This post will not cure your Impostor Syndrome

I signed up for the How to Survive Your PhD MOOC put together by Dr. Inger Mewburn. And although the live chat happens at the same time as my weekly team meeting, I've been following along as best I can. I'll start by getting this out of the way: sign up if you haven't already. The discussion, comment and support on the MOOC comment boards (and also via #survivePhD15) have helped me a lot over the last few jittery weeks.

Anyway, every week, I write a massive comment that will get buried. And I know that the concept of imposter syndrome has been written about endlessly. And I know that it's unlikely I can add anything new to the conversation apart from my own personal observations.

With all those caveats in mind, here are my own personal observations. 

1) Everyone feels like an impostor and this universality is quite heartening.

Module 3 of the MOOC was about confidence. Part of the courseware was the video by Sally Le Page that I've include at the top of this post. In the comments I read in response to this video, there were plenty of people with funding and acclaim who feel like impostors; there were plenty of people (non-funded, part-time) who feel like impostors. There were impostors straight out of their MA; there were impostors coming back to study.

While it's disheartening to know that so many brilliant, driven people feel this way, I do find it somewhat comforting. The fact that it happens to so many people makes me think that it's something inside of us (the sort of people who want to do PhDs) to compare ourselves to others, and to not always be complimentary in the comparisons we draw. If this sounds negative, it isn't: it means that to an extent, we have the ability to control how we view ourselves and our achievements. Perhaps I'm clutching at straws here, but if impostor syndrome isn't something inherent in the PhD process, then we might collectively have some control over it.

Of course, controlling how you feel about yourself isn't easy, or often conscious. Which brings me to my second observation.

2) I don't feel like an impostor. But only because I did for a long time.

The only impostor syndrome experience I can speak of personally is the experience of being working class at an elite university. Unlike Sally, I felt the impostor throughout most of my undergrad. Not just in terms of what I'd studied (for instance when I was the only person in a group of 6 who hadn't studied Latin or German), but how I spoke, what my family did for a living, whether I knew the right cutlery to use in hall and whether I used the term 'serviette' or 'paper napkin.' (That last example was pointed out in a seminar by a well-meaning tutor.)

Sometimes, I glibly say I used up all my impostor syndrome when I was an undergrad or I wouldn’t have survived. But, when I think more closely, I realise that I only ‘got over’ my impostor syndrome once I’d worked myself close to a nervous breakdown and realised there was still no way for me to definitively tell how 'good' I was. My essays weren't given numerical marks. My coursework grades were released at the same time my final results were. The two obvious, simple yardsticks weren't available to me. So, I gave up trying to measure my progress and accepted that all I could do was keep trying, and keep experimenting. And, keep feeling grateful for feeling stupid: it meant I was still learning.

I hadn't really thought about this experience until last week. And I don't quite know what to make of it. I'm grateful that I'm already familiar with a course of study that doesn't really have many goalposts. But equally, I know that this isn't a universal solution, or even a healthy one. And moreover, having this resilience going into the PhD is a privilege of the undergraduate education I was lucky enough to have.

So where does this leave those of us who feel like impostors? (Hence the title: this post will leave you no better off if you're suffering at the moment. Sorry.) But I do hope that it might prompt a conversation: do any other PhD students not feel like impostors?

A False Dichotomy

(Photo courtesy of Zazzle.com)

A few days ago, I was eyeing some of the back-to-school stationary on zazzle. (Because I'm a proper grown up, yes.) For some reason, zazzle sells not just diaries etc, but also some other 'college essentials.' Including this t-shirt. Which irritated me more than it should have done.*

When I sat and thought a bit about this, I realised that the irritation is part of something much broader: I get very irritated at the suggestion that academia (and by extension, intellectual pursuits) are at one end of a spectrum. Woman things (this can be make-up, an interest in clothing, a liking of popular or selfies) are the other end of that spectrum. By misfortune of being academically-inclined, while also being a woman, we must choose. We must choose EITHER selfies OR books. Each choice we make takes us one step closer to the end of the spectrum, and comes at the cost of the other: the only way to read more books is to take fewer selfies.

And, of course, this irritation is partly personal. My own approach to beauty work, popular culture and self-image could occupy an entirely separate (very boring) blog post.** But I'm not annoyed by this shirt because I feel personally victimised by it. I'm annoyed by this shirt because it's an example of the dichotomy I've just described. And this toxic dichotomy matters in an academic context because it's part of the way that academic authority is constructed (and invested) in certain types of people. If you haven't already read it, Rachel Moss sparked a discussion a while back that made this clear: academic authority exists in certain types of bodies - namely suitably masculine, white, able-bodied bodies.

So when we code 'feminine' things (an interest in appearance, popular culture, style, bright colours) as in direct opposition to the 'proper' world of academia (research, seriousness, high culture) we're directly supporting the gendering of academia as [white, hetereosexual, able-bodied] male. And this matters because academia is (like most institutions) rife with inequality.***

And, ok. I get it: for those of us just coming into this game, we want acceptance. We don't know how to be academics: there are no rules. We all feel like frauds and we all want to navigate those feelings and no longer feel like impostors. And so long as academia remains coded masculine and remains male-dominated, perhaps de-emphasising the aspects of ourselves that are coded as 'woman' means we feel like we're gaining more purchase a the system which is still coded 'man'. And perhaps that's a confidence boost that can help individuals navigate a very insecurity-inducing environment. I understand that desire.

But this confidence-boost is shallow, because it isn't based on the quality of your work. What's more, these actions have no long-term material value. For example no woman is ever going to be favoured for promotion or publication purely on the basis that she's never been seen wearing eyeliner. Accepting the dichotomy won't challenge inequality, it just allows inequality to perpetuate.

I feel grateful that the new platforms and online spaces researchers inhabit are challenging this dichotomy. The state of women in the academy is widely researched and disseminated. Alongside the discussions outlined above, the growth in researchers using blogs to talk about the rest of their life alongside their research may help break down this dichotomy. One recent exciting) Sartorial Science (run by Sophie Powell and Dr. Sam Illingworth) invites researchers to submit photographs of what they're wearing alongside a description of their research are.

These individual conversations (and our own individual efforts) have to exist alongside bigger institutional change. And I'm confident that the academy (like most institutions) will become more equal in time. In the meantime, I'll get to work on designing my 'MORE BOOKS MORE SELFIES' t-shirt.

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* Not least of all because of the irony of a pseudo-intellectual shirt making a grammatical error.

**Put short, it's complex: I often wear make-up; I rarely shave my legs; I watch RuPaul's Drag Race and listen to Bach; I rarely take selfies. None of these individual things matter so much apart from one characteristic that they share: none of these preferences interfere with my research.

*** Melissa Terras' blog about the representation of academics in children's books has a good round-up of some of the disparities in gender balance across academia. I'm currently looking for more resources on other inequalities in academia.

A Late Summer Lull

Photo taken by me.

A few weeks ago, I visited home for a week. Although I was back for a family christening, I decided to take full advantage of 'home' being an island. 

I caught up with friends and family. I ate a lot of seafood. I swam in the sea. I went for walks along the cliffs. I didn't check twitter. I read a lot. 

And then I came back. 

And then, not much, really.

It's been just under two weeks since I arrived back and I've been struggling to get back into the pattern of work I'd established. I've been having to use pomodoros to manage my time, otherwise I find myself ankle deep in tabs that have nothing to do with work. 

I think there are a few things that have contributed to this. Firstly, I got out of the habit of getting up early while I was home. I'm most productive before lunch. This means that I'm still struggling to get into my stride before lunch time. Secondly, because I'm focusing on a manuscript collection, I am still reading my primary texts. And - because of a lack of foresight - I am now left with mainly theological texts. Which aren't really my primary area of interest. It isn't that I don't find them interesting, it's just that they don't spark off lots of tidbits and trains of thought like other texts might. This means I'm less motivated to get on with reading them. 

Also linked to this is the fact that there is very little secondary literature on some of these texts. Which gives me less of a framework with which to approach them.

I haven't blogged about this until now because - frankly - I've been too busy beating myself up for this lull. How could I possibly be this demotivated? Why am I so lazy? Am I just too thick to 'get' theological texts? Or am just intellectually immature?

But now that I've sat down and had a stern talk with myself, I'm going to try this instead:

1. Set smaller goals. It's unlikely I'm going to write 4000+ on every grouping of texts this early on. Instead, I'm going to aim for more manageable goals. This week, for example, I want to finish the secondary texts and note down areas I'll explore.
2. Remind myself why I procrastinate, and stop it. Like most people, I procrastinate because I'm a perfectionist. I'd rather do less work than produce shoddy work. So I'm getting strict with myself: as of this week, LeechBlock is going to be back on my browser.
3. Figure out what I need to come back to. These texts are really exposing my unfamiliarity with theology, and reading history scholarship. Which is going straight on the list of areas to explore later.

Does anyone else feel demotivated after taking a break? Any tips would be gratefully received!

Diploma, Person, Power.

Yesterday, Jonathan Hsy asked:

How many of you academics display credentials (diploma, award/s, etc.) in your office? I feel weird about it #academia #humility

— Jonathan Hsy (@JonathanHsy) August 18, 2015

Rather than paraphrasing the whole conversation, I'll let you read it because it's fascinating. The main strands of the conversation have been collected (along with Jonathan's summary) here. What I want to pick up on is one particular area that was mentioned by a few people: whether displaying your certificates undermines your humility. Or worse, if it's a sign of arrogance.

As a woman, I get very edgy when the term 'arrogance' is used. When applied to women, it seems to be very easily confused with any of the following, in both professional and personal contexts:

• Rebutting a point in a debate;
• Being quiet;
• Being outspoken about your opinions; 
• Failing to vocalise a dislike of your appearance; or
• Acknowledging your achievements.

Although all of these uses frustrate me every time I encounter them, it's the latter point that concerns me here. For anyone, a PhD is a huge achievement. It's challenging (both intellectually and personally); it's difficult (both financially and emotionally).

But - and there is a but - the same outcome (a completed PhD) is a different achievement to each and every person. And for those of us who are outside of the demographic in whom academic authority is invested, this achievement means something different.

As Jonathan rightly suggests, for people who don't t embody academic authority (because it's still seen as invested in certain types of people: read white men, mainly) the display of certificates is a means of displaying that authority. It's a visual rebuttal to those who might question your worth. It's also a visual reminder of the people who shaped you.

I should disclose here: I'm a second generation immigrant. Neither of my parents completed their secondary education. No one in my family had ever graduated from university before me. And then I went and got into a prestigious university, and graduated.

In my undergraduate graduation photo, I am smiling awkwardly in the way you do if you're being instructed to hold a fake roll, and turn your body and tip your head and SMILE, LOVE! But my parents? They are there, in their best clothes they bought especially for the day, grinning from ear to ear with pride. I had never seen them look like that. 

If that photo didn't make me well up every time I look at it, I would probably put it in my office. But when I look at my certificate - when I see that achievement typed out in words alongside my [foreign as hell] name - I get a faint echo of what my parents must have felt that day. I feel grateful; I feel humbled; I feel proud of myself; I feel bemused that it ever happened. 

I don't feel arrogant. I don't think many of us do.

3-Month Update

In Numbers: 
Thesis words written: 7147
Non-academic conferences attended: 3
Supervisions attended:3
Crochet/Knitting projects finished: 4

In Words

If the relationship between me and my research were a romantic one, I would describe the first six months as the awkward first few dates. You meet this person and they seem promising. You’re at the very early stages of getting to understand them. How do you approach them?  How much time should you spend together? How should you spend your time together anyway? How do they fit into your life?

Over the last three months, my relationship with my thesis has had a lot of competition: attending two conferences; speaking at another; settling into a new city and a new flat; new hobbies and social groups; hosting family and friends. Some weeks, my thesis and I don’t get to spend much time together. 

But (and mainly because it’s an abstract concept, but I’m really enjoying anthropomorphising it) my thesis has remained loyal. It’s accepted my cancellations, it’s accepted my mind being elsewhere when we are together, and it’s waited for me to get back to it.

And when I’ve got back to it, we’ve done a lot together. I’m becoming more aware of what work patterns enable me to be most productive; I’m exploring ways that help me to write more effectively; I’m reflecting on where I need to deepen my understanding (social history, I’m looking at you).

So, here's how I've progressed on my goals from last time:

• Finish reading my primary texts. With hindsight, this was FAR too ambitious a goal. I've managed 25 texts out of 41. I'm over halfway there with a few long pieces to go.

• Draft a paper proposal for Gender and Medieval Studies. Work in progress: I have ideas, but they need shaping to better reflect the themes of the conference. Something to discuss with my supervisors.
• Continue to blog once a week. With the exception of two weeks, I've managed this. I'm now starting to plan posts ahead of time, so this should enable me to keep it up. I want to review whether once a week is sustainable in the long term, though.
• Write a blog post that gets a comment. Not yet. But this blog has now had 1100 page views in 3 1/2 months. (Thank you!)
• Sign up for Parenthood and Childhood in the Middle Ages. This is looking increasingly unlikely partly for budgetary reasons, and partly because of another commitment.

 Looking Forward: November 2015 

1. Finish my primary reading. No, really. I'm going to do it this time.
2. Decide on my next research goal. Getting through the primary reading has been my main goal. Once this is done, I anticipate I'll feel at a bit of loss. So I want to have a plan in place before November.
3. Send out a call for papers for a conference I’m organising. I am very excited to be organising a conference this early on in the process. More to follow.
4.  Hit 2,000 page views on this blog. I want this blog to be a place for discussion and for community. I have big ambitions for this space: why not pursue them?

Music to Write a PhD By

There are plenty of people I've spoken who say they can't possibly hope to study with music on. There are others who need music on to focus. And then there are people like me: my ability to study with music in the background depends hugely on the type of music and the type of task I'm engaged in. I've found I can't possibly read while I have music on.

 

But writing to music? Is a MUST for me. It sets a pace, keeps my mood up, and help's me focus. Accordingly, for me, writing music must be pacy, upbeat, and instrumental.

Here are some artists/tracks that have been fueling my writing at the moment: what are you listening to? (All hyperlinks are to Spotify; all videos are youtube.)

Roderigo y Gabriella

Roderigo y Gabriella are a Mexican guitar duo who perform intense, often uptempo, guitar duets. Apart from being in awe of how intricately they play, the pacing of a lot of their music is pretty well-matched to my typing speed.

Good for: Intense bursts of writing.

Bach - Brandenburg Concertos

I've had a soft spot for Bach ever since my first year at university: a graduate student tried to explain a chapter Joyce's Ulysses as a fugue and used Bach as an example. (Now that I've written that down, it's a pretty weird sequence, but it did make sense at the time.)

Anyway, the Brandenburg Concertos are A+ writing music. They're musically interesting, but each piece is pretty consistent (there aren't crashing crescendos here). And, some are more laid-back than others, allowing for shorter breaks, or 'down time' in your writing.

Good for: More paced, considered writing.

'How to Train Your Dragon' OST

OK. Before I start, I am obliged to point out that this film is adorable and if you haven't already watched it, you are missing out.

Good. Now that's out of the way and done with, let me explain why I like writing to this album. Like most soundtracks, this one has little motifs that reoccur throughout. And I like these because they catch my attention and (for some strange reason) help me re-focus if my mind is wandering.

Also, I find it hard to listen to 'Test Drive' and not feel a sense of achievement, which is nice when you're writing.

Good for: Air-punching motivation.

I would love to hear your recs for music that gets you writing: I'm always on the lookout for more.

The 17-Step Plan: An Update

(photo credit)

I am trying very hard to adopt writing habits that make writing less stressful. If you'd like to feel as anxious and squirmy as I do when I think about my writing habits, feel free to read back on the post where I detailed the old system: it's here.

In the last piece I produced for my supervisors, I tried my best to adopt an approach that wasn't necessarily quicker, but one which didn't feel so harried.  After writing my last post, I remembered a useful post by Dr. Nadine Muller in which she suggests a way to get over the fear of the blank page. I should state unreservedly here that I LOVE this approach because it means my work plan now looks like this:

1. Plan argument for essay, paragraph-by-paragraph
2. Collate evidence/sources for each paragraph
3. Write first draft: include references as you're writing
4. Review first draft: annotate each section, then type up annotations.
5. Review second draft.
6. Add any additional references
7. Final proof-read
8. Send it off.

The process is now 8 steps, rather than 17. I don't even feel anxious writing it out or anything.

Apart from making the initial act of sitting down to write, this approach had benefits the whole way through the writing process: it meant that references were always to hand, and that I always knew which part of my argument should be coming next. This meant that I was able to side-step any tangents, and resist the urge to cram in just a little more information than was strictly needed. (A chronic habit.)

Having references to hand also made it much easier to give broader context to my arguments (because the quotes/paraphrases I needed were right there). Having references to hand also makes it easier to distinguish between areas where more evidence is needed, and areas where you just need to insert one reference. Ultimately, this results in better writing (if I do say so myself - I'm yet to see if my supervisors agree).

For me, another key element was pacing. I always want to do things as quickly as possible: it's my default setting. (It's also largely the reason that I have so many bruises, cuts and scrapes and any one given time: speed doesn't always equal safety.) Pacing myself meant a few practical steps. It meant pausing to choose the correct phrase, rather than rushing to get something down. It meant working in short bursts, punctuated by long breaks. It meant dedicating nearly three hours to collating all the references I needed. It meant taking some of the pressure off. It meant a happier writing experience.


I can't say this approach was quicker, or less intense.  If you include the time that I spent collating references, I spent over 28 hours producing 4900 words. I don't know if producing that many words in that length of time is 'good' or 'bad.' 

Increasingly, I don't care: adopting this approach meant an intense week, but one that felt -- ultimately -- fulfilling. I haven't yet met with supervisors to discuss this piece. I know it won't be perfect. But taking more time to write means that I now have enough distance to start appraising my own work. 

And for an arch-perfectionist, that objective space is a huge step forwards.