Many full-service law firms have an intellectual-property practice that is one branch of a much larger organization; some boutique firms specialize in intellectual property, which includes patents, copyrights, trademarks, and trade secrets/know-how. Is a Ph.D. required to become a patent lawyer? No. Is it desirable? Yes, especially in biotechnology, and having more technical expertise can raise your salary. At boutique intellectual-property law firms, 20 to 30 percent of the lawyers typically have Ph.D.’s.

So how do you find a job in IP law? You can become a patent agent or a patent lawyer. Law firms occasionally hire Ph.D.’s in the role of scientific adviser or technical adviser. According to Kate Rigaut, Ph.D., J.D., and a partner at Dann Dorfman Herrell and Skillman, in Philadelphia:

“During this time, the technical adviser will be ghost-writing for another patent agent or patent lawyer at the firm. Anyone with 30 credit hours in a technical field can obtain the exam materials and sit for the patent bar exam. Patent agents who successfully pass the patent bar can write, file, and prosecute applications before the United States Patent and Trademark Office, but there are significant restrictions on what other services patent agents can provide to a firm’s clients. They cannot render legal opinions or practice law, and they won’t be eligible to become a partner in the firm.”

Since the technical-adviser job is a temporary role on the way to becoming eligible to file and/or litigate patents, the hiring negotiations often center on whether you will go to law school or stop at patent agent, where you’ll go to school, how you will manage going to school and working full time, and on what terms the firm may offer financial assistance for your law degree. If you land a job as a scientist in Corporate America and your company has in-house intellectual-property counsel, your employer may sponsor you to attend law school.

A word of caution: It would be very risky to incur debt for law school on your own, without knowing whether a firm would want to hire you afterward. Entering the field is very competitive for biotechnologists, but engineers (especially electrical engineers) are in demand, according to Ms. Rigaut.

Patent-agent and patent-lawyer compensation varies widely, depending on technical background, years of experience, billed hours, and many other factors. Recent data on salaries can be found here. In general, it’s safe to say that patent lawyers are well compensated, with earnings that are often double or triple that of research scientists. Patent lawyers usually specialize in either prosecution (writing and filing for patent protection) or litigation (bringing or defending against lawsuits over intellectual property). Patent agents earn $85,000 to $90,000, on average.

Ms. Rigaut says she loves being a patent lawyer because the inventors come to her at the eureka moment. “I’ve had the privilege of writing patents on work that appears in journals like Science and Nature. It’s brilliant, cutting-edge science, and I get to see it first!” she explains. She offers this advice to scientists interested in transitioning to a career as a patent lawyer:

“Pick the geographic location of your choice—flood all IP firms, universities, and biotech companies in the area with your résumé. Network at local intellectual-property-law associations. Contact law-school career-services offices, and, most importantly, ascertain whether you know someone who knows someone …. A warm introduction goes a long way.”

Additional information from Ms. Rigaut on this career path can be found here.

Gina Stewart has a Ph.D. in organic chemistry from the University of Texas at Austin. She is the chief executive and a founder of Arctic Inc., which develops sustainable methods of weed control for turf and agriculture. She is writing a series of posts about nonacademic careers for Ph.D.’s in the sciences.

Moonlighting is when a full-time faculty member at one institution teaches part time at another. An overload occurs when a full-time faculty member teaches an additional class or two on his or her own campus, usually for more money (although occasionally for other considerations, such as future release time).

I don’t know how widespread the practice of teaching overloads is on four-year campuses, but in my experience it’s pretty common at community colleges. Although some two-year colleges may discourage or even prohibit faculty members from teaching additional classes, most allow it, and some positively encourage it.

That doesn’t mean the practice is without controversy. There are a number of arguments against overloads, some of which were raised in the comments on my last post.

One is what we might call the systemic-ill argument, which says that higher-education professionals should be paid enough that they don’t have to take on extra work in order to make ends meet. (That would be nice.) Another objection, from many adjuncts, is that full-timers who teach overloads take courses away from part-timers who need the money more. And then there are those (perhaps mostly administrators?) who believe that overloads stretch faculty members too thin, and thus detract from their core responsibilities.

But the anti-overload argument I hear most often comes from full-time faculty members who assert that, when their colleagues teach additional classes, they’re implying that the standard workload isn’t sufficient. Over time, the theory goes, the administration might decide to increase the standard workload, reasoning that if some people can teach six classes instead of five, everyone else can, too.

Personally, I’ve never had a problem with overloads. As a department chair, I honored faculty members’ requests for overloads whenever I could, and as a faculty member I have occasionally taught an overload myself.

My view is that an overload is just that—additional work for additional pay. If some people are willing to put in 45 or 50 hours per week instead of the normal 35 or 40 because they need or want to increase their income, we shouldn’t deny them that opportunity just because we’re afraid they might work too hard or somebody else might misinterpret what they’re doing.

(Of course I understand that some faculty members already work 50 or 60 hours a week, and an overload might mean 60 or 70, but the same principle applies. It’s still their choice.)

People in other professions, such as law and medicine, put in 70-hour weeks all the time. So do college and university administrators. If some faculty members can handle that kind of workload, why would we tell them they can’t? I have a good friend at another institution who routinely teaches six or seven courses each semester, serves on numerous important committees, and is active in his discipline. In my opinion, it would be silly for administrators to tell him he has to stop when he’s shown that he can handle it just fine.

Obviously, there are limits. At some point, a particular faculty member may be teaching so many classes that the sheer amount of work does begin to affect his or her teaching and other duties—especially if that person is combining overloads with moonlighting, as some do.

I just think we have to be very careful, in this era of cutbacks, furloughs, and no raises, not to place too many limits on faculty members’ ability to earn. No doubt department chairs should closely monitor faculty members who are teaching overloads or moonlighting to make sure they can handle it. But if they can, I say more power to them.

In an effort to gain a little focus, you may make your way to a washroom to splash cold water on your face. As you look up from the sink to the mirror above it, the reality of your situation will suddenly become clear. If you look closely, you will find yourself covered with marks that could have come only from the wheels of a very large bus.

Our friends at Wikipedia classify to “throw (someone) under the bus” as an idiomatic phrase meaning “to sacrifice another person (often a friend or ally), who is usually not deserving of such treatment, out of malice or for personal gain.” None of us appreciates being sacrificed for someone else’s greater glory, but it is especially painful and disorienting when we discover that we have been played as a pawn by someone we counted as a colleague or confidant.

Once the shock of being thrown under the bus wears off, we are left to decide how to respond. Should we launch an aggressive campaign to prove our innocence? Pointedly express our outrage? Expose the offender? Seek revenge? Warn other potential victims? Begin documenting everything in order to prevent a repeat occurrence?

Or is it better to take a more philosophical approach? Should we redouble our efforts to always be the better, more professional person? Commit to building an even stronger network of supporters? Express sadness for our offender, knowing that, according to the laws of karma, evil released will result in evil returned?

What do you think is the best approach? How have you responded when a friend, colleague, or ally sacrificed you in order to advance his or her career?

[Creative Commons-licensed photo by Flickr user Tom (hmm a rosa tint).]

Technology
Most U.S. citizens have some sort of high-speed Internet, but more than a hundred million still do not. I don’t have it at home. When I was doing better in class, it was when the semester was still in full swing and I could read, write, and watch videos from my high-speed office. And it’s not that I don’t want high-speed Internet at home; it’s just that I live back in the woods in an older neighborhood, and the giant Internet providers, I’m guessing, haven’t found it beneficial to offer service back there. Cable television isn’t even available. We have a satellite dish for the TV, and I know that’s an option for the Internet, but it’s expensive to do it that way. And the cell service is too unreliable for a mobile hotspot. What I’m getting at is that MOOCs are great, but they aren’t quite the answer to educating the world if triple-digit millions are without an Internet connection that’s necessary to take a MOOC.

Time
The first couple weeks of my MOOC were a slower time during the semester. Then it picked up. It seemed like I spent every spare moment reading student papers, teaching, planning, writing this column, or otherwise working; those pockets of downtime were nearly impossible to come by. Remember, I couldn’t really do the class at home because of the Internet problem. And before some readers tell me I should’ve spent more time in the office to work on the MOOC, I’ll remind you that I’m a father and a husband, so I need to spend time at home when I can. As an instructor, more empathy, especially for nontraditional students, is one of the best things I got out of the MOOC.

It’s Free
I’m a pretty ambitious person who usually sticks to things I commit to. But when I pay for the commitment, it provides that extra oomph I sometimes need to get it done. In other words, I don’t want the money I spent to go to waste. In this regard, that MOOCs are free contributes to both their success and to their possible demise. It’s wonderful that millions have access to education, but when the education is free, students may not feel a sense of urgency or accountability. Let’s face it, our culture revolves around money, and higher education is as much a part of this as anything. More and more, prospective students and their parents are looking at the rate of return on their college investment. So a free MOOC may have a high rate of return. But money is also a great motivator; if you buy something expensive, you may use it simply because you paid a lot for it. If you pay for a class, you may go and participate and even try really hard simply because you paid a lot of money for it; otherwise, if you don’t go, it’s a waste of money.

Then, the Other Reasons
Then there are all the other reasons, most of which I’m ashamed of. Like, I had a free promo for Redbox, or there was a good game on TV. Or it’s Thursday and Big Bang Theory is on. Or my son has soccer practice. These are mostly bad reasons to avoid school, but not entirely irrelevant to the previously mentioned reasons. Still, I would never accept such excuses from my own students, so I’ll do what many of them do. I’ll make up a terrible excuse about car trouble or a pet chicken dying. Then I’ll just say that I’m sorry and I hope I’ll do better next time.

“Oh, what a favor you did me in not hiring me, though!,” I continued with a smile. “I was A.B.D. and gave a terrible interview. I was ill prepared, and the experience helped me to realize that I needed to get my act together the next time I had an interview. I am deeply appreciative of the lessons I learned from the process at your college, which was well run, by the way. They helped me a great deal as my career has progressed.”

He smiled back, and we had a delightful lunch conversation about faculty hiring and our shared administrative work. We left the lunch with a sense of colleagueship that I greatly appreciated and, in fact, took as affirmation that if he were interviewing me at that time, I would have gotten the job.

A few weeks ago I experienced an almost identical situation, sitting at a lunch table at yet another conference. I realized that the guy across the table had interviewed me many years ago and had likewise forgotten my name and the fact that he had interviewed me. This time I just let it go. He had probably interviewed 100 or more potential faculty members, and there was no reason for him to remember me. I was tempted to create a little moment of discomfort, but that awkward moment passed and I merely (re)introduced myself and thought about how happy I had been in the position that I eventually landed.

Have you ever had an awkward exchange with someone who had interviewed you for a position that you did not land? What advice might you offer to someone in that situation?

In the early 1980s Ibrahim Abou Halloun and David Hestenes began examining how their students understood the principles of motion. They started by testing undergraduates about to enter a number of introductory physics courses and found, as they expected, that most students’ understanding of motion was “elementary, intuitive … a cross between Aristotelian and 14th-century impetus ideas.”

The results of their “after” tests also confirmed what the professors had feared—that on the deeper, conceptual level, university physics often did little to advance a student’s thinking. While undergraduates memorized the requisite formulas, even many of the top students were still conceptualizing the course’s problems and solutions through their old “intuitive framework.”

The real surprise of the physicists’ study came in exit interviews, when professors challenged students to predict the results of basic experiments. They then performed the procedures and asked the students to observe and comment. What astonished them was that many students attempted to explain away the results of experiments that had upset their expectations. They argued that the experiments had been performed improperly or represented a special case. As Halloun and Hestenes put it, “students held firm to mistaken beliefs even when confronted with phenomena that contradicted those beliefs.”

I came across that story in Ken Bain’s What the Best College Teachers Do, where he uses it to consider how students acquire and, more important, retain new ideas. I like it for a number of reasons, one of which is that it seems to parallel some of the stubborn reluctance of new faculty members (myself included) to think critically about their elementary and intuitive pedagogy.

Robert Boice addresses the issue at some length in The New Faculty Member, where he describes the experience of reading books on teaching with a group of recent faculty hires. While those new professors tended to agree that the texts Boice shared contained good ideas, as a group they felt they needed to spend the bulk of their time developing strong lectures. They would “worry about refinements” later on.

Of course it is true that a professor must know his or her field before sharing it with students, but the consensus on new faculty members seems to be that we spend far too much time on questions of content. Our intuitive pedagogy is based on information delivery rather than knowledge construction. And while that distinction (from Bain) may seem semantic, as I have begun trying to apply it, I’ve found the difference to be significant.

Take, for instance, two strategies for preparing a new course. In the first I asked myself what books I wanted to teach, what content I wanted my students to encounter in my classroom. I built my syllabi by imagining how much I could reasonably cover on a given day. In my first few semesters I would even assign a bit more reading than we could manage, just in case I ran out of material.

The second strategy of course prep begins with the question of what skills I want my students to acquire, what new ideas I want them to engage. Answering that question with a syllabus involves a much more thoughtful consideration of who my students are and where they are likely to begin. Text selection in this second strategy is made in the service of specific goals for the students, and content and practice are combined to fill the daily schedule. Depending on the course, only a small percentage of class time may be spent delivering the content, with the remainder devoted to student application.

As Halloun and Hestenes suggest, it may take significant time to revise our mental models even with the aid of practical application.

One challenge in embracing the second technique is that fresh Ph.D.’s are so comfortable in their content and relatively inexperienced in facilitating application. We haven’t been trained to teach.

Another challenge, perhaps more significant, is that time spent deepening our pedagogy and focusing on student goals can feel like a distraction from the content-saturated scholarship we love. I can’t count how many times I’ve heard younger professors, just this past month, say how happy they were to return to their own work now that the semester is behind them. I probably said it myself.

What questions do you ask yourself as you begin prepping a new course? How important is the notion of deep learning to your pedagogy, and how do you facilitate it in your course design? What other challenges do new teachers face as we attempt to move from strategies of information delivery to those that would help build lasting knowledge?

I was serving as a department chair at the time, with a salary that was good but not great—basically a 10-month faculty salary pro-rated for 12 months. My wife had made it clear when we got married that, once kids came along, she intended to quit her job as a middle-school teacher to stay home and raise them, even if it meant a lower standard of living. I was in agreement, and over the years we had managed to live comfortably, if frugally.

Then our two oldest became teenagers. I confess that we had not anticipated how much more expensive their clothes, food, and activities would become. Suddenly the income from my job, which had always been at least sufficient, was stretched to the breaking point. I needed to find a way to make more money.

At first the dean was merely taken aback by my admission that I couldn’t afford all my kids. But then panic set in. “You’re not telling me,” she sputtered, “that you’re quitting in the middle of a semester!”

“No,” I said, “I’m telling you that I want you to raise one of my kids.”

The ice sufficiently broken, I went on to explain that another college in the area had offered me the opportunity to teach a couple of classes part time. (“Oh!” she said. “Is that all? I thought there might be a real problem.”) I assured her that my moonlighting would not interfere with my work as chair (which it never did). She graciously gave her permission, and I went on to teach classes for that other institution, usually in the early morning or late evening (sometimes both), for the next eight years, until our kids were older and my wife went back to work part time.

That I was able to bring in additional income was a lifesaver—or at least a budget saver—for me and my family. I’ve known other people who have done the same thing: They have a few kids, those kids get older, they need braces, they want to play football or be a cheerleader or take violin lessons, they expect to drive. But I wonder just how widespread moonlighting really is.

So I’ll put it out there to The Chronicle’s readers: Have you ever taught as an adjunct at one institution while employed full time at another? If so, what were your reasons? What is your college’s attitude toward such activities? How about specific policies? (For instance, my institution’s policy at the time was that you needed your direct supervisor’s permission to pursue “outside employment,” which is why I ended up in the dean’s office that day. But I know more than a few people whose approach seems to be “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”)

Whether or not you’ve ever done it yourself, how do you feel about moonlighting as a practice? And if you’re someone who makes your living primarily by adjuncting—that is, you don’t have a full-time position but teach part time at one or more institutions—how do you feel about full-time faculty members who moonlight?

[Creative Commons-licensed photo by Flickr user MichaelRiedel.]

I’m pretty sure the student’s piece of writing was referring to me and my lack of control over the classroom. I have no way of knowing for sure, but, even if it wasn’t, it did get me thinking about control in the classroom, and I thought I would espouse some of my ideas about it here.

It didn’t take me long into my teaching career to realize I was a bad lecturer. Facilitating discussion fits my personality better. The more time I spent in the classroom and the more I read about teaching—Ken Bain’s What the Best College Teachers Do comes quickly to mind—the more I began handing control over to students. At first it was just here and there, like giving students a choice of what we’d do in class for the day. It has evolved to letting students choose readings, lead discussions, “teach” certain lessons as groups, and have input into assessment, among other capacities.

The reason I give students control—or power—can be simplified into a line from Spider-Man, which has come to be known as the Spider-Man Principle: “With great power comes great responsibility.” In other words, if I give them the power, then they take responsibility for their individual learning and for the learning of others in the class. For the most part, it seems to work; I would even say that giving away control has been one of the most effective things I’ve done as an instructor. Or so I’ve thought.

If this student’s piece of writing is referring to me, then, obviously, I’m not earning the respect of the students. I guess I don’t usually think about earning students’ respect; I try to focus more on keeping their attention and getting them to learn. Of course, respect and learning aren’t always mutually exclusive, so there’s room to improve there, somehow.

Have you tried giving more control to students, and, if so, how did it go?

[Creative Commons-licensed photo by Flickr user charliekwalker.]

• Establish a Skype ID, but as with e-mail addresses, be careful about the name you select. Better to use a proper name than a nickname. Remember that, before the call, you will need to accept an invitation to join the contact group of your caller.
• Purchase a Webcam, if you don’t already have one. You can’t do a video interview without one. (This may seem obvious, but I know one candidate who assumed that the creation of a Skype ID somehow took care of that detail.) You may also want to use a headset, so you’ll have your hands free for note taking.
• Preparation is key. Test the equipment with a friend before your Skype interview to make sure your connection is adequate and the volume is adjusted properly. Ask your friend how you sound over the phone. Practice answering common interview questions and prepare questions for your interviewers in advance. Sample questions might include: Why is this position available? What are the greatest opportunities for leadership in this role? What potential threats to success might I encounter in this role? You might also ask members of the search committee what they like most about their respective roles on the campus and why they are serving on this committee.
• Review your surroundings. Ceiling fans are distracting, overhead lights can look like spotlights, and open closet doors can be distracting. Carefully consider the background, and work to set the proper stage. Side desk lights may work best for lighting.
• Shut out distractions. Mute phones, and notify family members and friends that you are on a Skype call and are not to be disturbed. Close office doors so that pets and small children won’t interrupt the conversation. If you are interrupted, keep in mind that how you handle these distractions is very telling.
• Your appearance matters, as with an in-person interview. While you’ll be sitting in front of a computer screen, you will still be judged on your hair, makeup, and dress (from the torso up, anyway). I suggest a suit jacket and tie for men. A dress or jacket for women, accented with a scarf and simple jewelry, can make the right professional impression. Patterned shirts should generally be avoided, as they can be distracting. Don’t make the mistake of getting too comfortable—it’s better to sit at a desk in an office than on a sofa or easy chair.
• Be sure to answer the Skype call with audio and video. You’ll make an unfavorable first impression if you cannot manage the technology.
• Work on making a connection, as with a face-to-face interview. Look at the camera when you’re talking, and pay attention to your interviewers’ body language. It’s fine to glance at notes occasionally, but looking something up online or reading e-mails in the process may make you seem disconnected. Interviewers want to get a sense of how you engage with others and your presentation style.
• Relax and enjoy the process. If you have prepped ahead of time, you will be more comfortable with this added layer of technology. I get a good sense of the level of interest from candidates from both my phone and Skype calls. I can promise you, someone who is enchanting and engaging is a more interesting candidate.

Diane M. Fennig is a senior consultant with the Human Capital Group, an executive-search and leadership-consulting firm based in Brentwood, Tenn.

All too often, however, people forget about the “secret” members of some search and tenure committees—the administrative support staff—or underestimate their importance. The person who makes the travel arrangements for the interview will form an impression of the candidate. Support staffers likewise develop first impressions of new hires when helping newbies with the details of relocating. Even in the process of moving into an office and setting up IT equipment, technical and support staffers can build definite opinions of new colleagues. After a few years of service, so may the housekeeping and maintenance staffs.

I once heard a department secretary say she wished she could serve on, or at least provide input to, the various search committees she supported. “Without exception,” she said, “I can tell about potential issues with a new hire just from my dealings with a candidate in the interview process.”

I knew of a tenure-committee member years ago who would poll housekeeping staff for informal reviews of professors whose applications were forthcoming. Few things stick in the collective craw of support-staff members like a faculty member who is two-faced toward other campus employees.

The reality is that many unofficial conversations influence tenure decisions and the hiring process, even when the guidelines do not explicitly cite collegiality or community compatibility as considerations.

Do you know of any occasions where treatment of staff has affected either the hiring process or a tenure review?