No. Yes. And maybe.

The rejection came today. In the same batch of emails that arrived, there was a note from one of the postdoctoral supervisors I recently emailed.

The former said the paper wasn’t very good. The latter asked if I could talk this afternoon for a few minutes about the job opportunity. I filed the rejection after glancing over and scowling at the reviews. I hit reply to the job email and typed before staring at the words.

Sure. Whatever. I don’t care.

I sighed before putting my head in my hands and indulging in a long-suffering and deeply sad sigh. I knew I aimed too high for the journal and I hoped I could sneak in a special issue and I don’t know where else to send this paper and I was sick with disappointment. I take rejections very personally and felt my stomach cramp and shoulders slump and mood dip dangerously. I am not, however, blatantly self-destructive so I picked up my head and looked again at my email window. I erased my initial reply, mustered as much energy as I could and tried again.

That would be wonderful. My afternoon looks to be very light so I should be at my desk most of the day. My number here on campus is [ ]. Our voicemail system here is unreliable at best, so if I don't pick up here, my cell phone is the next best bet.

I'll look forward to talking with you!

Even typing it exhausted me and I shook my head before laying my head on my desk again. I soon drug myself out of my office and wandered to get my mail. Then I went and flopped in a chair in front of Jill’s desk.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as she looked away from her computer monitor and regarded me over her glasses.

I shrugged before telling her my paper got rejected. “It always hits me hard, which is kind of surprising since it happens a lot,” I mused. “But for today, I’ll feel really stupid and terrible at my job.” I shrugged again and asked how she was.

“My son is going to Iraq,” she said simply and I frowned as I frantically tried to remember which one was in the military. I shook my head at her when I realized that neither of her children were - I would have remembered such a fact. She elaborated on his job and why he’d go to such an unstable and scary place. “I think it’s for the money,” she concluded, “but it’s not worth his life.”

I nodded thoughtfully before cocking my head sympathetically. “I’ll say prayers,” I offered and she nodded back at me. In theory, I feel like we should be taking responsibility for training Iraqis to police their country. In practice, the whole thing strikes me as a mess and I'm not sure what to tell people who have loved ones there. We talked a bit more - she has a doctor appointment on Monday and I told her Mom’s gallbladder would come out that morning. She’s overworked. I’m bored and discouraged. She wishes I’d stay on campus after the summer and understand why I feel it’s important to leave.

“Which means,” I concluded after finding out how to order a couple of textbooks I wanted, “I should get back to my desk. I’m expecting a call about a job I might want. But not really. Whatever.”

I walked back and halfheartedly picked another journal for my poor paper. I called the bookstore to order my books and replied to a couple of emails. I told Carrie I was sorry she was sad lately - I’m sad lately too. I thanked Advisor for telling me how proud he was of my seminar and that he mentored my graduate work. I sent OlderStudent a copy of my CV to use as a template. And I wrote to Jill about the books I ordered.

I gave myself a harsh pep talk when the phone rang. “You try to be peppy, Katie Marie,” I said out loud before lifting the receiver. “It’s what you do.”

I answered and talked to a relatively young woman with a very pretty accent for about 15 minutes. I can do exactly what she needs and would be good at it. She, in turn, does work I find interesting and valuable, though I haven’t worked in that area and could learn a lot from her. We traded information and I found it was easier and easier to be upbeat and positive about past projects and future prospects.

“The problem,” I told Friend after going to her house and fetching her for dinner, “is that she wants to nail something down pretty soon. And this would be my safety job - I don’t want to commit to another post-doc when there’s a chance of getting something at a higher level. But I did like her. And I would be good at the job.”

I came home with a clean car (it had remained salty and gross from my trip to the frozen north) and full gas tank. I was full from dinner and had leftovers in a container. Friend is on my couch with Chienne so I’m not alone with my sense of publishing failure. And I got an email from PrettyAccent. She reviewed the rest of my references and would like me to work for her. She listed various reasons I should do so and attached papers she’s written. And she pushed for a visit and answer by early March.

The visit I can do happily. It’s the answer that I’m not sure about. But given that journals seem pretty sure about telling me no, perhaps another post-doc would serve me well. I’ll keep you updated.