(no subject)
To read more carefully later: From Rumors to Facts: Career Outcomes of English PhDs (Ten Years Later)
Waffling, waffling, waffling. Waffling.
At the moment, it's mostly the "I won't have my PhD 'til I'm at least 30, should I even bother?" issue I'm angsting about. To be honest though - especially if I'm not ultimately going to become a professor, which I'm probably not - getting another decade to bask in the (albeit still difficult, stressful, always potentially damaging and politically fucked up) intellectual-creative flavored nurturant glow of (good) academia sounds awfully appealing. As long as I'm careful not to get too immersed, and to cut the whole thing with as much real world experience and regular intervals of active engagement as one can manage (while trying to complete a PhD, ha.) (But on the other hand, if it took me a few years longer to complete the degree because I was simultaneously getting other relevant working experience ... then it's reasonable to assume I'd still be at least equally, if not better, set up to move into another worthwhile and fulfilling occupation post-graduation, regardless of whether I'm 31 or 34.)
You know, when it comes down to it, I'm really not worried about me. I'm pretty sure, considering empirical evidence, that whichever paths I might choose to take education, career, and adventure-wise, they would end up taking me to interesting, inspiring and intellectually/spiritually/creatively fulfilling places. Basically because I just can't fathom settling for anything less, seeing as I'm going to be dead soon. But I worry about August, what he needs and wants, and what various impacts different choices would make on his life and ours together. Given his relative lack of both freedom and desire to just randomly take off to the seventhousand corners of the globe, is it fair of me to be making drastic and sweeping choices that may commit me to months- or years-long courses of action in distant locales, without any really concrete understanding of how these decisions are necessarily going to facilitate the achievement of my ephemeral goals - or even what achieving them might look like - aside from a quantum-faltering belief in my own Robin Hoodedness and a sort of optimistic faery faith that Reality once whispered me the 'meaning of life' and has never let me down since? I mean, he's going to be 30 before I am. And then I'm sure we'll all have midlife crises to contend with. ... Which is terrifying.
So, think I could get some syrup for this waffle?
Oh! But I'm about an hour and a half's worth of steady work away from meeting my work goal for the week! After that, I'll probably try to get all my new codes entered into the computer and take a couple of files home to start tomorrow. I'd like to stay ahead as long as possible, since I know I'm going to crash at some point, so better to use the energy while I have it. I wish I could turn all this overconsumption I've been doing lately into art instead. Hell, I wish I could even turn work into art. But at the moment, creativity's a luxury (that I spent all up like extravagant mad all summer). The price: I'm a robot. Chug chug chug.
Waffling, waffling, waffling. Waffling.
At the moment, it's mostly the "I won't have my PhD 'til I'm at least 30, should I even bother?" issue I'm angsting about. To be honest though - especially if I'm not ultimately going to become a professor, which I'm probably not - getting another decade to bask in the (albeit still difficult, stressful, always potentially damaging and politically fucked up) intellectual-creative flavored nurturant glow of (good) academia sounds awfully appealing. As long as I'm careful not to get too immersed, and to cut the whole thing with as much real world experience and regular intervals of active engagement as one can manage (while trying to complete a PhD, ha.) (But on the other hand, if it took me a few years longer to complete the degree because I was simultaneously getting other relevant working experience ... then it's reasonable to assume I'd still be at least equally, if not better, set up to move into another worthwhile and fulfilling occupation post-graduation, regardless of whether I'm 31 or 34.)
You know, when it comes down to it, I'm really not worried about me. I'm pretty sure, considering empirical evidence, that whichever paths I might choose to take education, career, and adventure-wise, they would end up taking me to interesting, inspiring and intellectually/spiritually/creatively fulfilling places. Basically because I just can't fathom settling for anything less, seeing as I'm going to be dead soon. But I worry about August, what he needs and wants, and what various impacts different choices would make on his life and ours together. Given his relative lack of both freedom and desire to just randomly take off to the seventhousand corners of the globe, is it fair of me to be making drastic and sweeping choices that may commit me to months- or years-long courses of action in distant locales, without any really concrete understanding of how these decisions are necessarily going to facilitate the achievement of my ephemeral goals - or even what achieving them might look like - aside from a quantum-faltering belief in my own Robin Hoodedness and a sort of optimistic faery faith that Reality once whispered me the 'meaning of life' and has never let me down since? I mean, he's going to be 30 before I am. And then I'm sure we'll all have midlife crises to contend with. ... Which is terrifying.
So, think I could get some syrup for this waffle?
Oh! But I'm about an hour and a half's worth of steady work away from meeting my work goal for the week! After that, I'll probably try to get all my new codes entered into the computer and take a couple of files home to start tomorrow. I'd like to stay ahead as long as possible, since I know I'm going to crash at some point, so better to use the energy while I have it. I wish I could turn all this overconsumption I've been doing lately into art instead. Hell, I wish I could even turn work into art. But at the moment, creativity's a luxury (that I spent all up like extravagant mad all summer). The price: I'm a robot. Chug chug chug.