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On Good Advice and Lowered Expectations

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By Grant Greene

I have just one bit of wisdom to offer. It's patently obvious and I'm sure you've heard it before. I mention it only because I had completely discounted it myself. Here it is: The academic job search will consume you. In a bad way. And it's expensive.

Recently I sent off my first round of applications. I'm a doctoral candidate in religious studies, so I applied for two positions in biblical studies, two in New Testament, and one in religions of late antiquity (my field, narrowly construed). For three and a half days I wrote, revised, and re-revised cover letters and CV's in order to send off my five applications. It was a whirlwind of paper and ink-jet cartridges. At the end of each day I was amazed: How could I have worked so long, and still failed to finish anything? I would try to reassure myself as I watched Nightline: OK, I'll finish this up first thing in the morning, and then back to work on the old dissertation. In no time it would be 8 o'clock the next evening, my research, my real work an ever more distant memory.

I have identified several reasons for the great time-suck of the application process. Part of the problem lies in the varying requirements of each institution. On the first read-through, job announcements all sound roughly equivalent: cover letter, CV, three references, and writing sample. Only on the closer, increasingly panicked read (three days before the deadline, just in time for Priority Mail) do the differences become apparent: one department wants a statement of teaching philosophy; one wants a separate statement of research interests; one wants student evaluations (with statistical summaries!); one wants a full dissertation chapter; one wants a sample of no more than 40 pages; one wants a sample of no more than 20 pages. Which chapter? Which 20 pages? Where the hell are my teaching evaluations? These small alterations add up quickly.

Part of the problem is the revision process itself. Rewriting a letter of application for each department is not a matter of changing names and addresses, but of wholesale redaction. Indeed, preparing cover letters is a great way to witness the uncertainty principle in a whole new light (and strangely, still more interesting than watching Copenhagen). That is, each revision, each attempt to place the text in its perfect and final form, simply introduces more errors into the text. One piece of advice I have consistently gotten is that any typo will instantly eighty-six the application. This is no doubt true, but easily leads the even slightly obsessive-compulsive applicant into a paranoid spiral of revision and proofreading. (Picture, for example, me in the post office taking all my papers out "for just one last look.")

Part of the problem is my equipment, rather typical for a grad student. I now see clearly the limitations of my old "bubble jet" printer. It is old and cranky, and no longer offers the crisp and clear printing of its youth. Thus, adding to my paranoid cycle of revisions is a frustrating back-and-forth between home and copy-shop, copy-shop and university, in search of a computer and affordable laser printing.

The good news is that I think I've settled into a routine; when the next batch is due I hope to be more methodical in my approach. Since I'm applying in three fields -- religious studies, classics, and history -- there are three different conferences, and thus three different timetables for applications.

While I have little advice of my own to offer, I have been seeking out as much as possible from others. Perhaps this is rooted in some deep-seated insecurity, my constant feeling of being out of my depth, i.e., feeling like a grad student. But I also happen to enjoy asking for advice. Plus, asking for advice is the second-greatest form of flattery. Nothing like a good dose of sucking-up as a prelude to asking a favor.

Thus have I ended my yearlong dissertation sequestration, setting up appointments with advisers, chatting in coffee shops, always asking the same battery of questions.

I have a nice spreadsheet with all my target institutions, job titles, due dates, etc., which I show to my mentors. I ask if they have any insights into these jobs, any "general advice." Of course, the subtext is probably clear: Do you know anyone on these committees? On a couple of occasions I have struck gold, and it may lead to some interviews that I otherwise would not have gotten.

Also at issue is how many schools I should apply to. I get starkly different counsel on this. My dissertation adviser recommends applying to only a few jobs. In his mind, I (or he, on my behalf) should attempt to divine from the advertisement what the committee really wants; if I'm not a close match, I shouldn't bother applying. Rejection hurts, why invite extra? Everyone else takes the opposite approach; you never know what's going on in a search committee, so go ahead and throw your hat into the ring. Who gets interviewed and who gets hired is basically unpredictable.

I've also asked for advice about conference interviews. My dissertation director advised me to avoid them, to say I wasn't available, "but could we meet for coffee sometime?" Another adviser told me that this was simply ludicrous; if someone did this on a committee that he chaired, the applicant would come off as aloof or arrogant, and wouldn't get an interview at all, let alone an informal meeting in the hotel bar.

The question, of course, arises of how to resolve conflicting advice. My rule of thumb is to follow the advice that I want to hear; this advice also tends to come from my younger and less reclusive mentors. So, should I apply to jobs in classics and ancient history, although my degree is from a religious-studies department? I got one yes and one no, so I'm applying.

Unfortunately, with all the advice I have gotten, there is not much encouragement to be found. Stories tend toward the absurd and terrible. One mentor tells of a search he ran at his previous employer, an elite liberal-arts college in Pennsylvania. For a nontenured, assistant professorship, he received 800 applications, many from professors already tenured at poorer-paying or geographically disadvantaged colleges. The point tends to be, don't get your hopes up, and don't take rejection too personally. And while lowering my expectations may have some positive benefit, it doesn't exactly light a fire under me to spend another month of application writing.

Indeed, discouraging news has already begun to trickle in, driven by our receding economy. The funding has already been axed for one of the five jobs I applied for, and, as it happens, the only job calling specifically for my specialization. The recession, especially the death of the tourist economy, has apparently hit the state of Florida hard; the first things to go are humanities positions.

I have been looking for encouragement wherever I can find it -- TV shows, advice columns, song lyrics, everything short of calling "Miss Cleo." The horoscope in my local weekly offered strangely prescient advice: "Time to take the training wheels off, my overqualified friend. Time to quit pulling your punches and sugarcoating the truth and saving yourself for something better. Get your ass farther out there on the line, my dear, or else stop complaining about how no one takes you seriously enough." Strange, in a community of would-be mentors, I get my best advice from Rob Brezsny, "free-will astrologer."

A recent visit to the House of Chao offered an even more encouraging fortune. Mind you, as a rule I distrust counsel given by foodstuffs. Nonetheless, my cookie told me, "Everyone thinks you are the greatest." True or not, I will keep this encouraging voice on my fridge until better news arrives.