PhDifficult

Among the many things that have happened in the last three days, the one that's causing me the most brain pain is a coffee talk I went to at school, meant to help us graduate types decide whether or not to dip our painted toes in the PhD pool. Two Concordia English profs (one a slouchy, bag-eyed, let-me-give-it-to-you-straight abused veteran of the academy, the other a more trim and proper - though no less cautionary - Cambridge grad) sat around a table with us, mechanically flicking our wee academic hopes far off into the distance.

I know that there are way too many people getting PhDs these days, I know that you could buy a private jet instead of paying for it all, I know that there are twenty million contenders for each job and your hope of being financially (and, evidently, emotionally) stable before your mid-thirties is slimmer than Jim... but there must be some reason to get a PhD, right? At one point, the bag-eyed one said something about doing it because you are really, truly, heart-bleedingly in love with whatever it is you're studying and nothing else could possibly make sense to you. As the talk progressed, none of us had the heart to ask if he still felt in love with what he's doing.... the anguished answer seemed implicit.

I guess they were just doing what they had been asked to do: painting us the honest picture of what the next ten or fifteen years of our miserable lives will look like if we go down that road. Yes, you'll be reading and studying with fellow English Lit addicts. You might even get a job - eventually. You might even get tenure one day. You might even find time to have a family ... but don't assume anything. If you like walking around the English department in your socks at 10 o'clock on a Friday night, muttering to yourself, trying to sort out the best way to squeeze some money out of the latest grant-dealer, then, sure, go for it.

I think that without realizing it I used to sort assume a relatively simple track for myself: undergrad-master's-phd-job. I didn't realize that reality is more like undergrad-master's-phd-probable death-job as a waitress.

After all, I've spent a lot of time in the last year or two hanging out with people who have PhDs and tenured jobs, and who naturally make everything they do look easy, so I thought that a fair amount of effort would guarantee a fair amount of success.

Yet another bubble of idealism in my life has been deftly pricked!

It's a good thing though, I guess. I mean, I'm not ruling out the PhD option. I'm pretty sure I could do it. I'd probably even find warped little ways of enjoying it. But I think it's a matter of weighing it all out... deciding what I want my life to ultimately be about, and then deciding how to get there. Luckily I'm locked into an MA program that's two years long (or three, if you're on Concordia time) so I've got a chance to really réfléchir. Here is my current opinion of the key elements of a PhD degree, according to Friday's experts:

Constantly struggling to fit the formula for millions of grant applications: bleh.
Applying to thirty jobs, getting an interview for two of them, feeling good about only one, and getting hired for neither because I wasn't "on" enough at the wine-and-dine: bleh.
Shmoozing at conferences with the blatant and insincere goal of "making contacts": bleh.
Feverishly trying to publish academic articles (instead of short stories): bleh.
Watching "real-world" friends have "real-world" experiences (I know that's a problematic term) while I try to drum up enthusiasm for the same project I've been working on for four years: bleh.

On the other hand...

Writing whatever I want to write - YAY!
Teaching - YAY!

I know that an MA is enough of a degree to teach creative writing in universities. I also know that teaching my tutorial is consistently one of the best parts of my week. I just think that if I did get a creative writing teaching job, I'm going to want to teach literature courses, too... but to do that in a university I'd definitely need a PhD. Which leaves college, Cegep, and high school. I'd love to have a job like Wayson, who teaches on-and-off in the writing department at Humber, and spends the rest of his time writing his brilliant novels and touring the country to read his brilliant novels out loud to people. Cegep is kind of an intriguing option, too... and one that is fresh in my mind because after a half-shouted conversation at the pub on Friday night, I finally understand what it is! In Quebec, high school only goes until grade eleven, and then there's Cegep, and then there's university or whatever else. Cegep is optional, free, and stands in for what in Ontario would be Grade 12 and the dearly-departed OAC, but it works like university: students choose their program and set up their own schedule of classes. Also, apparently, you don't need teacher's college to teach there, just a graduate degree, and an alleged shortage of Cegep teachers is creeping closer as many people are retiring in the next ten years.

but... WHO KNOWS! the variables in my life are endless right now. What will I want to do in two years? Who will I be with? Where will I be going? What will I have going for me?

One thing I will say for the PhD route: that would be an extra five or six years when I wouldn't have to face the ugly mug of OSAP loans.

Here is what I hope: I write a brilliant thesis, McLelland & Stewart picks it up, it wins everything, including the Booker, I'm suddenly a hot ticket in the literary world, people want movie rights, Clive Owen signs on as the big-screen star, I buy a vineyard in the south of France and move there with my mom and Clive where we while away our days in literature and tennis.

You can all come to visit. I'll fly you over on my private jet.

In the meantime, nothing to do but let this whole debate puddle around in my brain while I bulldoze through piles of work (or at least little ant hills of work) in preparation for Bronwyn and Adam's visit next week. I don't know how this happens, but I'll spend an entire afternoon in here at my desk, calmly reading and taking notes, not doing anything too wild, but I'll emerge at the end looking like I just went through an epic battle: pen splotches all over my clothes, hair twisted all over the place, legs asleep, highlighter marks on my face... this is the current picture. Time for a rest!