I submitted an article to a certain journal in January of 2011. The place where I submitted asks people to submit through the e-scholarship website, also known as the scourge of humanity and the bane of my existence.
I went to this website to look for a decision many times. Then the website went down and was inaccessible for a while.
So I go there today and finally manage to access it. And I discover that my article has been accepted with revisions. The revisions are good and very useful. They are also numerous, which I always welcome. It’s nice to see that reviewers have worked carefully with my text.
The problem is that nobody ever got in touch with me to inform me about this. It is weird to me that a decision appears on some site somewhere and nobody tells me anything. Something similar happened to me a while ago when I wrote to a journal to ask if they’d made a decision and they wrote back to say, “Oh, yes, we’ve published your article already.” Good, but how about informing the author?
What is it with journals that fail to communicate with authors?
The joy of getting an article accepted is now tinged with confusion as to what I’m supposed to do next if nobody is getting in touch with me.
So I’m marching in the Convocation Ceremony today. As I walk across campus in my professorial robes, a nice lady stops me.
“You must be very happy to be graduating!” she says.
“I’m not graduating. My students are. I’m a professor,” I explain.
“Wow, you are so young, I could have never guessed,” she responds.
I had a variation of this conversation two more times during this short walk.
I feel very stressed right now (details in my next post), and when that happens, I tend to become confused and disoriented. This is why I decided to follow another professor wearing his regalia in hopes that he would lead me to the place where we were supposed to gather before the convocation.
As he resolutely marched into a room in the building where we were gathering while I followed, I vaguely noticed that people were engaged in an activity I didn’t necessarily associate with marching in a convocation ceremony. After I emerged from my autistic fugue, I realized that I had followed the prof right into the Gents’ bathroom and was now scaring men doing their business at the urinals.
Well, at least I look young.
After publishing the following bit of sheer idiocy, The Good Men Project can be declared dead and gone:
My unscientific theory is from a fundamental disconnect between men and women at the micro level. Men know women are different. They think differently, they express emotion differently, they are motivated by different things, they think about sex differently, and they use a very different vocabulary.
To the author: your “theory” is stupid and you are even more stupid than the “theory.” Nothing annoys me more than people who are so intellectually impotent that they attempt to translate their crappy personal lives into some far-reaching theory of gender relations. The only actual “fundamental disconnect” here exists in the brain of the author who is incapable of seeing the world outside of idiotic gender binaries.
A person who takes 25 pills a day and has erected the entire construct of her identity on this foundation explains her pill-guzzling worldview:
Allow yourself to be sick. Accept what is. Don’t run from it anymore. Don’t dwell on it either. Just acknowledge what is, and see where the clarity takes you. . . when I laid down to sleep that night, these words came over me: You were trusted with this illness. And that, among all the health advice I’d ever received, made me feel better.
Well, at least this is honest. In order to get yourself to the point of 25 pills a day, you do, indeed, need to allow yourself to do this and embrace the status of a perennial invalid with glee. Note, also, how this person feels better because of the idea that illness is some kind of a reward that only very special people receive.
What is really scary about this is that this woman is planning to become a nurse. The idea of anybody placing their health in the hands of an individual who sees illness as a gift that needs to be accepted but never analyzed is terrifying. What is even more terrifying, though, is that she is only 27 years old.