“Why don’t you keep your computer in your office?” “Because,” I reply, “I work at home so I can concentrate.” “Why can’t you concentrate in your office?” Well, I usually respond, in order to write—not grade papers, prepare lectures, or design exams—I need to be alone.
I’ve been having variants of this conversation for years. I’m not a hard-boiled misanthrope. But I believe the best work, particularly that dinosaur known as the single-author scholarly book or article, often gets done in solitude. Heck, I’ll go out on a limb and say that all writing requires solitude and silence. For me. Perhaps not for others.
But in academe, there is a push to collaborate—on anything, on everything. Is everyone collaborating but me? In literature, single-author work is still the norm. We like to think the so-called real world, in which teamwork and crowdsourcing are the order of the day, is far away from us. That’s how I console myself during another evening at a conference hotel, rereading my presentation, brushing sandwich crumbs off the bedspread. I’d like to think we don’t need to see and be seen to produce quality work. But the academic ethos is changing, and it makes me nervous.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve enjoyed sitting around a crowded restaurant table, discreetly displaying my name badge, trying to make intelligent yet entertaining conversation. But I doubt it has advanced my career. Socializing is its own reward, and yet the current stress on networking often makes us feel as if more is at stake than mere companionship.
I still feel guilty about one encounter I had after a late-afternoon session at the Modern Language Association’s last annual meeting. In a rare show of extroversion, I was meeting some colleagues for dinner. A young woman watched our group convene, then edged up to me. “Hi,” she said. “Are you going out to dinner?” She looked embarrassed and desperate. “Mind if I tag along?” I muttered something about advance reservations, struck by her boldness and awkwardness. That can’t possibly be how networking is done. I felt mean, yet the following night, as I typed away, far from the name-tagged crowds, I wondered if I should’ve done the same thing when I was a student, or even as an untenured assistant prof. Would it have helped me gain a job, a publishing contract, an appreciative blurb on a book jacket? Is my nearly pathological introversion a professional liability?
It might be if I wrote commercial books: Reading tours and book signings are de rigueur for trade authors. Even though writers have long been considered a reclusive species, they are expected to maintain a web presence, self-advertise, and create a personal “brand.” I always assumed the scholarly world was different, but in this postrecession age, even university presses are hoping for large sales. Publishing a painstaking study of a specialized topic by a little-known author does not make economic sense. Several excellent presses have recently shut down; others have narrowed their focus; a few are known as places that will only publish you when you’re famous, and not a minute before.
What about the scholarly work accomplished behind closed doors, while the rest of the world is swapping business cards? A Berkeleyan question comes to mind: If a scholar does excellent work and nobody reads or hears it, does it make an impact? Some self-promotion is necessary. It takes gumption to forcefully pitch your beloved project to an editor. Academic writing requires qualifications and footnotes; the language of PR isn’t our native tongue. At least not mine.
When I attempted to pitch my recent book to a high-profile editor at a top-tier university press, I got a five-minute hearing. Standing up. In an exhibition hall. I was so nervous that I stammered my way into complete unintelligibility. I had a nine-page proposal on my laptop and gibberish in my brain. After suspicion gave way to pity in his eyes, he told me to have more confidence in my project.
But I don’t lack confidence in my projects; I’m just tongue-tied at the prospect of promoting myself. Temperament may come into play here, but also the nature of academic work. Most of us do specialized research because we have to. We can’t reiterate the same basic premises and conclusions; to be innovative, we must specialize. When I try to compress a long project into a sound bite, I fear I have undersold it. Yet in an age of networking and self-promotion, the ability to cram years of research into a single tweet—hopefully to be read around the world—is greatly desired. University administrators ask us to trumpet our achievements, to give ourselves good press. This requires both gumption and chutzpah, as it’s not always clear when to pick up our trumpets. “I just delivered an excellent paper,” you might wish to brag. “So did I,” your colleague might respond. Then what? Mutual pats on the back?
The fact is, I’d rather spend time writing, in as much solitude as I can muster, than advertise it. Should I tweet about forthcoming publications? Should scholarly work be advertised on Facebook? I cherish my minuscule group of Facebook friends, and can only imagine them “liking” a publication out of loyalty and pity. When my publishers sent me sheaves of order forms to distribute at conferences, I slunk around hallways like a thief in the night, plunking down a stack in what seemed a good location and then scurrying away. Publicly begging for book sales just felt wrong.
Even if some can slouch through the world inconspicuously, nobody can ignore the competition for students. Here, we are asked to sell not just goods but services: our take on the modern poetic canon in 14 fun-filled weeks. The desire to attract students isn’t a bad thing, but such self-advertisement seems inappropriate. I dearly love what I teach but would like to think that its quality speaks for itself. As for those who don’t care about, or for, poetry—well, they wouldn’t be happy in my classes even if I beguiled them in. The best I’ve been able to do is crack the lame old joke: “If you’re not sick of me yet, then feel free to sign up for my other courses.”
Students choose courses and majors for their own reasons; my role is more counselor than cheerleader. When one student told me he’d considered graduate school but craved a bigger salary than teaching could provide, I didn’t contradict him, though I talked up the other benefits of my work. “I just had a great conference trip to Albuquerque and got reimbursed for it,” I offered. He stared me down. “Albuquerque?”
I happily say I love my job, which is true, and tout its intellectual rewards, but he sought a more conventional type of luxury. We can’t all become hucksters selling the academic lifestyle to boost enrollments. Most people realize that the best sales pitch doesn’t always match the best product, and I suspect most instructors feel uncomfortable competing to publicize themselves loudly and relentlessly.
Which brings us back to the solitude-and-silence dilemma. How much does a scholar lose in work time when called upon to pitch, advertise, and network herself into a frenzy? Perhaps it is time to reaffirm the value of quiet, solitary, unglamorous work, and to recognize its necessity as well as its pleasure.
