By Rachel Toor

At a certain point, you're supposed to stop asking. Once a friend's project is too long past the announced due date, it becomes an act of aggression to inquire how it's going. You're supposed to wait until she brings it up; your job as a friend is to be ready any time to engage in a conversation about said project but never to instigate one.

Me, I'm not such a fun friend. I ask. I always ask. Because, as is the case with editing and massages, we give the way we'd like to be given. I love deadlines. I respond to prodding and to shame. I can be bullied and coaxed into submission.

A while ago I was asked to write a book chapter for a three-volume edition on the business of higher education. I agreed because the topic was something I knew a little about, was sort of interested in, and thought would be fun to investigate further, even though doing that kind of research would earn me no credit toward tenure, would bring no money, and would have an even smaller readership than one of my essays in Marathon&Beyond.

But Dave, the academic editor of the collection, flattered and charmed me into committing. The deadline seemed generous and distant. I am one of those irritating people who, in college, always had papers done two days before they were due. I handle stress by a neurotic drive to get stuff done.

No problem, I thought, and did a bunch of reading and research for the book chapter.

And then it fell off the top of my list. There were other things to work on, courses to teach, races to run, mystery novels to read.

I forgot about the chapter. Sort of. It was always there in the back of my head, buzzing like a mosquito. Then I would get a gentle e-mail reminder from the editor, asking how it was going, and suggesting something for me to look at that might prove useful.

Dave was so nice, I didn't want to disappoint him. So after each message, I'd get back to work. For a while. And then I'd lose steam again.

As the deadline approached, I knew I wasn't even close. I got another of those kind messages pre-emptively offering me an extension. I was humiliated. I'd never before needed an extension. I tried to wriggle out of the commitment and reminded Dave that there were plenty of people better qualified than me to write this chapter. I named names. He persisted by stretching out the deadline.

And then, before I had a minute to get back to look at it again, it was due. Again. Finally, I faced the shameful fact: I was never going to be able to do this. I shouldn't have agreed. I was, I knew, the worst kind of author: a promising, never-delivering wretched little cad. I poured out apologies in breast-beating prose. I had failed. I reminded patient Dave that I had been an editor for long enough to know what it does to a project to have someone pull out at the last minute. I also know what a hard and thankless task it is for an academic to edit a collection. I sucked. I was sorry. Really, really sorry.

He wrote back and said that at the risk of pissing me off, he was going to try one more time to convince me to finish. He gave me a number of options: I could narrow the focus in any way I wanted; I could adapt something I'd already published; I could eschew academic convention and write it as an essay. Just do what you do, he said. Oy, I said.

The publisher just sent me my contributor's copy of the three big books. I have never been prouder to finish a piece of work, and I have never been more grateful to an editor. Dave had the ability to strike just the right note, to encourage me, to point me in good directions, to keep me motivated. He did not give up on me, even when I begged him to.

This story is unusual only in that it happened to me, a hyperactive neurotic producer with no social life. Most graduate students have had similar experiences, and much of the time more is at stake—like finishing a dissertation. Graduate mentors have to be able to cajole and coax work out of their students. Most manage to do it.

But once you finish the diss and land a job, it's a different story. Sure, if you're lucky enough to score a tenure-track position, you can hear the clock ticking. You know that you're expected to finish things. But you're also expected to move to a new place, teach a bunch of new courses, and volunteer for committees on topics ranging from curriculum development to whether the dining hall should serve low-fat ice cream. You have students holding you accountable for the teaching, and colleagues sending out agendas for meetings. Publishing can be the silent killer of academic careers. If there's no one clamoring for your work, it becomes all too easy to ignore it.

Time passes. People stop asking how it's going. They figure if it were going well, you would be talking about it. You know that they know that you're not getting stuff done, and you feel too embarrassed to bring it up.

Most editors of academic books and journals are too busy to nurture authors. In fact, when I was an editor, it usually mattered to me not at all if a manuscript was delivered years after the date in the contract. Unless there's a reason to publish—to hook the project to something current—most scholarly work can wait. For years. For decades, even.

That is not a helpful thing to tell authors.

Many of my academic friends are struggling to complete projects. Maybe it's because I was an editor for so long, or maybe because I lack tact, but the truth is, I ask how it's going. Even if a project is years—decades—overdue, I ask.

I try not to nag. Friends and family members often do: Aren't you finished with that article/book/degree yet? But nagging is generally not useful and does not make for harmonious domestic arrangements. It can also cause friends to stop returning your calls. When I ask someone about a project, I am always ready to push up my sleeves and help out. Or at least, settle in with a cup of coffee or go for a two-hour walk. When I ask, I try to focus on results. I want to help my stuck friends get moving again. So not, How's it going? But, What have you got? What's your argument?

When I ask, I'm prepared to become part of the process. Sometimes that means saying, I don't understand what you're arguing. Sometimes it's reminding a scholar that she can't explain the history of the world in 4,000 words and has to narrow her scope. Sometimes it's an act of mirroring: This is what I hear you saying. And sometimes it's as simple as sitting down, getting out a sheet of paper, and helping him write out an outline. It's a matter of asking: Where are you going to start? Where are you going to end? And how are you going to get there?

It's what we would do for first-year students who get dizzy and overwhelmed by their projects. We walk them through the process, extending a supporting hand, and catching them under the armpits when they're about to tip over.

But once we become grown-up academics, there is no one to prop us up. We tell ourselves we're beyond needing that kind of help. We are self-motivated and professional and we're in the business of giving advice, not soliciting it.

That is, of course, not true. I keep thinking about Dave. I would have been sunk without his gentle messages, inquiring, encouraging, quietly prodding. That he was always available to read my drafts made me accountable to write.

It's a good thing I have only a small circle of close friends; it takes a lot of energy to think hard about someone else's work. I have learned to say no when people who don't feed me request that I read something for them. For my friends, though, I always ask and listen.

Once we get past graduate school (and sometimes while we're still in it), we need to be able to count on one another. The risk is that your friends will stop returning your calls and e-mail messages, at least while they're not working. But ultimately they will be grateful when they finally accomplish what they knew they could do all along, but just needed a little nudge to finish.

Rachel Toor is an assistant professor of creative writing at Eastern Washington University, in Spokane. Her Web site is http://www.racheltoor.com. She welcomes comments directed to careers@chronicle.com.