The toxic thesis

Hey! You know how I said I was enjoying my PhD?

Well, now I have to finish really flipping soon, my thesis looks like I’ve taken a hedge strimmer to it, and literally all I feel competent to do is drink whisky and watch Horrible Histories until my eyes fall out the back of my head.

Making the academic world a more cheerful place, since never

In the middle of last term I went to north London, as I used to do twice a week for work. It was a sunny day. I bought an espresso from the man at the kiosk outside Highgate station, who is a contender for the nicest man in London, and carried the little pot up the steep path to the Muswell Hill Road and into the woods on the other side. I sat on a bench and drank it, cooling, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. The traffic on the road behind me hummed in my ears and in front of me the trees were, as usual, startlingly beautiful.

Sometimes I meet friendly dogs there and everything is nicer

This is of course a picture of Muswell Hill in winter, but LOOK AT IT. LOOK AT THE PRETTY TREES.

I’m dwelling on it because I did dwell on it. I have been spending too long staring into computer screens lately, and although one can find much beauty in computers I would not put my thesis among the beautiful pixels of the world. I would currently put my thesis, quite merrily, into a shredder, or entomb it in concrete or set it afloat in a flaming rowing boat like a dead Viking. That’s an exaggeration, obviously. What I’d really like to do is to finish it so it isn’t my problem any more. I sat on a bench in Highgate Woods in the approximate position of someone waiting in a doctor’s waiting room, or a police station, and wondered to myself in a whining childish fashion why staring at nature, stinkingly homesick for a bit of the world with fewer buildings in it, is something I do for the occasional five minutes, whereas the yawning maw of the thesis sits there, on my screen and in my brain, stubborn and unshiftable. I felt stupid, and privileged and selfish, for wondering it, and I feel stupid and privileged and selfish for writing it down.

So, yes. I’m feeling mildly rubbish about work, and I’m being all emo about it. I have painted my room black, and stencilled quotations from The Anatomy of Melancholy in a fetching border. I imagine that this is just how it goes if you’re not one of those smart folk who do their PhDs sensibly and quickly. You get to fourth year, you have serious chats with your supervisors, you get into comfort eating in a big way, and you embrace being fucking miserable every now and then until the damn thing’s finished. It’s not a big deal, it has a time span, and worse things happen at sea.

It’s a first world problem, right enough, and I’ve said ‘I know, I’m very fortunate to have this opportunity’ so many times I’m considering getting a forehead tattoo. On some levels it’s helpful to remember that, because perspective is important. I’m not saving the world. I’m probably making it slightly worse, through my consumption of paper and electricity.

On another level, though, this consciousness, and the self-censorship I find myself doing, in my thoughts and in what I say to people – thinking, I can’t think that, I can’t say that, I can’t be ungrateful – becomes another stick to beat myself with. Lord knows, I believe in self-censorship. I find myself wanting to explain, though: I’m grateful, and I’m fortunate, and I had one thing I had to do, and when I stare at my chapter at three in the morning I worry that I’m screwing that one thing up. I took money from the government! I took funding someone else could have had! I’m everything that’s wrong with academia!

tumblr_mixpuyiz9t1qg01jso1_500

This is literally the opposite of what the government actually does to higher education.

I shouldn’t let my work make me feel like this because, really, what is it? A hundred thousand words. The flipside of that’s the thing that kicks you, though. A hundred thousand words is all I have to do, so why can’t I do it, and why is it making me feel like this? The fact that no-one will even actually read it is just the icing on the paradoxical turd cake, frankly. And yes, I just wrote ‘paradoxical turd cake’, and I am actually fine with that.

What we have here, I think, is a toxic thesis.

Academia’s a good petri-dish for toxicity because the model, once you’ve finished master’s study, is in large part self-rewarding. By which I mean, you write some stuff, and if you’re pleased enough with yourself you maybe have a coffee break. Supervisors focus on the things you need to change and improve, because that’s their job, and they ain’t there to hand out gold stars for effort. Also you’re an adult and a scholar, and at least five years too old to reasonably expect to get rewarded for good work with a smiley face sticker and ten points for Gryffindor.

The thing is, though – surely that is only sustainable if you’re a certain type of person? By which I mean, confident in your own abilities, able to judge your own work, secure both that your project is worth it and that you’re the person for the job. Basically, the James Bond of academia. If I’ve just described you, hi there, I’m hideously envious. I’m down the other end of the bar getting ratted on martinis made any way the bartender likes.

I’m exaggerating. No-one like that exists. But it is so easy to lose confidence in what you do and what you know. At the very start of my PhD I remember someone saying ‘By the end of your thesis, you’ll be the expert on your topic!’. It’s an old saw, I think, and I’ve heard it many times since. I would like to find the person who first said it and explain in precise anatomical detail exactly where they can shove that statement. I feel like I know nothing. Like I’ve taken out significant parts of my brain and just replaced them with polystyrene.

The problem is that academic research involves an awful lot of trying to get to grips with loads of people’s lives’ work and primary texts and data and whathaveyou in short spaces of time, and what this tends to make you realise is the depth and breadth of what you don’t know. Most of the time I feel like I’m floundering, and like I don’t know anything about this stuff I have the audacity to be writing a thesis on. The very thought of the viva is enough to make me email the French Foreign Legion to ask if they accept shortsighted people.

There's a postgrad waiting in the sky, she's got to write her thesis but it only makes her cry

A toxic thesis is like a toxic workplace. Being in a toxic workplace erodes your confidence both within that space and outside it. You lose confidence in your work, your ability to express yourself, your relationships. A toxic thesis destroys your confidence in intellectual endeavour, and – for me at least – in creativity, too. I was always fairly confident in my writing ability; at times I trusted a bit too much in its capacity to carry me through areas I knew sod-all about. Now I feel like I’m lining up my words like alphabet blocks. I can’t even spell any more, thanks to too much early modern transcription. I hadn’t valued my good spelling since about 1996 but it still stings a bit to realise I’ve actually lost a skill.

Meanwhile, the aforesaid floundering can contribute to a general sense of floundering in other things too. Or, indeed, to actual floundering. Keeping up with the stuff you need to keep up with seems to fall by the wayside when a thesis turns toxic. Emails, texts, tidying one’s room like a reasonable human being… The ordinary game of Responsibility Whack-A-Mole that most adults are engaged in playing, where every time you hit down a chore or an achievement three others pop up, is a pain at the best of times but thesis toxicity does not help. I have absolutely no idea how people do this and real real life stuff, like raising a family, or buying a house, or having another job… you guys are bona fide bloody heroes. I can’t even iron my clothes.

Feeling like you’re underachieving in one area of your life is a pretty neat way to get you thinking about how you’re underachieving in the other ones too. Before you know it you’ve replaced self-esteem with ‘My hair looks shit and this is a major life failing. I’m 28! I was supposed to have good hair all figured out by now’. And it’s all very well at the start of a PhD when people are all ‘Er, you’re not in a relationship? Would you like me to set you up with someone?’ or ‘Doesn’t it bother you that you’ll always be poor?’ (actually said to me on a date, incidentally. There was not a second date) and you reply with ‘Look, I’m living the life of the mind, OK?’, but it all looks very different from the other end when all the real-life stuff has, if anything, gone backwards, there are no flipping jobs, and your thesis is beginning to resemble Daisy’s performance art in Spaced. A toxic thesis, in other words, makes arguing that it was all worth it much, much harder. At worst, it feels like ‘I wasted four years, I royally pissed off a number of people I like by being a bit rubbish, and all I want to do with this damn thesis is make a piñata out of it so I can hit it with sticks’ (an idea I saw on Twitter, and I can’t remember who said it, and I’m sorry not to cite properly because it’s brilliant).

There's either a massive amount of sweets in there, or a bunch of Greek soldiers.

It’s probably a good thing they took away the free printing at university

Alright. I’m putting a stop to the self-pity (well, writing about the self-pity, at least). So what in the hell can one do about this?

Short answer: I don’t know. I would not be writing this blog post if I knew.

Long answer: I used to run competitively. I was not fabulous at it, but I wasn’t embarrassing either. I was the kid who made up the team, for the most part: third leg in the 4x100m, bottom of the cross-country roster. Occasionally I would pull a better-than-normal performance out of the hat. Usually this would result in me coming fourth in a race. The gentleman’s third, I feel.

Anyway, there’s a point in every race when everything feels like absolute shite. I guess it’s what marathon runners call ‘the wall’, perhaps – but believe me it shows its horrible face at all distances. Everything feels like shite, and you think you can’t possibly finish the race, and all the light is sucked out of the universe, et cetera. At which point you have two choices.

  1. You can stop.
  2. You can speed up.

———–

ANYWAY IN CASE YOU ARE NOW SUPER DEPRESSED HERE IS A PICTURE OF SIR THOMAS LEE CHATTIN’ YOU UP

Don'tcha wish your girlfriend was hot like Lee

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That Fourth-Year Feeling I: The World of Work

OR the final countdown, how people in Hampstead don’t buy nuts, and the tiniest Hobbit spoiler (for the film, that is) you ever did see. Also, an obvious gif.

Firstly, I apologise for the horrible quality of the pictures here. Still no scanning technology (I should probably go out and buy some) so they’re rubbish phone photos. Secondly, sorry there’s so few of them. I got bored, and fed up of stupid brown pictures.

I am in a seriously odd position at the moment. Possibly an unprecedented one, or at least one I wasn’t expecting. I am in my fourth year of a PhD, going into the second term. I still have a whole heap of stuff to do to it. I have plenty of teaching, too. I filled much of the previous term with conference organisation, marking, and illness.

But against all the odds (sorry. I have been watching David Attenborough documentaries this new year and that sort of phrase seems to crop up a lot), I appear to be enjoying my PhD. In this I am being crazy and out-of-character and possibly delusional. I’m sure I will crash down to earth with a bump at some point (probably the point at which someone actually reads my recently-completed, wildly idiosyncratic chapter draft, and just writes a note at the top saying ‘What in the hell?’). I am absolutely certain that I will read this back at some point and go ‘Ohhh, past Kirsty, your innocence is so galling’, and then hurl my computer out of the window of my garret and bury myself in chocolate digestives and sadness.

Don't mind what biscuits just BISCUITS

Don’t mind what biscuits just BISCUITS

Currently, however, I am skating along on the top of such worries, feeling pretty happy because I’ve managed to get Thomas Dekker into my final chapter. Dekker! Four years and I’ve finally managed to get a writer included on actual English Literature reading lists into my English Literature PhD. This is what we were working towards, people. (Actually, it’s a fairly snap decision based on the fact that I am now writing about plague for a bit because plague is interesting and it’s my damn thesis. I might work Donne into the previous chapter, and thus convince my examiners that I’ve only read the parts of the reading lists beginning with D).

Such chirpsiness was commented on during my recent trip to the sodden corner of southwest England from which I hail. As was the unavoidable fact that this whole PhD malarkey will soon be coming to the end (my university, rather sensibly, requires full-time PhDs to be completed in four years, maximum. I’m cool with this, at least, right now I’m cool with this) and that I would, apparently, then be entering the ‘world of work’. ‘World of work’ got repeated a number of times, so much so that I a) had a dream that I had to return to my old job at the same time as finishing my PhD, and couldn’t find my lovely boss even though I looked for him everywhere; and b) the phrase began to take on a similar meaning to ‘World of Warcraft’, i.e. a largely virtual place of no importance to my life, in which others seem to thrive but I don’t imagine I’d be a whole lot of use.

Not that I want to suggest that HR people are trolls, because come on, no. ...oh dear. That went wrong.

Not that I want to suggest that HR people are trolls. Oops. I don’t mean it, HR people, honest.

One of the curiosities of returning to study is that people seem to forget that you’ve done anything outside of it, and start to talk of your future as if you’re a confused window cleaner who’s entered Total Wipeout in the belief that it’s a reality show about your chosen profession. One day you’ll have to leave your ivory tower, hah! And maybe work in an office! With Post-Its and cubicles and ergonomic chairs that are designed for six-foot blokes and give you a bad back! And one day the photocopier will get a paper jam in two different places and then what are you going to do, Dr McSmartypants?

Not sure what the lowest grade I've ever given actually is, but it is not as low as this.

Not sure what the lowest grade I’ve ever given actually is, but it is not as low as this.

OK, I’m jesting, and I’m sorry. There are no easy jobs, except for that time I worked in a nut shop and we had no customers. People who blithely say ‘Oh, if I can’t get an academic job I’ll just go into publishing/banking/teaching’ rile me up from here to Sunday because you’ll ‘just’ do that? Seriously? Have you ever even spoken to a publisher, banker, or teacher? You are everything wrong with PhD students and please can you shut up. My point is not that the ‘world of work’ is easy, but that it’s not alien. Most people doing PhDs have had jobs outside academia in the past, and many have them at the same time as doing a PhD. I may not have had the directorship of a major company or a spot on the Dragons’ Den line up or an abortive pop career, but I have done things and had salaries. I didn’t mess them up, either – the only time I’ve been fired was from putting-away-the-books-after-reading-time duty in Year 3 (I read the books instead of putting them away, in a hugely surprising development. My friend Claire and I then got put on watering-the-plant duty, and the plant died. I have become more responsible since leaving primary school).

Furthermore (furthermore! I am ranting, it seems), a PhD is a professional qualification, and you need to be professional about it. You have to produce specific things for specific deadlines, and more often than not balance these requirements with other commitments (teaching, research jobs, organising events, crying softly into issues of Past & Present). One thing I’ve noticed about graduate study is how professional it is. The academics and graduate students I know don’t tend to conform to the usual belittling stereotypes – they’re not batty elbow-patched teaching-avoiders or drunken Young Ones-esque delinquents (well, aside from that point in 2011 when everyone seemed to be buying elbow-patched tweed jackets and claiming it was ironic). I mean yes, we read books, but everyone seems hurtlingly aware that we have to do things with them and then write our damn own. Most academics I know are not, necessarily, great at the whole work/life boundary thing – but this more often leads to work swamping life than life swamping work. I don’t want to get into a moral tangle here about the worth of the things we produce, or that we teach – because oh, blimey – just to assert that a PhD, or indeed any other academic position, is a job. I know we keep bleating that. It is A Job. Stop laughing.

Again, I do not want to claim that what I’ve said above about work/life balance is restricted to academia. I’d imagine that this goes for most jobs – any job that the person doing it cares about. It certainly goes for most of what I’ve done before (with the exception, if I’m honest, of the nut shop job. Also, probably, that time I worked in a greasy spoon. And probably the pudding factory job. Look, I’ve had some weird jobs). You step up, because you care about what you’re doing, and you want to get it done well – all the bits of it that you have to balance. That’s the most important element in doing any job (OK YES training is, as well. Particularly if you’re a surgeon or something. But go with me for a bit). A PhD is damn good training for this, because if you don’t care about what you’re doing, and if you can’t organise your time between different commitments, you just won’t ever do it. Look! Transferable skills!

So, having argued that academic training is the ‘world of work’, damnit, or at least pretty good training for it, I find myself in what might be a bit of a false position. Because actually, the important part of the whole misty-eyed ‘You’ll soon be entering the world of work!’ thing is not the implicit assumption that I’ve been sitting on my arse making balloon animals for nearly four years, but that – hey! – once I’ve graduated, it’s Job Time. A lovely university will sweep me up into its caring embrace and we will make undergraduate courses and monographs together for many happy years to come. This is what is known as a Charming Academic Fairy Story and it is about as likely as the other kind.

I’ll go more into this in my next post (this was all going to be one post, but then I remembered that this is a blog post and not a three-volume Victorian novel. I cut the scenes in the debtors’ prison and the blacking factory for the same reason). Suffice to say here that as anyone involved with academia knows, the job market ain’t no bed of roses, and happy fantasies of strolling into permanent positions are rarely fulfilled. I have tried my darndest to cushion this blow, to explain that financial security and stability is not necessarily on the horizon, but what cuts me up a little bit is that I’m not sure people actually believe me. I’m probably reading a bit too much into comforting expressions here, but it feels a bit like that moment at the end of Part 1 of The Hobbit (very slight spoiler here for a bit of the Hobbit film that doesn’t even happen in the book) when Bilbo says something along the lines of  ‘If I’m not mistaken, the worst is behind us’. Oh, Martin Freeman! You’re in two more films of this, and not just to eat seed-cake and plan your birthday party! So yes, extrapolate that to the academic job market as you see fit.

Hmm.

Hmm.

It’s the comforting assumption that everything will be alright in  the end. It’s a bit heartbreaking. I wouldn’t train all these years and then not actually get an academic job, would I?

Would I?

More to come in the next post, in which I bite the hand that fed me for three years. Repeatedly. But out of love.