Do you write books during exercise class?

I wrote an imaginary novel about academic precarity

Feb 08, 2024

The other day, while doing a barre exercise class that wasn’t rigorous enough to prevent me from daydreaming, I scoped out a new book project.

It’s a novel about a woman who devotes over a decade—maybe 14 years, something really absurd—to a doctoral program for a humanities degree. Philosophy or literature or something even more “useless,” which happens to be the word she tiptoes around at family reunions or dinners with her husband’s coworkers, situations that remind her of the discomfort of a mealy lump of oatmeal stuck in the back of her throat, the feeling of not fully swallowing. She is the first in her family to go to college. After her second child, in her nineth or tenth year of graduate school, she hires a babysitter using money from evening editing work so that she can attend a reading group about feminism in the workplace. One of the new doctoral students discovers she has children. “Omg, there’s a mother here, I have food that might be rotting in my refrigerator. Do you know if it’s still good?” If she senses something is rotten during an encounter, she tucks her feelings into her pockets which later explode in frightening ways. She handles her fright by developing clear opinions on suburban housing, pickling, and artificial intelligence. She also begins to sell her knitting at farmer’s markets. Though few buy her multicolored scarves for baby dolls or lumpy socks, she is chuffed to earn back her investment in yarn during the pussyhats craze. She’s very nearly insufferable, except when she’s relatable.

When she finally graduates after nearly a decade and a half, she applies for tenure-track academic jobs. But, despite invitations to two interviews, she’s only offered part-time, contingent positions. The secure jobs appear, to her, to be offered to people who are more brilliant than her, who have published more, who have degrees from more prestigious universities, and who have secured more grants. She remains undeterred, she believes she will get a job eventually. What’s notable—astonishing—is her trust.

woman exercising indoors — Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash

Here’s a scene I imagined during a carousel horse squat. Early autumn. She scrapes uneaten ground beef off the dirty plates. The sky is yellow with smoke, there are wildfires somewhere. She wants to take a photo because she feels reassured when there’s a frame around scary things. But her arms are so soapy. She couldn’t capture the scene anyway. She has ninety-eight essays on Juno to grade. On the radio, one of her former colleagues is saying something about the inequalities that exist. That weekend, she’ll spend 14 hours writing an application for another job.

The book won’t be annihilating. It won’t make her into a perfect victim, she will have many undesirable traits. Nor will the university be a well-defined villain, it will have many redeeming qualities. Rather, there will be an understated horror to the story. I decided all of this during the warmup in the center of the room.

During burpees, I realized some narrative liberties would need to be taken to build suspense. But I don’t know them all, and couldn’t write a complete novel in my head during burpees.

During flatback core, I considered my audience:

People who feel betrayed by academia, those who have struggled to eke out a career in a two-tier system that doesn’t seem to see them fully, or completely.
People who believe in, especially unknowingly, the myths of meritocracy and academic work as an occupational labor of love, the same people who ought to read Robin Zheng’s article on academic precarity and feminism. (Allow me to give a disclaimer, I rediscovered the article after class).
People who toil in similar conditions—artists, writers, librarians, curators, etc.
Book clubs. I even started to think about a handout for book clubs.

My core began to ache. The excitement I felt made it hard to keep my tailbone down. I worried I’d pop up my rib cage and damage my lower back. I don’t exercise to improve my figure; I work out to stave off death.

In plank, I brainstormed titles.

woman in black tank top and black leggings doing yoga — Photo by Olivia Bauso on Unsplash

I don’t remember them, plank was hard.

When the class finished, I hydrated and decided that while the novel would probably be a bestseller, perhaps I would use heavier weights next time so that I could focus on staying alive instead of building castles in the sky.

But I love castles in the sky. She loved castles in the sky.

Now that I think about it, that would be a good title.

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Elsewhere

Last week, I reminded myself that I exist with a post about my nonparticipation in AWP24 this year. It was also my birthing anniversary, a good time to celebrate.

“It’s my birthing anniversary 🥳, so, naturally, I’m sharing this photo of myself in a red pantsuit to celebrate my baby born on their due date. Five-hour labor! Vbac! No drugs! It could have been very different, I know. Nevertheless, indulge me as I throw a brief birth story party with words! There will also be cake and gifts and a small party for the child. I want you to know it took tremendous willpower to not smooth out those wrinkles in the red fabric using a photo editing tool. It would have only taken a few minutes. Snip, snip. But in the end, I didn’t want to distract you from the higher truth of it all. In the end, I had to do laundry and wrap presents and calendar and grade and work for money, for knowledge production, and you know, sleep. Maybe the more important question is, should I return this pantsuit? I think the abdominal wrinkles are a problem of external design, not my personal problem. You should also know, I’m not going to #awp24 this year, alas, but I am still writing fictions and some of them might appear here and I may post photos of myself as if I were going just to remind myself of my existence. And persistence. In case you see me at the grocery store or bicycling to campus in the rain, I do not usually look like this. In case you are reading my words for the first time, consider them both a warning and a promise.”

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Thank you for reading The Gift.

Until next time,

Monika
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Do you write books during exercise class?

I wrote an imaginary novel about academic precarity

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