Joshua: For almost four years, my wife, Kathleen, and I have been searching for the perfect solution to our academic two-body problem. As chronicled in our previous columns, we had achieved an imperfect solution -- we were together, but being together had cost Kathleen a well-paid tenured position at a regional state university she had grown to love. Now, Kathleen was on the tenure track once again, this time at a small, religious liberal-arts college. Although I felt highly confident that Kathleen would earn tenure at her new institution, there were no guarantees. Nor was it guaranteed that Kathleen would develop the same affection for her current position as she had for her prior one.
At first, these uncertainties were eased by the fact that Kathleen had been granted a leave of absence from her tenured position. Unfortunately, after her two years of leave and an unsuccessful attempt by the provost to secure a position for me in the geographical area, it seemed inevitable that Kathleen would have to resign.
This part of our saga felt a lot like a game of poker. The provost's earlier letter to Kathleen implied that she had two choices: return or resign. Was he bluffing? Could Kathleen request another year of leave, as she had wanted to? In the end, Kathleen felt the request would be seen as unseemly by the provost who had tried so hard to get her back. So faced with these choices, Kathleen resigned.
Then we received the provost's last letter, and we discovered that we had misplayed our hand. He quite explicitly stated that, had she requested a leave, he would have approved it. The most frustrating part was the likelihood that the provost's framing of the choice (return or resign) was made in the hopes that it would force Kathleen to return. Instead, it may have led to the outcome neither party preferred: Kathleen's resignation.
Kathleen: I quickly wrote back to the provost indicating that I had not felt it appropriate to ask for another year of leave. However, if he thought there was a reasonable chance Joshua would be able to find a suitable job in the area, I would very much appreciate a leave. I polled some colleagues who were supportive, so I thought it was worth a shot. The provost said he would ask my departmental colleagues how they felt about a third year of leave. Later, I spoke with the chairman and told him the same truths I had told the provost: I really wanted to come back, but Josh and I really needed to be together.
Most of the department wanted to support my leave request, although there was some concern over how the dean would react. The dean had opposed my second year of leave despite having previously supported similar requests from senior male faculty members.
Turns out, the dean reacted exactly as the department feared he would. According to second- and third-hand accounts, he basically, well, exploded in anger. He ranted about how I couldn't ask for another year, it wasn't allowed. He ranted about other recent, but unrelated, decisions the department had made. And perhaps most surprisingly, he ranted about how he had approved my last request for a leave of absence. Clearly, this was news to everyone, but history is rewritten by those in power.
It's now been two months since I informally requested a third year of leave, and I have yet to hear anything official from anyone. Some friends in the department unofficially informed me that the department backed down because of the dean's strong reaction. Time, I suppose, to accept our lives and our pre-tenure jobs in the Midwest. Josh and I had better get tenure.
Joshua: I was at the end of my third year on the tenure track. I had collected a lot of good data and presented it at many conferences, but my record of publishing was thin. Journal articles would form the basis of my tenure decision, though, so I kept at it. I was pretty happy with my latest manuscript. The studies extended an area of theory currently in vogue, the results came out beautifully, and the paper received positive feedback from colleagues. After incorporating their recommendations, I sent the paper off.
Neglecting to cite the editor's work in my paper was, I admit, a tactical error. But his response seemed a bit of an overreaction. Rejection rates at the better journals in psychology can run upwards of 80 to 90 percent, so a negative editorial decision is an unpleasant, but relatively common experience. What differed in this case were the highly positive anonymous reviews, all of which recommended that the journal accept the paper pending a few minor revisions.
Of all the manuscripts I've submitted to journals (including those that were eventually accepted), this paper received, by far, the most unanimously positive reviews. So, I was surprised by the editor's decision. OK, I'll admit that surprise was not the sole emotion elicited by the editor, but as the least-offensive item in my emotional inventory at the time, I focused on surprise in my response letter.
I should make clear that my paper had not actually been rejected. Perhaps realizing how unreasonable outright rejection would seem in the context of the anonymous reviews, the editor made an offer. The journal would consider a revision -- if I cut the paper to a third of its current length.
My initial reaction would translate roughly into polite speech as: "No thank you. I will seek an alternative venue for my work." But after fuming at sympathetic colleagues and taking a walk around campus, I decided to make the revisions. I pulled my first all-nighter in years, and by sunrise, I had slimmed the manuscript considerably and drafted a polite letter to the editor thanking him for considering my work and describing the changes I had made to address his concerns.
A month later, I received a letter from the journal. The editor had considered and rejected the revision. No more than 30 seconds after I read the letter, a graduate student stopped by to discuss his master's thesis. I summoned the wherewithal to tell him this was not the best time, and we rescheduled our meeting. Later that day, I apologized to the student, giving him a bit of background on what had happened and assuring him that my ill-concealed anger had had nothing to do with him. I felt bad about our earlier encounter, but I reminded myself that professors are human and subject to the same emotions felt by graduate students and the rest of humanity.
The anger I felt was tinged with despair. With only two years to go before I went up for tenure, I was becoming despondent regarding my ability to get my work published. I felt like there was a secret to publishing that had thus far eluded me. Unless I figured it out soon, I would soon be banished from profession I loved.
Kathleen: I really think Josh is worrying for nothing. I feel certain he's going to get tenure.
I am more unsure about my own prospects. My fears are not about research or teaching, but from a more social perspective. I'm now in a very small department with only three other faculty members. They are all very nice, talented people whom I like a lot. But I think they were expecting someone different. Because of my previous experience, they were expecting me to jump right in and start shaking up things right away. However, I'm inherently shy, and I need to get a feel for a place before I find my role. I was learning about the courses and students I was teaching, and the department and the college. In the first four months of my new job, I thought I had learned a lot about the place.
Then, I was gently and diplomatically told I'm not around enough.
I had been assigned two classes that ended at 10 p.m. Students often stayed and asked questions until 11 p.m. A 45-minute commute later, and I was usually home just in time for a midnight dinner with my husband. Because my earliest classes started around noon, I usually came in then, often working on things at home beforehand. Students knew my hours and didn't seem to have a problem with them. I had made a tactical oversight, however: The culture of the department is such that everyone talks in the hallways in the mornings.
In the numerous years since graduate school, I've learned to protect my time carefully. I would occasionally work at home, or even in my office with my door closed if I really needed to concentrate on something. However, students found me to be extremely available: an open door all afternoon and at 6 p.m. when they got off work, the occasional e-mail response at 1 a.m., sitting down with them at noon in their makeshift study/lunch area in the busy lobby to assuage their fears about a test in someone else's class. No one monitored or cared about which hours these were -- they worked for me and my students. However, a department of four is very different from a department of 20, so I guess I will be adjusting my hours.
Clearly it's time to reread Ms. Mentor's book.
Joshua: Having a fellow academic as a spouse is a great way to keep things in perspective. To me, Kathleen's difficulties seemed easy to address. She just needed to increase her visibility and let her colleagues know all the innovative work she was already doing. To her, I simply needed to stop feeling sorry for myself when I got a paper rejected and just get back on the horse.
One of the most important lessons my graduate adviser taught me was that editorial rejections can be fought. If you believe the reviewers misunderstood the paper or you have data that can address their concerns, a polite but specific letter can sometimes transform a rejection into a revise-and-resubmit. So, buoyed by Kathleen's optimism, I fashioned a response. I reminded the editor of the positive reviews and pointed out the ways in which his additional concerns could be addressed.
Another month passed.
Then one morning, I downloaded my e-mail messages and saw a letter from the journal. My heart skipped a beat. I opened the letter and, peeking between the fingers of my outstretched hand, I caught the phrase "... happy to publish ...." I dropped my protective eyecover and devoured the letter. The editor had accepted the revision!
Relief flooded through me. This acceptance provided a critical addition to my vita. But more importantly, it was my first piece of truly independent work -- a crucial milestone in the eyes of my department.
Perhaps after all our trials and tribulations, after a four-year roller-coaster ride of a dual-career job hunt, we're on the brink of stability. Of course, we both still need to earn tenure (again, Kathleen reminds me). But today that goal seems a bit more attainable.
