Literary Life

I just finished reading Death of a Writer, by Michael Collins. It's sort of a murder mystery, and sort of an analysis (indictment?) of academia, particularly the writing and study of literature. Some of the novel, set in a small, fictional New England college called Bannockburn, hits a little too close to home for me, since I attended a small, New England college, and because I later taught literature and writing to college students in the manner of Adi Wiltshire, who is a seventh-year graduate student on the verge of getting kicked out for lack of progress on her dissertation. Late in the novel, she is driving with Allen Horowitz, a writer who has become rich and famous by "reconceptualizing" the coffee table book, when she has the following outburst:

[Adi] said in a searching way, "How come life feels so unreal, so meaningless? You know, somewhere along the way I think I lost something...lost the reality of reality, locked away with my books, all those years wasted, tearing things apart, dismantling things, debunking false power structures, sexual, economic, and otherwise, not out of some sense of nihilism, but believing that what one had to do was transcend the ordinary to arrive at the profane. There was something permanent and transcendent about the college...from its old ivy-covered buildings to its aging faculty." Adi took a shallow breath, shivered again. "It existed outside of real life. It came to stand against the transitory nature and failure of everything I had lived through. But the thing is, now I don't know how to reconcile that life with this life out here. I have this superficial sense of self-consciousness. I see myself as nothing but a character passing by in a car. I see myself as nothing."

Adi hasn't finished her dissertation, she feels, because she has nothing to say. When she does catch a break, it's only because the attempted suicide of another character initiates a chain of events in which she becomes the executor of his estate. She is able to capitalize on the fervor with which his fiction, written in quiet desperation and previously unpublished, is embraced in the wake of the scandal. Even though she ultimately garners a peachy tenure-track position at another exclusive, private college, she recognizes that her "dream job" is simply the result of learning how to play the game. She resigns herself to being the facilitator, the conduit of genius, rather than a creative force herself.

There was a time when I felt very lucky to be studying literature, to be "reading for a living," as I winkingly told people, and hopeful that this would lead to a busy, purposeful life in which I was stimulated and fulfilled. (Sounds good enough to be almost naughty, doesn't it?) I enjoyed my eight-hour sojourns in the library, snaking through the stacks in search of the ultimate justification for my argument. I buzzed like an extreme athlete when I finished a paper just minutes before a deadline, instinctively knowing that I'd nailed it, stuck the landing, even the German judge would give me a 9.9. I enjoyed discussing passages like the one above, but more than just enjoyed it, I felt there was some intrinsic importance in the act of discussing things. Analyzing texts could make me smarter, bit by bit, and when I was smarter, bit by bit I could contribute to the world.

I finished my Ph.D., wore my cap and gown along with hundreds of others, took photos in which I'm smiling with a tassel in front of my face. Officially, I have the right to be addressed as "Dr." now. Not to brag, but about 50 percent of Ph.D. candidates in the humanities do not finish that dissertation and graduate. It's lonely, isolating work, writing a 300 page book with no one to talk to, no one to validate your ideas, no one to remind you not to spend the day watching reruns of 90210 and eating Nilla wafers out of the box. The people who finish tend to be focused, disciplined. They know what they signed up for, and are prepared to follow the necessary steps to achieve recognition, which is NOT a diploma--it's a job. And job is the wrong word, because being an academic is a lifestyle that encompasses so much more than working. Yes, it's about teaching, about writing and research, but it's about seeing the big picture for all three. Most of all, it's caring not just about what you do, but what you THINK, because as a writer and academic, you are what you think.

From the earliest days of my coursework, I could tell that I didn't understand that part. It's not that I am fundamentally opposed to any of the elements--on the contrary, reading, writing, researching, teaching, discussing and thinking are probably my favorite things to do. Somehow, though, bringing them all together in an organized, cohesive, progressive fashion overwhelmed me. Very early on, I knew I wasn't up for it. In fact, I was sitting in yet another droning, humorless, lingo-stuffed seminar in my second year of classes when I decided to drop out and move to New York, where I'd show up at Entertainment Weekly and work my way up to movie reviewer. I told a classmate my plan during the break. His expression didn't even change. "Have some coffee," he said. "You'll feel better."

That's a funny story, but it's not his fault that I didn't do it. I didn't do it because I was afraid, which is why I haven't done a lot of things. But I don't think I didn't become an academic because I was afraid. Sure, that would have been terrifying--week-long interviews at colleges in the midwest where a dozen people observe how you use your fork!--but I've plunged right into terrifying things when I really cared about them.

Do I regret not being an academic? I don't think so. I remember one of my committee members, a delightful, brilliant woman who's had tenure forever, reaching across her desk to grip my wrist. "You should write a biography. It would be fun. People would actually read it. Get out while you can. If you stay here, no one will ever see what you write."

I didn't seriously consider writing that biography, nor have I ever *seriously* considered writing anything. I never faced the question, "If I'm not an academic, what will I be instead?" Now--again, I recognize this is an excuse--I spend most of the day wiping things (dishes, counters, noses, bums) and can't seem to think about much at all. Like Adi, though, I have been rigorously trained to do something that I'm not really doing. And that makes it hard to accept ordinary life. I have "a superficial sense of self-consciousness" about spending each day as a mom without a job. Is this what it's supposed to look like? Am I doing it right? Am I supposed to be this bored? When people ask, "Are you working?" why do I wince before I answer? Yes, yes, I know this is a job in its own right, and yes, yes, I know I made this choice. That doesn't change my overwhelming sense of ennui, however. I watch myself, the character passing by in the car, and wonder why she doesn't do more of...what? Something in which I am part of a community, I know that much. Now I am so very often alone.

Do I regret being a mom? Not for a minute. Jarrah is my daughter, and I've made certain choices in order to find her and get to her. I also don't blame her for the way I feel. Whatever I am struggling with was going on long before she arrived on the scene.

Like Adi, I've spent years tearing things apart. I have learned to do it well and I'm really good at it. Also like Adi, I want to build something instead, to create, but I'm not sure I have it in me. At the end of the novel, Adi stands by her office window, drinking coffee and watching the rain, musing about the papers she'll be grading over Thanksgiving break. I felt envious of her, in a way, because she achieved what I didn't. But I also felt a kinship with her, because things didn't turn out quite how she expected.