In April 2014, I ended my career in academia — though calling it a “career” may be overstating the case. I had two months left in my fifth year of an English Ph.D. program. My wife was pregnant with our son. For the first time, I saw my professional future clearly.
It would probably take another year to finish my dissertation. With a hodgepodge of hard-won fellowships and teaching assignments, I had added three quarters to my original five years of funding. That money would support me through next winter. Then… what? Another teaching gig? One of those secret research fellowships that my department occasionally, according to mysterious criteria, handed out to advanced graduate students?
If everything went smoothly, I would defend my dissertation in the spring or summer, get a one-year VAP at my university, and go on the job market. Ah yes, the famous market for humanities professorships. Where colleges line up and throw cash at you.
I would have had as fair a shot at an academic job as any other graduate student in my field. I had worked my ass off in a name-brand program. I had presented and published research. I had assembled a credible teaching portfolio. But I, like the legions of other apprentice scholars who show up at MLA every year with the same qualifications, still faced long odds.
I don’t need to repeat the stats. We are all aware of those.