I had a meeting with the Professor this morning. He told me I need to have at least one new writing sample for the job market next year. I told him I thought my main writing sample is good. I'm not the only one who thinks that either, since I got it past the referees at an okay journal. He said, sure, publication is one thing, but the paper didn't get me a job, did it? Touché, Professor, touché. And thanks for your tact.
The best part of the Professor's advice today? It's the exact opposite of what he told me less than three weeks ago. Then, I didn't need a new paper for the job market.
You know what the the advice flip-flops did to me last fall, and what they'll do again this fall, when I'm really freaking out about the market? Rage. Seething rage. Rage that spits nails into a mic. Rage engineered on test-monkeys in labs. Rage that pulls an army into a decade-long quagmire on a Turkish beach. Serious fucking rage.
Right now, though, I'm just a little bemused.
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