A few weeks ago, after I’d taken the quiz to find out my BASE in terms of my writing (the link to the quiz is in my other post and I’ll wait while you go and take it because it’s really neat), I sent an email out to two of my female colleagues/almost friends to ask if they wanted to join a writing accountability group.
I sent the email partly because I was experimenting with improving my social skills for my writing, but also because I’d come to realize in the first month of my postdoc that I needed to be accountable to someone other than myself if I was going to make any progress on my book.
I was a model of productivity for my postdoc…right up until the point where I largely finished the first draft of the chapter I’ve been writing for the edited volume and needed to turn my attention to my book revisions.
And then I stalled.
I read books related to both projects.
I decided to try to post 30 times in 30 days on this blog, which counted as writing time, but not the writing that would help get the book revisions finished.
I did not want to get started on the book revisions, the revisions I’ve needed to do since August 2015.
And it was too easy to refuse to start them (again) because if I didn’t start them, the only person I was letting down was myself.
If I didn’t write the chapter for the edited volume, I was hurting my co-contributors, but I was also hurting my co-editors, one of whom is Q.
I’m not going to disappoint Q. if he’s counting on my work for his own project.
Plus, the first draft of something is what I like to write the best, so it was easy to sit down at the keyboard and let all the ideas that had been burbling around inside of me come flowing out.
I already did that with my book. The result was my PhD dissertation.
I hate editing my work. HATE. IT.
And I hate being rejected by people. HATE. IT.
So it’s been unbelievably easy for me to just not do the revisions because they combine two of my least favourite things.
If I don’t take the risk to put myself out there, I don’t have to face the consequences of being rejected.
Somewhere in late October I realized that this situation was never going to change if I didn’t change the circumstances under which I was operating, because although I occasionally lay awake at night wondering if the editor at Esteemed University Press ever wondered where my book was (answer: no, because said editor has many other books to deal with and many, many other academics who haven’t done their revisions either), and I knew I would disappoint my supervisor (and, let’s face it, Q.) if I never published the book, ultimately it just wasn’t a strong enough motivating factor.
I’d hit the point with that research where I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. I was convinced that everything I had to say was bleedingly obvious and that any attempt on my part to publish said research would expose me for the fraud I am (see earlier post on imposter syndrome). The idea that if I published the book people might read and disagree with the book (or, worse, think the book was pointless) was paralyzing.
So I emailed two other women whom I knew were in the same boat (actual sentence from our meeting: “I invited both of you to join because we all have the same albatross around our neck.”).
Last Friday we had our first meeting.
We talked a bit about why we were there. One of us has trouble writing but loves to edit. One of us has no trouble writing but hates to edit (that’s me). And one of us has trouble with both.
We talked about the emotional, physical, and psychological toll NOT HAVING A BOOK in a monograph-centric field has taken.
We talked about how our colleagues would never take us seriously (even the one of us who is tenured) without a book.
We talked about how much we hated our research, how fear and shame were the only forces that drove us forward, how we were paralyzed by our own self-doubt.
“This is a very surreal experience,” one of them said after I’d spent several minutes explaining how I felt like I had to finish the book even though I didn’t want to finish the book because I didn’t want the people who knew me to stand around talking about me in five years saying how it was such a shame I’d never produced a book. “It’s like I’m hearing my own voice come out of someone else’s mouth.”
We’re going to try to help each other get through this and get our books done.
We set short-term goals for our next meeting (late December) and medium-term goals for where we wanted to be by the end of July 2018.
If we don’t do what we’ve said we’re going to do, we have to turn up to the next meeting and tell the others why we didn’t.
Shame and fear, yes.
But support and camaraderie too.
It might just work.