I read a fascinating post the other day about the difference between a manager’s schedule and a maker’s schedule. Here’s the gist of it:
There are two types of schedule, which I’ll call the manager’s schedule and the maker’s schedule. The manager’s schedule is for bosses. It’s embodied in the traditional appointment book, with each day cut into one hour intervals. You can block off several hours for a single task if you need to, but by default you change what you’re doing every hour.
When you use time that way, it’s merely a practical problem to meet with someone. Find an open slot in your schedule, book them, and you’re done.
Most powerful people are on the manager’s schedule. It’s the schedule of command. But there’s another way of using time that’s common among people who make things, like programmers and writers. They generally prefer to use time in units of half a day at least. You can’t write or program well in units of an hour. That’s barely enough time to get started.
When you’re operating on the maker’s schedule, meetings are a disaster. A single meeting can blow a whole afternoon, by breaking it into two pieces each too small to do anything hard in. Plus you have to remember to go to the meeting. That’s no problem for someone on the manager’s schedule. There’s always something coming on the next hour; the only question is what. But when someone on the maker’s schedule has a meeting, they have to think about it.
For someone on the maker’s schedule, having a meeting is like throwing an exception. It doesn’t merely cause you to switch from one task to another; it changes the mode in which you work.
Naturally, this made me think of academe. (What else do I think about, you ask? Good question.)
The problem of both
One of the challenges of academia is you’re never just a manager or just a maker — you’re both.
In your role as teacher, adviser, and administrator, you’re on manager time. Tasks can usually be broken down into half-hour intervals, and often we’re grateful to break them down into shorter intervals just to put some boundaries around them and avoid drowning. (See: grading.) Meetings abound, and you’re generally running hither and yon with a few stops to chat with people doing the same.
In your role as researcher, however, you’re on maker time. Sure, running a database search for relevant articles may be able to fit into manager time, but brainstorming, reading, thinking, and writing are all tasks that work best when you’ve got nice chunky slots of uninterrupted time.
Which means it’s kind of no wonder that most academics bemoan an inability to get research done. It’s not just avoidance or bad time-management. It’s a lack of the kind of time that best allows for getting that work done.
Yes, people do manage it
I know some rockin’ mama professors who manage to schedule time and work on their research and writing with focus — and they get a lot done. If you can do that, power to you.
If, however, you need longer stretches of time in order to get momentum on your project, knowing that is half the solution.
The other half is finding / making those stretches of time appear at regular intervals.
Planning, planning, planning
It’s easy to get caught up in the “as soon as I do X” sort of thinking. As soon as I’m done with this grading, I’ll make time. As soon as I’m off of this committee, I’ll make time. As soon as this personal problem resolves, I’ll make time.
The problem is that this isn’t so much “making” time as “finding” time — and believing in a mythical future when there won’t be as many demands on the time you do have.
That may work in the “as soon as the semester is over and I can hibernate for three months” situation, and in fact, frontloading all other work during the school year and keeping the summer free for research works for many people. (Beware the need to teach for summer salary, however.)
But if summer brings kids home from school or the need to teach or family obligations or whatever, then making time is your best bet.
That might mean setting aside one day a week for research and writing. It may mean sitting down on Sunday night and blocking out a morning or afternoon (whatever happens to work that week) and planning to get tasks done around it. It may mean clustering other tasks and activities so that stretches of time previously full become available.
Just how you, personally, will create maker time for your maker activities, will be unique to you and your life and priorities. But making time for your inner maker can relieve a lot of the “but I should be getting more writing done!” stress that’s endemic in the halls of the academy — and you’ll get more done, to boot.
There are two types of schedule, which I’ll call the manager’s schedule and the maker’s schedule. The manager’s schedule is for bosses. It’s embodied in the traditional appointment book, with each day cut into one hour intervals. You can block off several hours for a single task if you need to, but by default you change what you’re doing every hour.
When you use time that way, it’s merely a practical problem to meet with someone. Find an open slot in your schedule, book them, and you’re done.
Most powerful people are on the manager’s schedule. It’s the schedule of command. But there’s another way of using time that’s common among people who make things, like programmers and writers. They generally prefer to use time in units of half a day at least. You can’t write or program well in units of an hour. That’s barely enough time to get started.
When you’re operating on the maker’s schedule, meetings are a disaster. A single meeting can blow a whole afternoon, by breaking it into two pieces each too small to do anything hard in. Plus you have to remember to go to the meeting. That’s no problem for someone on the manager’s schedule. There’s always something coming on the next hour; the only question is what. But when someone on the maker’s schedule has a meeting, they have to think about it.
For someone on the maker’s schedule, having a meeting is like throwing an exception. It doesn’t merely cause you to switch from one task to another; it changes the mode in which you work.
One of the hardest parts of deciding to leave academia from graduate school is telling your adviser.
After all, they’ve devoted (hopefully) countless hours to supporting your transition from baby-student to proto-scholar. Your academic success depends on their approval and satisfaction. For better or worse, the adviser often becomes something of a parent figure — less fraught, perhaps, but no less weighty.
All of that means that contemplating telling them brings up lots of gunk: shame about choosing to leave, fear about their reaction, maybe even anger about their part in your being where you are and needing to leave.
Why you need to do it anyway
Assuming your adviser isn’t an abusive asshole (and if they are, you can mostly ignore everything I’m about to say), there are several reasons it’s a good idea to tell them.
They need to know. Since they are, in some administrative sense, “responsible” for you, they need to know that you’re disappearing and that it’s because you’re choosing to leave, not because you’ve had a horrible accident and can’t answer your phone or email.
They need to know why. You won’t be the only student of theirs who questions academia. If they understand why you’re choosing to leave, they’ll be better able to advise future students.
They might be helpful. Although we tend to view our advisers primarily through academic lenses, they are, like us, fully-articulated people with lives that go beyond their office doors. They may know someone. They may be able to connect you with someone else who once did what you’re doing.
You need closure. Unresolved relationships feel pretty terrible. Whatever else your adviser is, they’re someone you have a real relationship with, good, bad, or indifferent. Giving that relationship (or that phase of the relationship) a period frees up your head to think about the future instead of about the past.
How to deal with the gunk
Like I said, knowing it probably needs to be done doesn’t make it any easier. There will likely be Big Feelings. This is totally normal.
The best way I know of to deal with Big Feelings is to uncover and examine them. Yes, it’s scary. But it also makes them much less powerful.
We often resist uncovering our deep-seated shame and fear and anger because we’re afraid they’ll take over. We’re afraid we’ll never get back out. We’re afraid they (and by extension we) are irrational or silly. But every feeling we have is rooted in a real, true, human need — for safety, for acceptance, for autonomy, for creativity. In other words, even if the form of the feeling is silly, the feeling itself never is.
Uncovering and examining is a two part process. First, you write down as much as you can — what are all of the fears or beliefs or whatevers attached to this feeling? Second, you ask yourself questions about each and every one of the fears and beliefs. Is it true? What’s the evidence that it’s likely to happen? What would you or could you do if it did happen?
By doing this, you bring things into the light and you connect to your own capacity to handle things. The combination of demystifying the dark and realizing that even if something terrible happened, you’d be okay (you aren’t going to die a pauper in a box next to the river, for example) helps make everything seem a little more manageable.
Make a plan
Figuring out a few things ahead of time will make the whole experience less scary and more doable.
- What do you need to in order to help you have this conversation in a good way? What will help you feel calm and centered and strong going in? Maybe you need to meditate first. Maybe you need a friend to remind you of all the reasons you’re doing this. Maybe you need to write everything down. Maybe you need to role play it so you aren’t having to think on your feet. Do whatever you need to.
- What is your goal and how will you achieve it? Sure, your goal is to tell your adviser, but are there other goals along with that? Often, we secretly want people to agree with us or approve of our choice — and that’s a goal you can have, but one that’s less under your control. Maybe your goal is to get out without crying. Maybe your goal is to provide feedback on the department. Maybe your goal is to reassure your adviser. Focus as much as possible on goals you can control, rather than goals that involve trying to make someone else do or feel something.
- What do you need to recover? No matter how well it goes, it’s going to be a wee bit stressful. So plan on ways to take care of yourself afterwards. Maybe you need time by yourself. Maybe you need a good cry. Maybe you need a drink with a friend. Maybe you need a run. Whatever you need, plan ahead so you can have what you need.
A few things to remember
Their reaction, whatever it is, goes far beyond you and this conversation.Like everyone else, they’ve got a lot going on in their lives, and their reaction is going to draw on all of that — most of which has nothing whatsoever to do with you.
Their reaction doesn’t determine whether or not your leaving is a good idea for you. Your adviser, however brilliant, doesn’t know the whole of you, and he or she cannot predict the future. You’re a much better judge of what should happen in your life than they are.
It’s going to be okay. However they respond, whatever happens next, you are going to be okay. It might not be fun, but in the end, it will be okay. As a favorite signature line of mine says, if it’s not okay, it’s not the end.
Those of you who’ve left, what advice would you give people about telling their advisers? What helped you?
Some of us are the kind of people who can think our way into change — we can imagine alternative lives, we can believe that we’re qualified for this other career, we can create step-by-step plans to get us from here to our dreamed-of future.
But some of us need things to happen in the real world for us to be able to figure anything out.
What about this?
If you’re the type of person that needs to interact with the great wide world to figure things out, relying on brainstorming and research isn’t going to cut it.
In that case, try experimenting.
In other words, if you’re interested in doing something other than academia and you aren’t sure if it would work, apply and see what happens. At the very least you’ll get experience applying and you’ll be able to observe your own reactions to the possibility. At most you might get real feedback on your skills or even, gasp, get a job offer. Right there you’ll learn things about yourself and what you want to do next.
Nothing is all or nothing
The thing that usually holds us back from experimenting is the fear that if we apply, we have to take it. Or if we take a short course in something to find out more, we’re obligated to take the next one. Or if we contemplate doing something else, we’re turning our back on academia entirely, forever and ever.
But it’s not true. You may wade into the waters of the post-academic world and decide you like things the way they are. You might learn something that you can bring back to where you are and change it for the better. You might simply answer the “what if” question that was at the heart of your restlessness. Who knows?
The cool thing about experimentation is that its goal is simply to learn. At every stage, at every different fork, you can ask yourself what you want, what feels better, and what you want to know next. And that means that it’s always successful — because you can’t experiment and not learn things, even if the thing you learn is that project X is not for you.
So, what kind of an experiment would answer some of the nagging questions you’re facing? What would you need in order to try those experiments? Inquiring minds want to know.
How does your job fit into your life? More importantly, how do you want your job to fit into your life?
When we’re stressing out about our place in academia, whether it’s the identity-based stressed of “what do I want” or the logistical stress of “how do I get a job I want / how do I make this job work,” it’s really really easy to let everything else slide until that’s the only thing we’re thinking about, talking about, or engaging.
And then the trouble really starts.
All the other pieces
Lots of things go into a healthy, whole life — primary relationships, family, friends, hobbies, spirituality, community. If you sat down and listed out all the things that are important to you, I’m sure your career would come up, but I’m equally sure it would be one thing among others.
When one part of our lives is feeling off the rails, it’s tempting to believe that if we could only figure that one out, if we could only get it right, then we’d be happy. Then we’d be satisfied. Then we’d be comfortable and pleasant and fulfilled.
Honestly, the mono-focus of academia only exacerbates this tendency. How many academics do you know who have few interests outside their jobs, few friends outside their colleagues, few activities that don’t involve campus?
But however distressing any one part of our lives is, it’s the whole that matters. And while our careers and jobs are incredibly important to our whole lives, so are many other things.
Put it in context
You are more than an academic. Really.
Go ahead — write down all of the other roles you’re actively fulfilling these days: parent, partner, rock climber, flautist, beer snob, gardener, yogi, fountain-pen enthusiast, chicken farmer, writing group participant, marathoner, family member, volunteer, mentor.
What have you done for them lately?
Blend, baby, blend
The ruling metaphor of the late 20th-century life was “balance” — all those images of fitting it all in at once, having it all, finding that point at which everything fit.
You know what? There’s too much room for failure and too little room for success in that metaphor. Get caught up in a project, and whoops! There goes the balance. Have a life crisis? Whoops! There goes the balance.
“Blend,” on the other hand, allows for more than two things at once. “Blend” suggests that you’re cooking up something fantastic. “Blend” is about more than a single point in time, so you’re not looking at this moment, you’re looking at the composition of a week, a month, a season, a year.
Keeping struggles within the big picture
I bring all of this up because when I talk to clients, I see how easy it is for them to slip into an obsessive focus on whatever piece they’re trying to figure out right now. Everything is about the job search, everything is about figuring out whether they want to stay in academia, everything is about dissecting this job that’s driving them batty.
That means they never rest. That means they aren’t being able to lean into any other part of their life that is working and gain strength and confidence from it. That means they’re focused only on the thing that isn’t working, that’s hard and challenging.
That means they’re fucking exhausted.
I don’t know about you, but I make really crappy decisions when I’m exhausted. When I’m exhausted, I make decisions just so I can be done and I can stop making a decision already, because I’m too burnt out to be able to continue. That’s not exactly the way to a well-chosen life.
So if you’re in that space, make a conscious effort to bring back into your lived experience all those other things that are important. Go hike in the mountains. Go stare at pretty paintings in the museum. Go dancing. Go to coffee with your best friend and critique all the outfits that come in the door. Go read something entirely mindless and unenlightened. Go wrestle the dog. Go on a date with your partner. Go color with your kid. Go catch up on all of the blog posts and forum posts for that beloved hobby you’ve been neglecting.
In short, take a break. Blend the rest of your life back in. You’ll come back energized and more clear-headed and more creative and more optimistic.
Really.
A few weeks ago, I was thinking about what I needed when I was a miserable academic and thus, by extension, what you might need.
What I wanted more than anything during that time was someone to hear me, someone to acknowledge what was going on with me, someone to affirm my perceptions and encourage me to keep problem-solving and thinking about what I wanted and needed. I needed a way to touch base, to reassure myself that I was on the right track.
But I didn’t have that option, because the people I was used to talking to — my colleagues, my adviser, my friends — were all invested in the status quo. Their own lives were tied up in believing that academia was right for everyone.
From the stories I’m lucky enough to hear from you all, many of you are in the same position.
Introducing
Open Office Hours. An hour and a half a month where you’re welcome to call me and chat and tell me what’s up and ask for what you need — reassurance and listening and problem-solving and whatever else comes up.
It’ll be first-come first-serve, and I’ll limit each caller to 15-20 minutes, just so I can make sure to give everyone a chance.
The first set of Open Office Hours will be on Wednesday, June 2, 7:30-9pm ET. I’ll post reminders on the blog a few days in advance.
You can learn more about Open Office Hours — including future dates and times — by clicking here.
I look forward to talking with you!
More than once I’ve read, somewhere on the web, someone sneering that “do what you love” is pie-in-the-sky, ridiculous, and even irresponsible advice.
Their anger is huge, the disdain palpable.
Despite the fact that I’m a huge proponent of doing what you love, I get it, the anger and the disdain both.
It hurts
See, it’s really easy to feel betrayed, especially if you’ve already staked your life on doing what you love — and it’s backfired.
There are lots of reasons we all get into academia, but one of the most prominent is that we love the things we’re reading and thinking about. We love teaching. We love the combination of people and solitude, the crazy conferences balanced with grading in a coffee shop at two in the afternoon. We love wrestling with ideas, engaging conversations across articles and panels and emails and books.
We spend a lot when we go into this game — not just tuition, but time and lost earnings and a sense of being in step with our peer group career-wise.
Sometimes it doesn’t work out, often for reasons that have nothing to do with us. And at those times, the push to do what we love can look like nothing more than a big joke. And us the gullible marks covered in key lime pie.
Why I believe in it anyway
Everything I’ve seen and everything I’ve done tells me that doing what you love is essential for long-term happiness, whether you’re doing it for pay or not. If you value happiness (and not everyone does — to each her own), then it’s pretty basic.
If you’ve ever gotten stuck in a life without the things you love — punching the clock, trying to find ways to make the time go by faster, distracting yourself with anything you can whether you’re at work or not — then you know this.
When we do what we love, we’re energized, we’re excited, we’re connected and passionate and creative and productive. And that’s not just good for us, but for everyone our lives touch.
If you’re in that place
Even so, if you’re in that place of anger and disdain and betrayal, let yourself be there. Where you are is where you are, and having lost something that precious is hard. Really hard. And you deserve the time to rail and stomp and otherwise throw yourself against what is.
Just hold open the possibility that one day, not now, but one day, it may be different. That you might find another path to your passion, that you might discover it somewhere you never expected it to be. It’s possible.
And in the meantime, know that you lost something. Know that it sucks. And know that it wasn’t you.
The inimitable Sisyphus, who has been looking for a job for a while now, describes an all-too-common situation in academia:
A while back I had decided that I need to just give it up and move back into my parents’ house, but then little things keep popping on the horizon that look like possibilities, and I think, hey, I might be able to get this one and why bother dealing with moving if I’m going to be moving somewhere permanent soon anyway? Then that oasis turns out to be a mirage, and I keep crawling along.
Anyone who’s struggled with finding a job has had this experience — the just-missed, the nearly-there, the what-if. It’s the incrementalism that kills you. “But this next one won’t take much effort, and what if it’s the one? But this next one won’t take much ….”
So how do you decide enough is enough and it’s time to move on?
Give yourself the gift of a limit
The problem is, there’s no clear cutoff. There’s a limit to how many times you can take the bar exam, but there’s no limit to how long you can spend looking for a job.
And that means you have to create limits for yourself.
This is most easily done at the beginning. How long are you willing to do this? One year? Six months? Two years? What feels reasonable? What feels like enough time to find out what’s what?
And then you mark it down somewhere, make a date with yourself to reassess.
It doesn’t mean you have to stop at that limit. It only means it’s a point at which you stop, you look around, and you see what there is to see.
A few things you might see
When you do stop to look around, there are a few things that are worth thinking through.
- Has anything changed? That is, has something happened externally to improve the situation? Has something happened internally to improve the situation? What’s different now than when you set off on this particular phase of the adventure? What does that suggest about moving forward?
- How close have you come? If you’re repeatedly getting almost-there but not quite, it may only be a matter of time. If you’re knocking on door after door and not getting much response, it may be better to cut and run.
- Do you still want it? We can be creatures of inertia and bull-headed to boot. Do you still want this or is it now mostly a matter of pride? If you got the job tomorrow, would you be exhilarated or would you think, “well, shit”?
And now what?
Depending on what you find when you stop to look around, you may want to set another “let’s look around” date and keep going, or you might want to take this opportunity to choose something else. What else is appealing? What else can you do?
That’s not to say either is an easy choice, just that you have the choice. But you won’t consider your choices unless you give yourself the time and space to do so.
What if the beginning was a long, long time ago?
If you’re in the midst of it, see if you can take a break right now.
Ask yourself the questions above. How long have you given to this? How long are you willing to give to this?
It’s really easy to be motivated by pride and it’s shadowy sister, shame, to just keep pushing through, to keep trying, to make one last effort for the 57th time.
But stop and look. What do you want now?
Also? This sucks. And it’s not you.
Whereever you are in the process, though, and whatever choices you make when you stop and look around, know these two things.
This process blows. It’s distressing, demoralizing, and crazy-making. The process itself, the time it takes, the amount of work, will make your head explode even if you’re successful. And if you aren’t getting the offer you want, then it’s even worse.
And finally, it’s not you. You’re fabulous and wonderful and smart and talented. The system is pretty broken, and “success” here looks a lot like “sheer, unadulterated luck.” Sometimes we have it, sometimes we don’t. It doesn’t have to mean more than that.
So sorry for the radio silence, everyone. We were attending to a family crisis, which is now in limbo. Fun times!
In any case, I just wanted to post a wee note telling you what was up. Regular blogging resumes Monday!
One of academia’s very favorite myths is that everything within it is based on merit. Only the best students are accepted to the graduate program. The best students get fellowships and scholarships. The best students get the best jobs. The best work gets published. The best candidates get tenure.
And then there’s the flip side: If you didn’t get in to the program of your choice, it’s because you weren’t good enough. If you didn’t get the assistance that would have enabled you to actually get through the program, it’s because you didn’t work hard enough or you weren’t smart enough. If you didn’t get a job, it’s because you weren’t savvy enough, weren’t skilled enough, didn’t publish enough or strategically, didn’t have the right people behind you. If you didn’t get published, it’s because either your work was crap or you weren’t persistent enough. If you didn’t get tenure, you’re clearly not cut out for this system.
Even when we choose to walk away, these stories of failure dog us. (In our own minds, if nowhere else.) Leave before tenure? It’s because you couldn’t hack it. Decided not to go on the job market because you didn’t want to stay in academia? You wouldn’t have gotten a job anyway. Decided not to finish graduate school because it’s making you hate the universe? You weren’t smart enough to finish.
Excuse my language, but this is all a fucking load of steaming crap.
Even a cursory look around the academic landscape will reveal dozens of people you know personally who are brilliant, savvy, hard-working, and persistent and who have not “succeeded” in all of the ways academia suggests they will, what with all of those meritorious traits.
Brilliant and well-published graduate students who can’t find a job to save their lives because the job market sucks.
Smart, interesting researchers who don’t get published because their work doesn’t quite fit the neat little boxes of disciplines and journals or because they aren’t in the middle of the latest hot topic or trend.
Fabulous researchers and teachers who didn’t get tenure because they got caught in the gender politics of service.
I’m not saying that merit has no place in academia. But I am saying that, by the time we’re even as far as graduate school, absent true outliers, the differences between the “best” and the “worst” are, in some ways, often too small to be meaningful. Academia has been winnowing the pool since kindergarten, after all.
I am saying that the myth of merit doesn’t do us any favors. It doesn’t make most of us feel expansive and energized — it makes us feel small and scared and clenched. It doesn’t motivate most of us — it makes us avoidant and procrastinating and miserable. It doesn’t build us up — it makes us live in fear that, any day now, someone is going to figure out that we aren’t as smart as they think we are, and then they’ll kick us out.
I don’t know about you, but I don’t see a lot of merit to that situation.
We need to be suspicious of the myth of merit. We need to pay attention to how much outright luck contributes to “success” and “failure” in academia. We need to cut ourselves some fucking slack and begin to imagine that we are, in fact, smart, capable, wonderful people who, for various reasons, had a certain set of experiences with academia, some of which we had something to do with and some of which we didn’t.
We have a lot of baggage around the idea of a calling, we people of this century.
Sometimes, the whole enterprise seems, well, self-indulgent and stupid. My mother’s father, for example, wouldn’t have recognized the question. He fought in WWII and sent money home to his family, he worked in the quarry, he volunteered at the fire department and the police station and the water station, he raised three girls with a wife he loved, and when they retired, he dragged my grandmother all over the country on special elder-tours. By all accounts he was satisfied with, even pleased with, his life, without ever engaging the idea that he needed to live out a special mission.
Sometimes people take it too far. I’ve watched more than one college near-graduate refuse to take a job on the grounds that it wasn’t inherently fulfilling to them, blithely neglecting to remember that the only way that works is if someone else, who isn’t necessarily thrilled with every moment of their job, either, subsidizes the project. (I suspect this is rarer now than it once was, the economy being what it is.)
And sometimes it sounds just a bit too religious for our intellectual, post-humanist selves.
Most of us, however, end up somewhere in the middle — longing for a sense of meaning, connection, and purpose while simultaneously not being convinced that anything we’re running up against is It.
It’s like we believe that what we need to do is just find our (avocational) soulmate, and then everything will be fine, everything will unfold after that, but this avocation has a bad sense of humor, and that one is too uptight about money.
This is why leaving academia can feel like divorce, right down to the question of who keeps which friends. We found our One True Love, but what happens when the shine is off that particular rose? Does that mean we’ve failed? Does that mean we’re doomed to marginal happiness ever after?
Just like there’s probably not one person in the whole world who will automatically make you happy forever, there’s no one calling that will make you happy forever. Rather, there’s no simple conception of your calling that will make you happy forever.
Your calling, just like your marriage, your relationships, your life, and you yourself, is always growing and evolving. You’re always learning more about it. New possibilities are always opening up. And that means that what was right five years ago isn’t necessarily right now, and what’s right now isn’t necessarily what will be right five or ten or twenty years down the road.
Because so many of us experienced our fields and our work as a calling, it can be brutally troubling to run up against dissatisfaction. Because we felt called to academia, realizing that call is no longer there is painful.
I don’t want to suggest that those losses shouldn’t be mourned if you’re experiencing grief. I do want to suggest that you open up your conception of yourself to see what you’re being called to now.
Parker Palmer talks about your calling as the place where your deepest desires meet the needs of the world. In other words, while there are any number of things you’re probably good at, and while there are infinite problems in the world to solve, the particular configuration of your heart and this moment illuminate what you’re being called to now.
What are you being called to now? How well does that calling work within the structures of academia?
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Introducing Open Office Hours! Sometime we all still need to sit ourselves in someone else's office chair and dump everything out -- our questions, our worries, our confusions, our hopes.
This is your opportunity to do just that. Once a month, I'm offering an hour and a half of first-come, first-served telephonic Open Office Hours.
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