Dear Search Committee:

Are you bleary-eyed and exhausted from all the applications you’ve received and read thus far? Hey, have you already decided on your choice for the position? Is there an inside candidate I don’t know about, somebody who effectively makes my reference letter a waste of everyone’s time?

I usually don’t ask such questions when I start recommendation letters for graduate students, but I’ve decided to cut to the chase this year. I want the skinny. There are so many credible candidates for your advertised post (I know of at least 10 folks, and I’m writing reference letters for three of them); I can’t imagine that the process will be easy.

First of all, we know that sometimes such letters are pitched at a level of gushingly celebratory support that they rival grade inflation in terms of rendering their measurements/benchmarks useless. We deploy terms like “brilliant” and “exceptional” with reckless abandon these days. I know. I know. I only write for students I think are truly “exceptional,” but I also realize that you may not buy all of my enthusiasm — may not find it sufficiently objective. So, I sometimes try to temper things a bit, to play it straight and put on a writerly pokerface of distanced appraisal. I did that for the letter I wrote you all last year, the one for my other student applying for that other highly-coveted job. (Hey, who landed that one, anyway?)

The catch is that I don’t want you to read my tone as cloaked indifference (or even as a purposefully negative valuation) offered up in positive terms but with a wink and nod of mutual recognition to the contrary. I remember one colleague from my own department (several years and institutions ago) who wrote a recommendation for a student applying to work with us. My colleague wrote all the right things, but every single faculty member in the department (independently!) read that same letter as just lukewarm, as a way of saying, “the student is OK, but not great.” The faculty member was mortified — and was there to refute our collective misreading. We couldn’t put our fingers on exactly what had given us the impression that the letter was really a non-recommendation recommendation, but I have never forgotten that lesson. We all think we have to read between the lines of rec letters, and that can sometimes mean we see hidden signs that may have nothing to do with a recommender’s intent.

But I digress. And I don’t want this letter to turn into a silly rehashing of post-structuralist discussions about the recommender’s/author’s death and a concomitant ascendency of one very specific audience (you, the search committee). In some ways, it is too obvious to say that search committees determine the meaning of texts in this instance. Of course. That’s too easy. Instead, I want you to know that I realize how difficult a job you have. And I appreciate you taking the time to read this, even though I also must admit that I will probably internalize your rejection of my student (if that is, in fact, what you all decide to do) and shoulder all the blame for it.

That probably isn’t fair to you or me. There are so many variables you all are considering as you make your final decisions that only a bloated and self-deluded ego could ever allow me to imagine my two- or three-page letter being the single and deciding factor. At the same time, I want to make sure my letter is an honest form of advocacy that tries to champion my student’s application without reducing the genre to clichés and histrionic cheerleading — to nothing but a waste of your time.

I’m never totally sure if I’ve reached the right balance. But you should know that I wouldn’t have taken the time to write this letter about this student’s “brilliant” dissertation topic, work habits, classroom skills, teacherly background, and personal attributes unless I really thought it was worth it. Hope you think so, too.

Sincerely,