2016: A Year in Photos

How I Quit Grad School Like a Champ

Someone recently asked me to how I quit grad school. 

At first I thought they meant the entire process of making the decision but they meant literally.  

And here it is, the email I sent to my advisor to inform him of my decision:

My advisor's reply:

And my reply to his reply:

Everything I Miss About Grad School

Here is a list of everything I miss about grad school:

From Gify

Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Disentangling Myself From Life-Sucking Situations

Quitting is Happiness

Quitting makes me happy. Quitting is a part of my self-care regimen. Quitting disentangles me from life-sucking situations. I am no mental health expert, but with over three decades of experience, I am a quitting expert.

A Brief History of Quitting

The story of how I quit my Ph.D. began when I was three years old. As the youngest of ten cousins and a rather amazing big sister, I grew up with a front row seat of How To Be Awesome While Still Pissing Off Grown-Ups.

Not that I was the best kid or a star pupil. I mean, I wasn't awful or anything. Though I was forgetful. Stubborn. Annoying, at worst. At best, I was clever. Clever enough to figure out that all I needed to stay out of trouble was the opposite of whatever mistakes my sister or cousins made to upset The Grown-Ups. These "mistakes" could send my parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents into Olympic levels of fury and frustration.

No surprise there. From breaking lamps to breaking curfew to breaking laws, I watched, listened, and learned, and made mental notes along the way of what not to do.

Age 3: Taking Ballet Class. That tutu was nothing but burlap and barbed wire. All I remember is the crying and screaming. Probably not what Tchaikovsky had in mind (I lasted about 2 weeks before I quit).

Age 5: Eating Fish. On a family vacation near Lake Erie, I walked with my father to the beach. On the way, he said, "Hey, look, Erica. A Rainbow Trout!" What he neglected to say was that it was a half-rotted Rainbow Trout crawling with maggots. I can still smell it (2 years).

Age 7: Liking Math. In 2nd grade, I sat behind a The Smartest Kid In The Universe. One day during a subtraction test, The Smartest Kid In The Universe turned around in his seat, looked at my test, then told me I was doing it wrong. "Really. So that's how it's going to be, focker? Fine." And so, I faked math anxiety until after college when I started tutoring trigonometry. Turns out, I'm pretty great at Math. Sure showed him (6 years).

Age 9: Playing Flute. For whatever reason, we had to take an instrument. Something about being raised in a musically gifted family gave the music instructor little reason to doubt what would surely be Erica's Natural Gift. Right? Not exactly. I cannot read music for the life of me (4 months).

Age 10: Playing Flute. Again. I told the music teacher I had to quit because I had just gotten braces and the pain was unbearable, but really I did not want to learn to read music. I could play by ear and heard that if you learn to read music, you lose that (1 month).

Age 12: Playing Flute. For crap's sake. It was my first year in a public school. For some cosmic joke of a reason I was assigned to Orchestra but when it became clear that I did not read music, the Orchestra teacher said: "Why don't you head over to Band..." And so I went to Band where I was handed another freaking flute. After the third day, I was asked to report to Study Hall (3.5 days).

Age 14: Playing Soccer. Ah, high school soccer. No idea what I was doing. But I was loud and had energy and a ride to the soccer field so I tried out made the cut as a sub. Turns out, I'd actually have to play during the games. Soccer is running. Running hurt to breathe (3 months).

Age 15: Swimming. Oh my god, Swim Team was worse than Soccer. The My teammates were amazing competitors so if I was fast enough to keep up, it hurt to breathe afterwards (3 months).

Age 16: Track and Fielding. And by "Track and Field" I mean "shot-put" and "discus." Again, perfect form, no distance. I made it the whole season. Ok, part of a season. It hurt to breathe when it was cold (A few weeks).

Age 18: Attending College Out of State, Pennsylvania. I went for the animation program, stayed for the guilt. At the end of the second semester, I knew I was wasting my parents' money. I'd done maybe a dozen homework assignments the whole year yet maintained Bs and As (2 semesters).

Age 22: Working at My First Real job, Western New York. After college, I took a job at a rough school. Going home feeling guilty about how good my life had been drained me (1 academic year).

Age 23: Working in Outdoor Education, North Carolina. Rewarding job, not enough hours, physically draining (7 months).

Age 24: Interning as a Production Assistant, California. Moving to Los Angeles was only ever going to be temporary. It was an internship for the final semester of my first graduate school program in film. In the same year: a cousin died, my sister had a baby, and I was homesick (8 months).

Age 25: Working as a Wilderness Instructor, Maine. Amazing job in a breathtaking place. But guess who finds out she has exercise- and cold-induced asthma? No wonder it hurts to breathe (1 academic year).

Age 25.5: Tutoring, Connecticut. A good job in an amazing town with a verbally abusive boss (6 months).

Age 26: Research job, Connecticut. An amazing job in an amazing city. After five years, I plateaued. The only room for advancement would be buying the company or getting a Ph.D. And I was homesick. Something about the Ph.Ds I worked with struck a chord with me. They had a great life: Flexible hours. A cafe on the first floor. They wore jeans to work. And work had couches! Yes, a Ph.D. sounded very good (5 years).

Age 31: Getting a Ph.D., Western New York. Nooope. Nope nope nope (2.5 years).

Age 33: Adjuncting as a College English Instructor, North Carolina. A great job in a nice town. There just wasn't enough work (1.5 years).

Age 34: Teaching College Writing, South Carolina. My first full-time job in four years, but I'd rather not have to walk around a crime scene to get to my car (7 months).

Age 35: Adjuncting as a Life-Experience-Into-College-Credit Instructor, Remote. Awesome job. But they offered me a promotion and I could not do both (5 months).

While this is not a complete list, it is more than enough to see a pattern: I quit in the service of my own health, sanity, or safety. I think I'm wired that way. And I'm grateful for it. I might not know my limits, but my instincts sure do.

The Little Engine That Could Was an Ass Hat

It's like that second engine who wouldn't help out those circus freaks in The Little Engine That Could. That second engine said no. He knew his limits. That's self-care. He'd been working all day and even said he was tired and needed a break.

Also, what if those circus freaks weren't just circus freaks? What if they were really black market engine-knappers who would stop at nothing to get theirs? Did the little engine think about that? Nope. He just jumps right in, thinking nothing of his own well-being.

God, that book pissed me off. The Little Engine wasn't any better than those other two engines who made a conscious choice not to expend their resources. 

I can't pour from an empty cup. No one can. So, take care of your self and never stop quitting.

Five Easy Pieces: Punching My Book Proposal in the Face

Five Easy Pieces: Punching My Book Proposal in the Face

Amazing cupcake on fire courtesy of this place.

I had an epiphany that made me punch my book proposal in the face. Last week I started a new job and was feeling pulled in so many directions with work, the book proposal, this blog, that blog, and these articles, that I didn't know where to start.

So I took a breath and approached myself as if I were one of my own overwhelmed students:

   
     Instructor Me: Hey there, Erica. Which of those tasks is most urgent?

     Me: All of them.

     Instructor Me: Great! Now, which task are you avoiding?

     Me: The annotated table of contents for the nonfiction proposal.

     Instructor Me: Why?

     Me: Because I don't know if this book will ever sell, so what's the point?

     Instructor Me: Ah. Well. That sounds like a problem for Future Me. Would you send a baby to prom?

     Me: What?

     Instructor Me: Exactly. So why not combine the annotations with a blog post? You like blog posts.

     Me: I guess. I mean...It would be cool to use this blog as a place to authentically draft my chapters. All I need are the mini-sections I'm going to use in each chapter and start there. 

     Instructor Me: And what are those mini-sections?

     Me:Uhm...The Confession, The Story, The Hindsight, The Takeaway, and The Resources.

     Instructor Me: Great! Let's do this!

     Me: But what if the book doesn't sell?

     Future Me: LOL

And so, Dear Reader, I have a solution. My next dozen or so blog posts will be structured how I'm planning the book as well. With these five pieces:

          The Confession: A true confession about my time as PhD student.

          The Story: The story behind the confession.

          The Hindsight: What I realized a little too late.

          The Takeaway: What I've done or improved upon since the hindsight.

          The Resources: Resources I wish I had before I made these mistakes.

I haven't the slightest idea if the book will end up exactly with those five sections, exactly, but it's my starting point.

So here we go.

The Confession

I might be writing this non-fiction book proposal because I'm too chicken to finish the MG horror book. I know it started that way, but I genuinely can't tell anymore.

The Story 

This blog used to be called The Davis Girl, but now it's specific to my time as a PhDidn't. This is intentional because one major section of a non-fiction book proposal is my personal platform, and how it relates to this topic. So the new focus on this blog does double duty for me: It keeps me focused and helps me draft the chapters of Confessions of a PhDidn't.

The Hindsight

I should have been updated this blog weekly, if not monthly while I was in grad school. Then, it would have served as a perfect archive in my book. While there are some posts from that time, it's mostly just a glaring gap in time.

The Takeaway

Our forebears kept journals as a record of their daily lives. Why not maintain that tradition in our current literacies? I do keep scrappy journals, but something about a public web log ups the ante. I'm already editing as I type this. 

The Resources

Whoa. I just found an amazing article that's going to help me retroactively spruce my archives up, a bit. Take a look here for tips on how to increase blog traffic. 

The name of this site alone with an article on why we should blog makes me so happy.

Anyone else? How is your blog going? What are you punching in the face?

Let me know in the comments! 

The Davis Girl vs. A PhDidn't: The Path of Least Resistance

The Davis Girl:
Or the blog formerly known as this one.

Confessions of a PhDidn't:
Or the blog now known as this one.

Introduction: The Big Picture

The Davis Girl is now Confessions of a PhDidn't.

I've been considering starting a new blog anyway, and this was the path of least resistance. Why reinvent the wheel when I could just rename the thing? And right now, I could use some simplicity.

Background: What the What

As you probably know, I write scary stories for kids. Some of these stories might even get published.

However, I decided to take a break before rewriting my first Alphagories book. In the meantime, it's time to tell the story about my time as a PhD student. Why?
The voices said so.

Methodology: How the Things Are Done

The end game for my PhDidn't story is a cautionary humor memoir/handbook for struggling grad students. Because sometimes it's OK to quit. More on that in a few posts.

No, I don't know if Cautionary Humor Memoir/Handbook is an actual genre, but it is now.

I wasn't planning on beginning this project so soon, but when I shelved the scary book project, the PhDidn't story wouldn't leave me alone. It's all I could think about. I dreamed about it a few times too. But how different could non-fiction be from middle grade horror fiction:

Write the thing.

Query the agents. Blammo. Right?

Results: The Things About It

Wrong. Turns out: Nonfiction gets a proposal not a full manuscript. 

A nonfiction book proposal has about eight some-what agreed upon sections which you can learn about here or read more about here.

Screen shot from proposal Table of Contents

What I appreciate so far about this whole process is that it reminds me of academia: everything has a place. And it better be there. Or else.

And I like it.

I never cared much for schedules or structure, but now that I know how much easier it is on me when there's no guesswork, I crave it.

There's method to this nonfiction proposal madness.

And I got to make a progress chart. I've wanted to do this for my fiction projects before, but it never made sense to me because I kept changing chapters and scenes and structure and...

Roll that beautiful bean footage:

Who doesn't love a star chart?

Discussion: The Part With More Info

Moving forward, this blog will center on the writing, content, and progress of Confessions of a PhDidn't: How to Quit Grad School Like a Champ. If anything staying to this narrow of a focus will keep me on track. At this point, I am drafting the proposal itself. 

Here we go.