How do I write thee? Let me count the ways.
I write thee with the dread of each review,
In countless drafts, my weekends all in haze,
For tenure’s sake, “publish or perish” true.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
With imposter syndrome, fear becomes my muse,
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if the muse choose,
I shall but love thee better before death.
How do I write thee, scholarly tome?
With trepidation, doubts and writer’s block.
Imposter syndrome rears its ugly dome,
As blank pages silently mock.
The tenure clock ticks without pardon or care,
“Publish or perish!” the admins all declare.
But where to find the time? The mind to spare?
Too many class preps, reports to prepare.
Yet when words finally flow from mind to pen,
Those nagging inner critics quiet their din.
I lose myself in this world I construct,
My scholarly identity begins to glint.
If I can but a single reader connect,
Then perhaps my efforts you’ll not reject?
How do I write thee? Let me count the woes.
The blank, unforgiving page, a mocking stare,
The deadline’s breath upon my neck, a snare,
Imposter whispers echoing down the rows.
Each phrase dissected, analyzed, and froze,
The tenure clock, a metronome’s despair.
“Publish or perish!” echoes in the air,
While grant forms bloat, and peer reviews compose
A symphony of judgments, sharp and cold.
Oh, sweet community, where art thou hid?
Fighting off emails, and other diversion,
Each scholar wrestles with their words unsaid.
But wait! In footnotes shared, and chapters clad
In mutual respect, a bond is quickened, fed.
Though solitary battles may unfold,
Together, knowledge blooms, with stories told.
So fret no more, dear friend, your woes dispelled,
For by your side, a Faculty Writing Coach is held.
