The Chronicle of Higher Education
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Tuesday, June 24, 2003

First Person

How to Handle 12 Interviews in 45 Days

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In the space of 45 days this spring, I have had the good fortune to complete a dozen interviews for faculty openings in computer science. Each interview lasted a day or two -- not including travel time to and from each university -- so, as you can imagine, I have done little else.

In sharing with you some acquired wisdom from this experience, let me start with the least consequential:

  • When it comes to hotel-morning television, the hourly loop of ESPN SportsCenter is significantly less annoying than ceaseless war coverage.

  • If you fly home immediately after interviewing, leaving your tie on will get you better service at the airport.

  • Nothing indicates that one's graduate-student days are numbered more than getting clothes dry-cleaned twice in a month.

Random observations aside, I've learned that negotiating that many interviews requires a surprising amount of logistical planning. While a staff member from each department was generally helpful with hotel and transportation information, I still feel as though I have earned a minor in travel arrangements.

One logistical annoyance is the misplaced priorities of campus auditors: No department I encountered complained about reimbursing my air-travel costs, despite a couple of exorbitant fares. But staff members often resisted reimbursing me for unusual charges such as an extra night in a hotel or an airline-change fee, even when the net result saved all parties involved hundreds of dollars. (I've found that mentioning such problems to your faculty host usually makes them disappear rapidly.)

But enough about my life as a frequent flier. Let's discuss how enjoyable it is to spend an entire day with people deciding your future. As it turns out, it is enjoyable, but extremely tiring. At the end of the day, I could usually put a face to each name on my schedule (i.e., that wilted piece of paper in my pocket). If you want to remember much more than that, then forcing yourself to jot notes before collapsing onto the hotel bed is mandatory. One compromise is to replace your note-taking with semicoherent rambling over the telephone to a significant other.

A typical day begins with breakfast, usually with your host (often the faculty member with research interests closest to yours), but sometimes with the faculty member who least minds early-morning meetings. Caffeination is crucial, but it may be a couple hours before a convenient bathroom break arrives.

The rest of the day consists of two meals, an hourlong seminar, a bunch of 30-minute meetings with faculty members, and a meeting with several graduate students. As far as I can tell, meetings with students and deans are the least important. (The former has little influence and the latter has little interest so long as you look good on paper and the department wants you.) Yet students often ask the toughest questions and act the most formal. ("Next question: How would you describe your ideal research group?") My guess is that faculty members have honed their ability to weave their questions into what seems like a regular conversation.

The seminar sounds innocuous enough: Give a one-hour talk on your research. But here is the catch: you must use this hour to convince everyone in the department that you are a good teacher; that your dissertation research was interesting, novel, and difficult; that your future plans are ambitious, achievable, and a good match for the department; and that you can give intelligent answers to questions from experts in your field and from nonspecialists.

As for meetings with individual faculty members, they think they are demonstrating friendliness and openness by asking if I have any questions about the department, university, or city. But after a while it becomes a burden to keep making up new questions or nod politely as you hear answers you already know.

My final complaint concerns the late-evening sneak attack. Imagine you have just had a nice two-hour dinner after 10 hours of meetings. Your companions are enjoyable. You have heard about their families, their favorite sports teams, some high jinks from their graduate-school days, all while enjoying a glass or two of wine. Then, just as you're expecting the bill to arrive, they suddenly revert to interview mode, wanting to know your life plans and why their department should be a part of them. "That's a great question," you say, while internally considering whether stabbing them with your fork would let you avoid answering.

Despite my cynicism about interviewing, I actually found the process useful. It allows both sides to learn as much about the other as possible in order to make an informed decision. It is also a unique opportunity to meet new colleagues and advertise your work. In short, it was a lot of fun, and I never want to do it again.

Two trends have surprised me about the post-interview maneuvering. First, some of my hosts (who clearly hope to make me an offer) have been openly strategic with me. Should certain issues arise during the deliberations about my candidacy, they want to know what defense I would suggest. They ask how my meetings went with particular difficult-to-please people. The second thing I've noticed is how remarkably honest some hiring committees are about constraints and preferences. Some departments will tell me why they are delaying a decision about my candidacy and will even given a rough estimate of whether I will get an offer. In return, I tell them why I remain interested in their department and why I may prefer other places. Everyone wants to know where they stand, and being misleadingly optimistic (beyond a point) accomplishes little.

I can report some preliminary good news out of my 45-day odyssey. I have received two job offers to date, and several other departments have given me positive signals. I'm going to revisit a small number of campuses before making a final decision. I won't wear a tie this time, but I will need to have questions ready for everyone who offers to answer them.

Joseph Livingston is the pseudonym of a doctoral student in computer science at a top East Coast research university. He is chronicling his search for a tenure-track job this year.