The universe does not negotiate

Whether we admit it or not, we all have beliefs about the nature of the universe. When I say “universe,” I don’t mean our tiny solar system and all the vast galaxies beyond. By “universe,” I mean whatever force works on us in our daily lives. Reality, maybe, is another word for it. As in, does the universe (AKA reality) care what I want or believe? Humans have asked this question since they painted with ochre and blood on cave walls.

The universe existed long before I came on the scene and presumably will continue to exist after I am gone. I am a blip. That means whenever I think my current writing project is so precious, so valuable, so momentous, so utterly guaranteed to change lives for the better . . . that surely the universe will support it, I know I’ve fallen into the trap of imagining I can negotiate with the universe. In this blogpost, I’m picking apart my beliefs to get down to the essence of my relationship to reality. I’m not a philosopher, so please don’t judge. My hope is that in this process, I will find the will to keep writing.

Belief 1: What I do matters to the universe

This belief exemplifies my molecular-level ethnocentricity. The crux of this belief is this: I’m human, therefore, I matter. By extension, what I do, no matter how small, matters. Do you believe this? I’m not sure I do. Oh, I know I have influence—I’ve conjured much havoc in my short lifespan. However, in the long run, in the big picture, have my actions mattered?

At a microlevel, I’ve mattered to a few people. I’ve made a difference in the lives of some friends, family members, and pets, perhaps a few strangers I’ve met and helped along the way. Maybe some of the projects I’ve delivered to the world have helped some struggling artists, some hapless dissertators. That’s nice. Does it matter? The few folks I’ve helped hardly constitute “the universe.”

That begs the question, how important is it that I believe what I do matters? Do I need to believe the universe cares if I can’t seem to find the motivation to write and would rather eat chocolate ice cream until I’m in a sugar coma? Clearly, I would like to believe I matter, if for no other reason than adopting this belief could serve as a weight-control strategy.

What about bees, birds, and bunnies? Do they matter? I think humans are starting to believe they do. Of course, believing they matter and acting as if they matter enough to keep them from going extinct are two different things.

When I was working on my doctorate (an eight-year slog through academic hell), I came to believe that nobody cared about my misery and frustration, especially not the universe. I learned that if I wanted to cross that “phinish” line, I would have to dredge up my own motivation, be my own advocate, and mint my own mojo because I certainly wasn’t going to get it from the universe (i.e., my dissertation chair and committee). At that for-profit university, doctoral students really were on their own.

Belief 2: I can influence the universe to work in my favor

If the universe cares what I do, it’s not hard to leap to the hopeful thought that I can manipulate it to do my bidding—or, at least, to favor me over others. Thus, it’s a short hop from I matter and what I do matters to yeah, sure, we all matter, but I matter more than anyone else, so I should be granted my wishes and desires. I blame demographics. I was born in a certain place and time. I somehow ended up in a certain body, with a certain gender and skin color. I didn’t plan it; I don’t think we get a choice on these demographic characteristics—sadly, these characteristics have led my brain toward certain beliefs, namely, that I matter more than you. I’m not proud of this propensity of my brain. However, it’s all I have to work with, and I continually work to be more aware of its shortcomings.

Well, what about the idea that if everyone matters, then none of us matters? Does your brain try to persuade you with this argument? But wait, how about those of us who are being persecuted, exploited, abused, and murdered by systemic inequities? Inequities matter because real people suffer real harm from real abuses. I do not want to be part of perpetuating systemic suffering. I come in peace.

Back to my gripe. What if the universe doesn’t actually care about me or my actions? (Say, could we devise a research project to test the question?) Even if the universe doesn’t care, is it still possible to influence it to lean toward seeing things my way? First, that statement assumes the universe has eyes, which, uh-oh, anthropomorphism strikes again, and second, attempting to influence outcomes is the endless quest of all lifeforms.

Humans are a superstitious bunch. We make sacrifices and pray to the gods of our misunderstanding in futile attempts to control our destinies. We make art to express our frustration and dedicate our tears to The Muse (another name for the universe). We dissertators seek validation from our dissertation chairs and committee members, from our peers, and from all those pompous peer-reviewed journals we are told we must court or die. We tout the books we’ve written and the papers we’ve published, as if the universe cares. Even our circle of friends and family don’t care all that much. How can they care? They don’t have time. They are busy worrying about what they are going to do next to influence the universe into fulfilling their hopes and dreams.

It’s not a moral failing to have and pursue hopes and dreams, nor is it a moral failing to choose not to pursue them. The universe (God? Fate?) distributes/imbues/endows/gives us talents (gifts?) and propensities, which we may or may not be in a position to fulfill, depending on demographics. In other words, it’s okay to get busy writing. It’s also okay to sit around and mope and do nothing. The universe (being a construct of my sputtering human brain) does not care.

Belief 3: How I feel matters

As a human driven almost totally by emotion, it’s hard to accept that my feelings have no influence on reality. Feelings are the centerpiece of my personal breakfast buffet. I’ve written in wobbly circles around this idea for a few years now. I circle back to it because some part of my brain insists that my emotions are real and can influence reality—therefore, they matter. My intellect “knows” emotions aren’t real but stumbles when asked to ignore them. My knee-jerk consideration about any decision, any action, any dilemma, is . . . how do I feel? This is so embarrassing.

It’s ridiculous to view life through only one lens. I wear glasses. Imagine if I knocked out one side and tried to drive. You should avoid northwest Tucson until I get my glasses fixed, just saying.

Maybe I’m judging myself too harshly for being a creature of emotions. I’m human. Emotions are the spice of human relationships. Living without emotions would be a living death. I don’t want to jettison my emotions (usually) but I would like to keep them in perspective—to remember that the universe doesn’t respond to how I feel. The universe responds to what I do.

The lesson of my musing is . . . get busy

I’m going to walk myself through a little exercise and hope that I’ll free up some brain space to get back to my writing project. You can try this yourself if you feel so inclined.

First, does the universe care what I do? (Begs the question, Is the universe sentient? Answer unknown, but I choose to believe NO)
Does it matter to my experience to know if the universe cares what I do? NO
Can I influence the universe through prayer, sacrifice, weeping, moaning, gnashing, pummeling, suffering, or writing late at night? In other words, can the universe be bought or bribed? NO
If the universe is oblivious to my emotional pleadings or intellectual arguments, how can I get what I want from it? I CAN’T
Conclusion: Actions produce outcomes. To the extent that I can claim the universe responds to anything, I would say the universe responds to action. Recommended action: GET BUSY.

Does it work? I guess so. I seem to be writing. I acted—therefore, I am experiencing the consequences of my actions. Something like that. Whether I’m writing the right things, whether I’m writing well, whether my circle of humans will care . . . argh! I can’t worry about that now. That is fodder for a future blogpost.

Let’s get back to writing!

February 14, 2021May 16, 2021

The lost year

Hello, Dissertators. Are you as discombobulated as I am? I’m staring at my screen, trying to figure out what to type. I feel as if I have been ill for a year (although I have not). In January of 2020, my cat died. Then in March, Covid-19 swept up the world in fear and anxiety and death. Then in January of 2021, my mother died. Every time I think I’m going to emerge from the fog and regain my sense of self, something happens to push me back under.

I don’t want to make this blogpost all about me. I know you have suffered too. Last year was rough, and we aren’t in the clear just because we have a new calendar. How are you making progress on your scholarly pursuits? Seriously, how are you doing it? I want to know. If you have some tricks for surviving the apocalypse, I’m interested. Meanwhile, I am using a three-pronged method recommended to me by other scholars: first, recognize my fears; second, reframe my experience; finally, relinquish my death grip on outcomes.

Recognize my fears

I’ve been trying in haphazard fashion to write the next book in my Desperate Dissertator Series, Choosing Methods. It’s a deep, rich, interesting topic. Lots of dissertators could probably use some guidance in this area. I sure could have when I was a dissertator. However, the book is emerging in fits and starts. I circle around it like a plane coming into PDX but I can’t quite seem to land.

I’ve made a little progress. I’ve reviewed most of my sample of dissertations and added data to my spreadsheet. I’ve done some analysis. I’ve set up some charts. I have an outline. I’ve fooled around with the book’s format (my favorite part). I haven’t been idle.

However, something always interrupts my forward motion… my cat dying, Covid-19, my mother’s decline and death… For a year now, I have always found a reason to spend time on other equally important but more urgent things. However, my cat is gone, my mother is gone, and so far Covid hasn’t caught me, so what gives? Why am I falling behind? I realized my biggest enemy was fear.

Today, I sat down to make a list of my fears. Quite often I can come up with a long list, everything from I am afraid I have toxic black mold in my kitchen to I am afraid aliens will soon be stealing my luggage. That pretty much covers all possibilities. Not that I plan to do any traveling soon, but you know.

My question: What fears are preventing me from finishing the book? This morning, I stopped doom scrolling my newsfeed and started typing in my virtual journal.

Fear 1: I’m afraid I’m not smart enough to write a book about choosing methods.

Fear 2… hmmm. That is it. I really have only one fear. I’ve been away from the topic for so long, I no longer feel connected to it, and so I begin to doubt my ability to write about it. I feel like an impostor. What do impostors do? They bury their heads in social media and avoid doing the hard work of showing up for the writing.

I remember when I was working on my dissertation proposal. I had no experience with dissertation-level research. Like many dissertators who don’t receive much guidance from mentors, I decided to toss everything at the wall to see what would stick. (I hoped my Chair would sort out the gems from the garbage.) Along with the kitchen sink, I proposed two theories, a mixed-methods approach, four subsamples … anything I could think of, I threw it in the proposal. Silly, right? Well, I didn’t know any better, and I assumed more in this case would be better—or safer. That is, more likely to lead to my desired outcome of getting approval for my proposal.

We don’t know what we don’t know. That is a truism if ever there was one. I learned by doing and eventually crossed that magical “phinish” line. Similarly, in the matter of writing this book, odds are I will know more about choosing methods if I get busy and start writing. Writing is a direct antidote to my fear.

Reframe my experience

I’m not a big fan of positive affirmations. Saying to myself, you are smart and you are successful when I’m not feeling it has never worked for me. I used to post sticky notes everywhere, little pink and yellow squares with pithy sayings on them. Within a few days, they became invisible. My eyes stopped seeing them. It’s like trying to catch errors after reading a blogpost for the umpteenth time. My eyes just skip past all those typos and punctuation problems, la la la.

We see what we want to see, or we see what we expect to see, and we stop seeing what has become commonplace. The only sticky note I keep now is the A-B-C-D reminder: Aim high, begin low, climb slowly, and don’t give up. I placed that note next to a photo of my mother. She’s sitting at a table at the Olive Garden with her chin in her hand. The sun is behind her and she has a “What the hell, who cares” grin on her face. That is the attitude I want to cultivate. Like, yeah, go ahead and eat ten more breadsticks, who cares? You only live once.

What can I glean from this insight? Someone suggested I reframe my perception of 2020 as a fallow year, a year to rest, a year to plant seeds in preparation for a new beginning. That sounds overly optimistic to me, but what the hell. It’s better than affirming what I suspect is true, that everything sucks before the Universe swallows me whole. Thus, my position is, I don’t have to reframe my hellish year as positive, necessarily, but I have the option to consider 2020 a neutral year of nitrogen fixing. Maybe I’ll bloom soon, maybe I won’t, but I’m open to considering the idea. Let’s say, I’m not ruling out the possibility of progress.

Relinquish my death grip on outcomes

I have long operated on the belief that if I can just manage and control what happens, then I won’t need to be afraid anymore. I forget that I do not control outcomes. My job is to do the work and make it visible—that is, offer it to those who could benefit from my contribution.

I frequently forget this small but important fact of human existence, that we don’t control outcomes. I catch myself on the sharp horns of desire and start thinking just because I am desperate, I somehow can manage and control what happens—as if the depth of my desire actually matters.

I can influence outcomes but I cannot control them. Neither can you. Between cause and effect, there is a moment in which anything could happen. Honoring that moment brings me more peace than trying to force outcomes to fit my preconceptions.

I compare this idea to gathering data in qualitative interviews. Many times, I have edited dissertation proposals in which the authors proposed interview questions that were destined to produce bad data. For example, When did you first realize that your cat was editing your dissertation proposal while you were sleeping? I understand the temptation to ask questions from our own perspective. It usually stems from a desire to cling to a particular point of view—a tenderly held, persistent belief about the topic.

For instance, I really wanted to hate for-profit career colleges (I was employed by one at the time). I had to do a little bracketing (epoché, you might see it called) of my preconceptions to make sure my opinions weren’t influencing the words of my interview participants, both during the interviews and during my data analysis.

In other words, let data emerge. Let your participants’ data be the amazing revelatory fountain of knowledge from which you will gratefully drink.

Summary

Now that I’ve written a little bit about what scares me, maybe I can feel slightly less scared. Now that I realize I can reframe my experience, I can be less attached to my cynicism and despair. Now that I am reminded I can’t manage and control what happens, no matter how hard I try, I can become more willing to take action and let the outcomes simply be. Action is the magic word. It’s a new year. Time to get busy.

May 17, 2020May 17, 2020

The angst of the long-distance scholar

Many scholars face pressure from their academic employers to conduct and publish research. Is the pressure of publishing getting to you? If so, you aren’t alone. Writing and publishing is hard work. It’s like running a marathon, all alone, with no map. The task requires time, energy, and concentration, things many of us don’t have a lot of right now when the world seems so precarious. It’s no wonder sometimes people look for the easier softer way.

Last week I received an email. This exchange ensued. (“Sir” refers to me.)

Dear Sir. I hope you are all right. I just got my M.Phil and would like to convert it to a research article and get it published. Please guide. Regards.

My first thought was, oh, great! Here is a young scholar (I presume the scholar is young; I think it is a safe bet; anyone under sixty is young to me) who wants career advancement and needs my help. Possibly English is not this person’s first language. I need to pull out my culturally sensitive hat. It’s around here somewhere. As I’m rummaging in my mental closet, in a back corner I’m thinking, I wonder how this person found me? I’m definitely not at the top of a Google search. Still, wanting to be helpful, I shoot back a perky reply with some questions to prompt more information and establish a rapport:

Dear Regards. Congratulations on your academic accomplishment. Turning a dissertation or thesis into a journal article is a logical next step. Would you like to share some more about your project? I’m wondering a few things. Where are you? Where did you study? What was your thesis topic? What aspects of the thesis do you think would make good articles? What do you want from me? How can I help? If you can respond with answers to those questions, then we can talk about what to do next. Thanks, Dr. Carol

Almost immediately, I receive the following response:

Dear Sir. Salaam. I am from Pakistan. I did my M.Phil in [Interesting Education Field] at [Name of University]. My topic was [Interesting Topic Related to Students] of [College] in Pakistan. Regards.

Ooh, fun, I think to myself. Something interesting to read and discuss. I wonder how I can help. But I need more information to really get my head around this project. It’s possible that . . . no, I don’t want to think that thought yet. We’ll see what happens. I send off the following somewhat lengthy, totally nosy reply:

Dear Regards. Thank you for sharing a bit about you and your project. A few more questions: Do you have some ideas about what direction an article might take? Journal articles usually take just one aspect of the thesis. Have you worked with an editor before? What is your expectation? What do you specifically need to do next? Do you have something to edit? Have you written an outline of a possible article? Are you looking for coaching? How do you think I could help? Are you comfortable working with someone who is in a different country, with different time zone and currency? Are you comfortable with PayPal? The more specific you are on what you need, the better I can assess if I am able to help you. Thanks, Dr. Carol

Within hours, I receive this:

Dear Sir. I want to convert my thesis into publishable article. I will attach my thesis. Regards.

It’s not surprising the scholar took one look at my barrage of questions, which Google Translate probably butchered, and now can’t think of anything to say except to reiterate the goal, attach the paper, and hope for the best. However, I’m seeing red flags a-rising. Now the hazy edges are starting to come clear. Instead of answering my many valuable and pertinent questions, the scholar is laser-focused on the mission: getting that thing published. I begin to see the true nature of the “project.” Perfectly willing to be smacked down via email, I grit my teeth and send the following:

Dear Regards. Please help me get some clarity on your objective. Do you want me to write an article, based on your thesis? Thanks, Dr. Carol

The answer couldn’t be more clear:

Dear Sir. Yes sir. Regards.

Some hours elapse as I plan my approach. As you can imagine, I have a range of feelings now that I have learned the scholar wants me as a partner in a nefarious cheating scheme. First, I’m outraged, shocked, I tell you, shocked. The nerve! It’s not like I’m a saint, but I was seven and it was arithmetic, I mean, I ask you. However, as an adult scholar with a published dissertation, I certainly did not cheat, obfuscate, plagiarize, fabricate, falsify, or otherwise avoid doing the often-tedious chore of conducting original research, no matter how tired and defeated I felt. Somewhere during my life, I developed integrity.

After enjoying my righteous outrage, my next reaction was compassion. Oh, the poor scholar. I know how hard it is to write. Even for me, except for blogposts, most writing assignments don’t come easy. Let’s see, how can I weasel out of this situation without causing harm or insult? I wrote,

Dear Regards. Thank you. Now I understand. Thank you for clarifying your objective. I’m sorry to say, I would not be capable of writing an article for you. I am not that kind of writer. I don’t write content, I only edit content. That means I edit papers that other people write. I’m sorry it took so long for me to understand. Good luck to you. I hope you find a good writer for your project. Take care, be safe. Thanks, Dr. Carol

Fingers crossed, I say a prayer to Dr. Diss, the patron saint of scholars (just made that up). Let’s hope my scholar friend gets the hint and lets this conversation fade. Nope. One more email:

Dear Sir. Thank you for your response. Is there any one in your contacts to do it for me. Regards.

Okay. Now I need to come clean with my correspondent. I don’t want to give this person the impression that (a) it’s okay to ask editors to write scholarly content, (b) that people do this all the time, (c) that I have friends who will ghostwrite an article, and (d) probably most important, that I won’t write the article because I’m not competent enough to do it. Sadly, I suspect this kind of scholarly cheating happens frequently. Most of us have our price. I’ve never done it. I wonder how much it would take to motivate me to cheat. Hmm. Let me give that some thought.

Blogpost on cheating

I pull up my big dissertator britches, limber up my digits, and let my correspondent have it:

Dear Regards. I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone who would write an article for you. You are the expert on your topic so you are the one best able to choose what angle of your thesis topic would make a good article. I would imagine several topics could come out of your thesis. Think about your long-term career direction when you consider which topics to focus on. I’m going to be honest with you. Paying someone else to do your writing for you is not good scholarship. I could not in good conscience help you with that. As scholars, we succeed on our own merits. Editing is different from writing. Writing is tough sometimes. But that is the job of being a scholar. I encourage you to write an outline and a draft of an article and THEN send it to someone to edit. I’m semi-retired, so I’m not doing much editing these days. There are many editing companies that could help. Good luck to you. Thanks, Dr. Carol

And the final response:

Dear Sir. Thank you for your elaborate response. I will try but too much over work. Sir, from which you belong. Regards.

I could have added one last snarky parting shot: Hey, I took the trouble to look up your first name to discover your likely gender; did you do as much for me? No. Well, it’s not the first time I’ve been called “sir.”

So much for rapport. I get it. This poor scholar is probably dealing with COVID fears, homeschooling, and boredom—and now, the pressure of publishing! It’s too much. No argument from me. I am settling my compassion hat more firmly on my head. We all need more compassion right now.

Still, there’s no excuse for bad scholarship, cheating, or plagiarism. Giving in to those temptations might relieve short-term pressure but will not help anyone in the long run. Winning the long game of academia requires willingness, integrity, and grit. Yes, it’s hard during a pandemic, but writing is hard, pandemic or not. Don’t waste this terrible but uniquely precious creative time. The world needs your research!