day to see the major sights of Istanbul.

My hostel was right across from the Hagia Sophia, so that was my first stop. I spent all morning strolling slowly around inside, taking photos and listening to my audio tour. I stood on the now-unimpressive spot where sat the throne of the emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire, aka the Byzantine Empire. I nerded out over the carved runic graffiti of a Viking guard. I marveled at the strange juxtaposition of preserved mosaics and peeling plaster.

One arcade of the
spooky underground cistern

Next I poked around one of the underground cisterns, which was surprisingly impressive and eery. I also visited the Archaeology Museum, which had some interesting things, but I must confess that after visiting enough various European museums, it's difficult to muster too much enthusiasm for yet another set of Roman tombstones. I hate myself a little bit for saying that.

I made a pass through the spice market, but the culture of salesmanship does not allow for customers to browse unattended, so I didn't linger at any particular stall. I despaired of being able to relax -- and then... Night fell. Being Ramadan, families came out to have picnics, and the old hippodrome (horse-race track) took on a festive atmosphere with live music, food carts, and a line of stalls akin to a Christmas market, with artisans selling crafts and sweets. I could disappear into the crowd and take everything in without drawing any attention. It was lovely.

Did someone say Turkish delight?

Once back in California, I spent a week throwing together a conference paper, which I duly delivered in Honolulu. Hawaii in July was frankly a bit too hot for comfort, but the experience improved once I got away from Waikiki, staying at an Airbnb place on the north shore, right across from a beach favored by turtles. When I'd had my fill of snorkeling, I returned home for a quick round of catching up with friends before the long trip back to Cambridge. Since finishing my PhD, I haven't made much progress on academic matters, so it's time to send some more things out on the path toward publication. And try not to panic about what to do with my life!

What was that about time?

Remember how, a few posts ago, I said I had a glorious abundance of time on my hands? June has completely removed that. If you know me at all, you know that I oversubscribe myself to many activities, and this inevitably creates clashes. This month, my daily schedule was occupied by working, in effect, two half-time jobs. I spent my morning-into-early-afternoon period at the front desk of the philosophy library, and several hours of the rest of the day marking exams written by teenagers.

Man alive, slogging through essay after essay on one of the same two literary passages... How many times can I possibly read about what the symbolism of children as leaves could mean? Or how the short sentences convey a hectic pace of life? The students are rarely wrong, just varying degrees of sophisticated with what the do with the things they notice. But it is good practice, and relatively good pay.

Speaking of good practice, I was totally flabbergasted to be invited to interview for an academic job this week. For one thing, they had already sent me a rejection email. For another, the timing could not have been worse with all of the end-of-year festivities going on in Cambridge. Somewhere between a lot of late nights and library shifts, I had to edit a chapter down to the size of a writing sample, throw together a job talk, and try to anticipate the questions I would be asked. I didn't really accomplish the last one, meaning that my fuzzy, sleep-deprived brain didn't really get into gear enough to handle the Q&A session well. However, the next day's official interview went smoothly, and I will now be much better prepared for the next time. (No, I didn't get the job.)

I'm working hard not to replay all of my mistakes in my head, because really the thing to take away from this is OMG I GOT AN INTERVIEW RIGHT OUT OF GRAD SCHOOL! Even if it took someone dropping out of the original shortlist, that is a good sign.

That adventure past, I face a week of brutal amounts of marking in order to catch up, but after that I'm headed home for a summer visit and a conference! Whee!

Graduation

There's no need to be superstitious now, because Cambridge has officially conferred the PhD upon me. With my parents grinning in one corner, the Latin was said, I kneeled and received my degree. You can read a full description of the ceremony here, but here's the pertinent part:

The Praelector presenting the graduand holds the candidate by his or her right hand and says:

"Dignissima domina, Domina Procancellaria et tota Academia praesento vobis hunc virum (hanc mulierem) quem (quam) scio tam moribus quam doctrina esse idoneum (idoneam) ad gradum assequendum (name of degree); idque tibi fide mea praesto totique Academiae."

["Most worthy Vice-Chancellor and the whole University, I present to you this man (this woman) whom I know to be suitable as much by character as by learning to proceed to the degree of (name of degree); for which I pledge my faith to you and to the whole University."]

The graduand's name is called and they step forward and kneel. Clasping the graduand's hands, the Vice-Chancellor says:

I spent many, many hours in
that library behind me.

"Auctoritate mihi commissa admitto te ad gradum (name of degree), in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti."

["By the authority committed to me, I admit you to the degree of (name of degree) in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."]

Oh, and as luck would have it, the man acting as Vice-Chancellor for my ceremony was Rowan Williams -- until recently the Archbishop of Canterbury, and generally an amazing man! If anyone is qualified to give me a degree in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, it's him! I'd been told that the ceremony is almost disappointing in its brevity, but I thought it was perfect: arcane and ritualistic enough to have a sense of gravitas, yet no hours sat listening to sub-par speakers and lists of strangers' names. I'd love to do it again! But oh, wait, I have the highest degree it's possible to achieve. Woooooooooo!!!!

Flashbacks

As we grow older, so much of our daily lives from the past can become a blur, but occasionally something will come back in vivid detail. This week, I made an effort to prepare my own lunch rather than buying it or getting it from the college cafeteria. Thinking about what elements to include, I suddenly could envision with perfect clarity what I ate nearly every day of high school:

• A bagel and cheddar cheese sandwich
• Yogurt
• Fruit -- usually an orange, the peel going into the empty yogurt pot
• Large cookies

I even remember keeping the plastic spoon to be washed and reused. (Once, when I was in elementary school, I'd taken one of the real family spoons and absentmindedly thrown it away; never again!)

Recently, in search of something to watch before bed, I found a BBC documentary on the disaster that enveloped Pompeii. Earlier the same day, I'd been reading about the planned new mini-season of The X-Files, and together these facts sent me back in time -- because my brother had a disturbing obsession with TV productions about disasters and alien abductions. I am four years younger than he and a self-confessed wimp, so this was a truly unfortunate thing for my sensitive psyche.

Sometimes these small-screen dramas were downright laughable, like the one about The Big One, an earthquake that finally rips Los Angeles free of the mainland -- or does it just sink into the sea? I can't remember. Others were more upsetting. And with the miracle of VHS tape, we could repeatedly watch "Miracle Landing" (thank you for the title, internet), a recreation of an actual flight where the top of a Hawaii-based airplane rips off and they have to keep flying because there's nowhere to land. I specifically remember a passenger with a strip of metal adhered to the side of his face. Another one, unimaginatively entitled "Crash Landing," starred Charlton Heston as the pilot. (Confession: I had conflated these two in my mind until just now.) Maybe it was my brother's ambitions to be a journalist that drew him to the dangerous and alarming, but I've never understood why these things actively excited him. They don't seem to have permanently scarred me, but this week I tasted once again the combination of fear and fascination. And some home-made lunch.

The gift of time

The best possible way to spend
a Sunday afternoon

It's spring break, which means that choir has disappeared from my weekly schedule. I've sent my passport off to be processed for yet another visa, which means that I'm stranded in the UK for a while, and do you know what my daily schedule looks like? I go rowing or erging at some point during the day, and the rest of the time I sit at this laptop tinkering with documents. Some are job applications, one is an article long overdue for revising, one is a friend's PhD chapter, which I'm proofreading.

But overall, there is a ludicrous abundance of time to take things at a leisurely pace. Sunday, for example, was a perfect gem of a day. In the morning, I had a magical outing with Cantabs, the town rowing club I've joined. The boat was so well balanced that we could work hard but feel the reward of a beautiful glide. After a cheeky nap, I then had a very different kind of outing with some folks from college who are still in town during spring break. Half men and half women, we paddled gently to the end of our usual stretch of river, hoisted the boat out and around the lock, and paddled a bit further to a pub in the town of Waterbeach. It wasn't quite warm enough to justify how long we sat outside to consume our burgers, pints, and desserts, but we refused to slink inside when the sun was shining. We then rowed home, careful not to upset our now-very-full tummies. A four-hour lunch? Why not. I spent the evening watching something interesting on TV and got into bed thinking, "This was a good day to be alive." Simple pleasures, and enough time to enjoy them.

Feeling positive

Well, here it is: the final copy of my dissertation, bound by the venerable J.S. Wilson & Son bookbinders, who have been in business in Cambridge since 1830! I'm sort of afraid to touch it, actually.

To add to my cheerful mood, spring is definitely drawing on. It's hard not to feel optimistic about life when the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and little flowers are forming their annual skirt around the big tree on Trinity Hall's Latham Lawn. I am spending my afternoons writing job applications, which normally depress me terribly. But somehow I'm feeling positive anyway.

Friends, let us rejoice.

One month ago yesterday, I had my viva, and it was quick and painless.

I haven't written about it yet, partly because so many friends have asked how it went that I'm tired of my own report, and partly because the idea of the viva still makes me nervous, even though it's over and done with. They began by saying "We enjoyed reading this, we learned a lot from it, and we're going to recommend that it pass with minor corrections. So you can relax, but don't relax too much." We then spoke very pleasantly for an hour and a half. I answered some questions better than others, but they were on my side, which was hugely helpful. Minor corrections = fixing typos and odd inconsistencies, so they were easily done over a couple days.

The English Faculty's degree committee approved me on February 26th, in accordance with what I'm told were very positive examiners' reports. Today the university's Board of Graduate Studies should have done the same. I now have a month to hand in a hardbound copy that will remain in the University Library foreeeeeever! So, I spent my afternoon finding an endless stream of minor formatting problems as I attempted to create a PDF containing my entire PhD. It now exists -- hold your breath until I get it to the printer!

Step by step

After that downer, I figured I better update you with something more positive. I got my passport back with a week to spare! Without getting angry at me, the powers that be rescheduled my viva. And the extra time at home gave me a chance to actually work at the office of the company for which I edit, which made me feel like a real grown-up for the first time in quite a while.

And now I'm back in Cambridge at last. And my viva is tomorrow. TOMORROW. I am in a strange state of simultaneous terror and "que sera sera". Everyone seems to agree that you can't do too much to prepare apart from reread the dissertation and think about how you'll respond to probing on the weak points. Then try to enjoy it as an engaged conversation about your work. I've taken this onboard, and I'm trying not to freak out. I think I'll feel okay as soon as it actually gets started -- but it's the unknown that scares us most, isn't it? No actual incarnation of a monster is as frightening as the shadow and suggestion of one. So even though I know my examiners will be fair, they still go bump in the night right now.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how we construct narratives to make sense of our lives. When I was in Iceland, one of my new friends from the hostel was trying to find me on Facebook, but I have a rather common name. When I told him to cross-reference for Stanford and/or Cambridge, his reaction was that general mixture of being impressed and "well aren't you fancy?" But that version leaves out the years of working jobs I didn't like very much, the many many rejection letters I got -- twice -- before getting here, and the things that happened along the way, like a year of pulling my hair out over rowing, and missing three weddings of old friends. If things go well tomorrow, we can revel in the triumphalist narrative it seems to complete. But first I have to get there.

Trying to stay positive

It's 2015. I've said to a few people that I've rarely faced a new year knowing so little about where I'll be or what I'll be doing at the end of it. So far, I have to confess, it hasn't been a promising start.

First, I miscalculated how long it would take to get my visa extension back. So I've had to rebook my flight, taking my best guess as to when I can travel again. Second, I finally -- finally! -- got an email about when my viva (PhD defense) will be. You guessed it, it was set for a day I can no longer make. I hope the repercussions aren't awful.

And as I contemplate going back, I'm starting to wonder how selfish I've been to say I'll stay living in England for another year, just because I like it. On whose money? Mine, if I can bulk up my work hours. But the fact is, even "giving academia a try" takes a few years of waiting around, and being a 31-year-old who remembers having a job, I don't know whether I have that kind of patience. I'm sorely tempted to take a real, full-time position somewhere and have everything sorted. But possibility only comes with its Siamese twin, uncertainty. I'm trying to stay positive.

Possibilities

Merry Christmas!

This is the time of year when we look ahead to the promise of new things coming. Whether it's the arrival of baby Jesus, the clean slate of a new year, or just the slow return of daylight, it's around now that people tend to think about what's coming next. That's certainly the case for me.

After handing in my dissertation (and after a week's trip to Scotland), I was right back at work to produce a conference paper. It was very much a show-and-tell of my early digging around, but it went over well in London, Ontario -- after I took a week to check out Iceland because, well, I could. (Iceland Air allows free stopovers on your way across the Atlantic.) I saw the northern lights for the first time and soaked in geothermal hot pools next to a semi-frozen lake. Most importantly, I met some fun people who made the week a jaunty adventure rather than seven days of reading in coffee shops. (Though that would have been alright.)

The conference was for the North American Victorian Studies Association (NAVSA), and it's a big 'un. The last time I attended was at the start of my second year, and it was maybe my second conference ever. I didn't know anyone. It was awkward and uncomfortable. What a difference it makes to have academic acquaintances to bump into, and friends with whom to nosh on hors d'oeuvres at the opening reception and then slip away for dinner. I had a lot of fun. Dare I say it? I felt like I belonged. The problem with academia, of course, is that such a belonging may be cut short by the economic necessity of taking a job that is available now instead of hypothetically-maybe in a few years, if the wind blows south-southwest on a blue moon Tuesday as two albino magpies cross your path. I'm very fortunate in that I'm enjoying the editing I'm doing on the side right now, and I actually feel valued. It's good to remember that I have skills! So I try to look ahead without too much anxiety.

May the future be as surprisingly pleasant as a sunny
October day in Scotland.

When I was living in my first-ever non-student apartment during the two years following graduation, I used to stay up late scrolling through the Oxford and Cambridge websites, fantasizing about getting to England for grad school. I did get there, and I spent many hours sitting in a library in the agony of trying to write something, and then 500 more somethings -- and despite that, it has been a dream come true. Now I find myself scrolling through job postings and imagining places I could live and projects I could chase through yet more libraries. The brutal truth is that academia is an impossible career to try for these days, even if you've ticked all the right boxes. But we can always dream, right? And what is Christmas if not a time to dream of possibilities?