I’m a weird person, my friends. A weird, weird person. Last year, I was criticized pretty severely by the reviewers of one of my articles for sucking something fierce at the writing of abstracts.
“This scholar seems to labor under the erroneous belief that abstracts should consist of sentences copy-pasted from the article,” one of the reviewers pointed out.
That was exactly how I wrote my abstracts because nobody had told me that this was not a good idea. I had no choice but to agree with the reviewers and decided to learn to write abstracts.
I thought that the way to do that would be to write a couple of proposals for collections of articles on different topics. “Nobody would accept the proposals, of course,” I mused, “but at least I will get to practice.”
So I sat down and wrote these proposals. To avoid the temptation of copy-pasting, I chose collections that addressed the topics I never worked on before. This was good practice for me and everything would be peachy, save for one little detail. Both proposals were accepted.
I mean, that’s great and I’m honored. Both collections are being edited by people who are well-known in my field and whom I always wanted to impress. The problem, however, is that I now need to do the following things before August 1:
1. Write two articles for these two completely different collections on topics I never worked with before. This means that I now need to familiarize myself with theoretical contributions to the fields of a) masculinity and b) space in literature.
2. Write a talk for my Oxford conference (that’s the third completely different topic).
3. Keep writing my book on the fourth completely different topic.
As they say, be careful of what you wish for because you might get it. I wanted an intense research year and I will have it in spades. I have had to create a very detailed plan that lists the number of words I have to produce every single day between today and August 1. This will be intense.