I have a job for next year, and it’s one I – sort of – interviewed for, but it’s also not one I got. I know that’s confusing, but it’s only half my story. I interviewed for a permanent job, I did not get it, but was later offered the job as a 12-month fixed-term position. Given my current contract ends soon, and as much as I would really deeply love to stay where I am, it meant that when I was offered a job that meant I would be less uncertain about the coming year I took it. 


But it comes with a really weird sense of not being wanted. I feel very much like my current department doesn’t want me, and I feel very much like the department I am moving to doesn’t want me either. I did not get that phone call, where the person on the end of the phone says ‘You are great and we want you to come and work with us!’. Instead, I just feel like there has only been rejection. 


I guess the point of this is, sometimes success in academia also feels like rejection. It is everywhere. It is pervasive. It infects. And that’s hard for someone who has rejection sensitive dysphoria to deal with.
​

And yet. Here I am.

Coffee is as vital to my work as an academic as... books and stuff. I'm sure many others feel the same. So, here is my in-office coffee set up. It works. It's amazing. I make great coffee every day and it fuels my thinking and teaching and research.

I use an Aeropress to make coffee. For better or worse I use both a metal filter and a paper filter at the same time. I'm sure people have thoughts about this - I don't want to hear them. This gives an incredibly smooth coffee. You should definitely try it. 

For water, I use a Dualit goose-neck temperature control kettle that I set on 75° for coffee (85° for tea). This is the most amazing kettle I've ever used in my life, and I realise that kettles are kettles but... honestly. It's amazing. I definitely like coffee at an immediately drinkable temperature. The thing I like about this over other temperature control kettles is that you can set it at whatever you want - there aren't preset temperature buttons, there's just a knob that you twist to increase or decrease.

My most recent addition to the set up is a 6l fridge - this fits a 1l carton of milk and a decent size bag of ground coffee. You could also fit some small snacks or something in there if you wanted to. I like (oat) milk in my coffee, but also it keeps your ground coffee much fresher and as I don't really want to have a grinder in the office (I used to have one, and it just adds another step that I'm not keen on having in the office). 

Finally, I have a Sodastream. This was given to me many, many years ago, and I would never buy one for myself today - they have been on the BDS list and although they did close their factory in the West Bank and relocate to 'Israel proper' it's still not a company I would support. If I were going to buy a water carbonator today I would get either the Philips soda maker or the Aarke version. I drink quite a bit of fizzy water, and really like having a soda maker in the office, thought I totally get it's not everyone's cup of tea (no pun intended!)

Anyway, that's it. That's my in-office coffee set up. And I wrote this while on a half-cup coffee break (that's where you drink half your cup of coffee on the break and half when you're back at work.)

As for coffee itself: I buy freshly ground coffee from Roasting Plant on the Strand (in London). I also buy whole bean coffee from them to take home, where I have an INCREDIBLE Sage Barista Express espresso machine.

Ingredients​

• 150g historic overachieving
• 300ml Little-Fish-Big-Pond 
• 1 tbsp. academic bullying
• 300g self-deprecation
• 200g golden opportunities squandered because of illness and/or parenting obligations
• 4 tbsp 'friendly' competition
• 1 tsp expected overwork
• ½ tsp student evaluations

For the buttercream

• 100g conference papers 
• 200g book proposals
• 400g peer reviews
• 5 tbsp abstracts
• 1 tbsp journal articles (can be substituted for book chapters)

To decorate

• tears, tantrums, rejections, painful memories

Method

1. Heat oven to 190C/170C fan/gas 5. Grease the base and sides of 2 x 20cm sandwich tins with dairy-free spread, then line the bases with baking parchment.
2. Put the Little-Fish-Big-Pond in a jug and add the bullying– it will split but don’t worry. Put all of the other cake ingredients into a large bowl, pour over the liquid mixture and beat well until your self-esteem has finally been integrated into your academic success. Divide the mixture between the prepared tins and bake for 25-30 mins or until a skewer inserted into the middle of your heart comes out cleanly. Leave to cool in the tins for 10mins then turn out onto wire racks to cool completely.
3. To make the buttercream, put the conference papers into a heatproof bowl and melt in the microwave, stirring every 30 seconds. Leave the papers to cool for 5 minutes. Beat the book proposals and peer review together with a wooden spoon then sift in the abstracts with a pinch of salt from dried tears. Pour in the conference papers and journal articles and keep mixing until smooth.
4. Sandwich the two cooled sponges together with half of the buttercream then pile the rest on top and down the sides. Decorate with your tears of pain and rejection.

To serve
You can serve this cake at any time, but it is best consumed alone in a dark room in the middle of the night when you are having a panic attack about facing the Person Who Is Bullying You the following day even though you have done nothing that person could possibly comment on. 

​Enjoy!

I don't think it's a secret that I've been struggling this (academic) year. Things haven't been great, and that's been really affecting me in ways I was not quite ready for. One of the things that's happened is that I have two important things that need revisions completed on ASAP that I haven't been working on. My career feels like it's stalled. My book needs to be done, like, now. The article revisions are now overdue (though I am not holding up other people's work, it's for a general-submission journal). So that's what I'm trying to do. To remember to be in love with my research. I do love it, I just have to get though the panic attack to realise that.

I am currently working on the revisions for my book and for an article, so I wanted to write down a few things about how I tackle revisions. It's probably one of the most important things that we do as researchers, and something that is a constant in the lives of academics from the undergraduate thesis onwards. How we get revisions changes, though, from the revisions that we get from supervisors who are (hopefully, generally) supportive and want to work with us to make sure our work is the best it can be. Peer reviewers ostensibly want the same things, but that doesn't always happen (I've commented multiple times on Twitter about the review I got that included the ego-boosting phrase "You know nothing about Greek religion"). I've also commented on giving peer reviews before, which I don't want to do here. I want to think about what I do when I get a review.

I think the first thing is to read though the reviews. I find this incredibly difficult, but it has to be done. Go to a nice place - maybe a cozy pub or café you love, somewhere you feel good. When I read though the reviews I have my laptop or a notebook and for each point I write it down in my own words, as I understand it, in one of two columns: 'things to do' and 'things not to do'. It's okay to decide not to act on a comment you receive, but you will need to keep a record of these so you can write down the reasons why in your letter back to the editor. If you are going to submit elsewhere I think it's still a good idea to keep a track of things you don't want to act on, because these are things that may come up in another review. Anything that's just nasty (see the above comment that I received...) or off the mark, or just plain unconstructive, feel free to ignore. 

When you start your revisions do so from the list of things to do that you made, with each point written in your own words. I personally find this way less stressful that having to go back to the reviewers comments again and again, particularly if they were framed in a non-constructive or mean way. In some ways this becomes just like working though your own editing. 

That's where I am right now with my article. With my list of things to do, written in my own words and ploughing though them as quickly and thoroughly as I can. I'm currently flip-flopping back and forward between the book and the article, not sure which is more important to get finished. I think the article, as it will be a quicker process. Answers on a postcard, please!

I'd love to hear your strategies for dealing with peer reviews! Let me know below!

Happy Editing!
​Ellie.​

This blog post comes from two places - first, the fact I am writing my first cover letter of the job season and second, a series of tweets I sent yesterday that I've been thinking more about. Here are the tweets:

I have spoken before about my chronic illness, and my finishing my PhD as a single parent, and the hardships that those things brought upon my work, my career progression, my ability to work (effectively) three full time jobs: the one I was paid for (that is, the teaching), the one I had to do in order to get my publications and research in order to get a permanent job, and the one I had to do to ensure the tiny human in my care was... well... cared for. You might notice that this does not account for any time I may have to manage my illness, care for myself, or have any kind of a life that didn't revolve around either the academy or my child.

Several years on from that, I've reached a point where I am exhausted. I have been in various full-time teaching-only roles for the past several years and, if I'm honest, I just want a break from it so I can build up other parts of my CV. No doubt some will say that this is proof that I think I'm too good for teaching or that I don't value or enjoy teaching. In fact, I love teaching and I think it's hugely worthwhile and therein lies my problem. The past few years I have worked above and beyond in order to deliver innovative, engaging classes and this has left me precious little time to get my research and publication on track.

Why do I bring this up, though? Because I want to highlight some very serious issues in the way that permanent academic jobs tend to be won and lost. And, in so many case, it's in research (either not enough of it, or what's there isn't good enough). Teaching is something that is ticked off as experience rather than by quality. This is, I think, demonstrated in the way that teaching and research requirements are articulated in job adverts. So, when I have a limited amount of energy to give, and I want to move toward my goal of a full-time, continuing (i.e. permanent) academic position of course I will, in part, want to stop doing one of the things that's taking so much time and energy. That can't be parenting, and it also can't be research. That's a simple calculation based on my energy levels and my long-term goals. It is not a value judgement on any of the activities I am currently engaged in.

And, of course, this directly links back with mental health and ill-health. Mine, here, is obvious. I have a serious but well managed set of illnesses that demand some work, time, and energy on an ongoing basis. But more generally academia is demonstrably bad for the mental health and well-being of early career academics - whether in teaching-only, research-only, teaching-and-research positions, or are not currently employed in academia (which may occur for a whole host of reasons from being too ill to the simple fact that there are far fewer academic positions than qualified candidates). The mental well-being needs of each of these groups will be different, not because the positions or pressures are different (indeed the pressures are pretty generally something like do all the things) but because people are different.

I assume that my musings on mental wellness and early career academia are not over, but, at least for now, I am going back to my CV and cover letter, trying to get ready for the job season without scrawling across applications in desperation: "I've had a pretty tough time of things and please keep that in mind when judging me!"

Well. Yesterday I started thinking about completing my goal for the month, which is to write a new career/publication plan. I couldn't really be bothered starting from scratch and I had seen that jobs.ac.uk had some career planning toolkits on their site, so I thought I'd review them. You should watch the video before reading the rest of this post.

You are in a small sanctuary, near the banks of the river Acheron, in the Western Peloponnese. A priest comes to fetch you. ‘It is time’, he says, leading you through the darkness. Stop. Breathe in deeply. What can you smell? The fertile soil, wet and black. The moss that covers the stone temple. You think you can just hear the river, gurgling away in the background – leading the souls of the dead down, down, down into the Underworld. That is why you are here.
 
As you enter the temple feel your body getting heavier. Relax your head, and neck, relax your shoulders. Feel a fog of tiredness wash over your mind.
 
You are about to commune with the dead.
 
You do not know how long you will spend living in the darkness of the temple, but you know it will be at least a week. You enter a long corridor. On your left, three arched doorways lead to the three small rooms you will live in. Here, in the impenetrable darkness you will prepare. You find your first meal in the room through the first arched doorway. Pork, broad beans, barely bread, shellfish. These are the foods of funerary banquets. You lift a cup to your lips – expecting wine, you start back as the sweetness of honeyed milk fills your mouth. This is a banquet for the dead – and you begin to realise the seriousness of where you are and what you are doing. You are putting yourself in a state between the worlds.
 
Days pass. You don’t know how many. You are disoriented. The mild toxicity of the broad beans begins to affect you. Slowly at first, but then one night – or day, you don’t know which, it’s all night right now – you feel your brother’s strong arms around you, in a cold, dead embrace. You start to believe that you have died, and you are at your own funeral. The banquet truly is yours.
 
Breathe in, deeply. Smell the dank, wet stone. Smell your own sweat and tears and mud and excrement.
 
A man enters? Is it the priest? He brings a sheep, presses some smooth stones into your hands. He guides you down a deep passage that seems to never end. He tells you to throw one of the stones in a pile, and then takes you into a room to wash your hands.
 
You take the sheep. The man tells you to dig a hole and hands you a knife. You are disoriented, but suddenly you snap back as the sharp metallic smell of blood fills you. You have slaughtered the sheep. Your hands are covered in blood and as you cut the sheep up the smell of half-digested sludge and offal overwhelms you. Now there is smoke, you don’t remember setting the fire – it must have been the priest. In this small passage way the smell and the smoke and the bile in the back of your throat have no-where to go. They linger, settling on you, surrounding you, obscuring the way out and the way forward.
 
The man pulls you to your feet and directs you into a winding, twisting series of passages. You turn the wrong way and hit a wall. You stop, and weep.
 
Breathe in. What can you smell, in the darkness? The metallic taste of blood clings to your hands. The smoke is still billowing up behind you. Your own panic begins to rise in your throat. You hear someone – or something – coming up behind you. You move on.
 
Finally, you enter a great hall, the air is clearer in here. Before you enter, you remember – somehow – to throw the barley in your hand onto the ground. You throw the final stone into the room and you enter.
 
Sinking to the ground, a figure appears in front of you. You can’t quite see it properly. You blink, hard, several times. The figure moves towards you. Who is it? You can’t tell. You try to speak – but the words don’t quite come out the way you imagine. Your brain spins. You breathe in. Blood. Smoke. Sweat. Shit.
 
Whispers in the dark that you cannot make out. The figure moves, shifts, swaps, slowly levitates. A different figure comes out. You are disoriented.
 
You think you ask the questions you came to ask. You think you get an answer. You’re not really sure. You fall into some kind of black oblivion.
 
Some period of time later, a man – the priest – enters the room and helps you up. He asks if you got the answers you wanted. Confidently, you say yes – and that feels like it’s true. In your sleep you had a vision of the future and you know what you must do.
 
The priest helps you out though a different door, and leads you to a room – bright, clean – and lays you on a bed. He helps you wash, gives you clean clothes. He lays you down and tells you that you’re back from the other side. You must stay here to cleanse that miasma of the dead away from your skin.
 
Breathe in. Sweet, bright flowers. You hear the river in the background, gurgling the dead into the Underworld…

Two weeks ago I asked classicists on Twitter for their advice to incoming classics students: