Identifying the Problem

This week, instead of concentrating on writing, I will install myself in the archives to delve into more eighteenth-century French sources. Right now, I have about two months of translation in front of me. Though I love the operas I am translating, the process itself is tedious. Yesterday, as I began translating piles of libretti, I witnessed and succumbed to a fascinating array of procrastination tactics. Here is just a sample:

* "urgent" call sister to make sure she is surviving her last year of vet school
* had to organize a pile of papers
* needed to spend quality time with the kitten
* took a walk to "clear my head"
* went out for coffee (does this count?)
* read a fashion magazine to "take a break" (from what?)
* snack break..brain food!
* meditation to relieve stress
* spent time staring down the pile of translation designated for the day's work

Translation accomplished: Not enough.

This post is a kind of confessional. Most people, perhaps especially academics, don't want to admit they have a problem. While there are supportive communities for drinking, gambling, and overeating, scholars are often quiet about writing blocks and writing anxieties. The Chronicle for Higher Education has revealed frightening evidence that scholars have been paralyzed by a problem. In 1999, this periodical indicated that 25% of faculty members regularly spend _no_ time during the week on writing. What's going on?

Writer and teacher at UCLA, Wendy Belcher, suggests finding a person or group where scholars can discuss writing (instead of just criticizing it) - a place where we may admit to negative feelings and experiences connected to writing. For me, at least at the moment, I feel overwhelmed at the prospect of finishing my dissertation in the next year and a half. Can I do it? Will it be good? Will I get a job because of it? There is a lot of presssure riding on it, for sure. But, at least, I am not in denial about my problem.

How Not to Write a Conference Paper

With my game face on, I entered the swarming mass of musicologists at our annual conference over the weekend. I chatted with colleagues while simultaneously scanning the crowd, searching for important scholars that I wanted to meet. I diligently rehearsed my one line answer to the inevitable question, "What are you working on?" Proceeding smoothly through such inquiries, I, unfortunately, bungled my way through the follow-up questions. Luckily, I printed off some dissertation abstracts, which I optimistically imagine may have redeemed one particularly embarassing debacle. Yet, in an amazing reverse of personality,I transformed from a reticent corner-hugger into a skilled self-promoter. It seems as though I finally harnessed my father's political gene.

Annual conferences, while certainly about schmoozing with the right people, is also a foray into the wilds of conference paper writing. The best papers possess an elegant, conversational style. These authors take care to write in short sentences, provide appropriate visual aides, and play at least a couple samples of the music to which the paper refers. On the other hand, when I find myself imagining of a steaming cup of hazelnut coffee, I know a conference paper has let me down. Over the weekend, I witnessed a particularly sad instance of conference paper writing. First of all, the handout consisted of four pages of a multilayered chart which analyzed the one musical example discussed in the paper. Visually confusing, the handout provided little clarity. The author spent two thirds of his time going through this handout, leaving only ten minutes for the real payoff of the paper. Though this paper was about mysticism, the paper itself, disappointingly, was mystifying while meaning to demystify.

While sometimes boring and anticlimatic, sitting through conference papers can reinforce some basic conference writing concepts. First of all, one must actually read the paper outloud in private before giving it before a crowd of bleary-eyed, hungover conference participants. Secondly, one must at least try to make sure that handouts make sense and will not encourage an audience pumped up on caffeine to feel more antsy and nervous. Lastly, a conversational paper and amiable demeanor is far more effective than a complicated paper, a belligerent tone, and erratic hand gestures.

As I finally begin coming off my own sugar high, caffeine binge, and exhaustion from a late night singfest, I begin thinking of my own conference papers coming up. I feel a renewed sense of confidence after seeing how not to write a conference paper.

This week I clicked my computer keys frantically as I stared down two impending deadlines. Deadlines always seem to plot against my composure. Physically bedraggled, with untamed hair and puffy eyes, my mood is rendered visibly. To forewarn others, I keep a sign near my computer which, on one side, advises "Approach with caution," while the other side requests, "Do not feed or touch the bear."

I am in two writing seminars this quarter: one for grant-writing and the other for the dissertation. These courses provide two things that I have found essential in the writing process: outside readers and people holding me accountable for a writing goal. In addition to the readers in these courses, I have two peers whom I call upon to unravel my prose. One is an English scholar (who happens to be my boyfriend); he is an innovative thinker and an elegant writer. He and I both work on the eighteenth-century, so he is an excellent resource in this regard. He also returns my work in remarkable time. My second reader is a peer in my discipline. He knows quite a bit of gender and performance theory, and often helps me think through the ways the music and performance might be working. In the last few days, I have even been advocating outside readers to my younger colleagues.

Since I work on the Enlightenment, it is nice to cultivate my own Republic of Letters. While we often discuss each other's writing over steaming cups of tea or coffee and flaky croissants, I would imagine the seminar room doesn't have the same opulent atmosphere of an eighteenth-century salon. Yet it can, at times, have the same constructive criticism and polemicism.