Sharing “Our Stories” (II)
It’s been a few weeks since I began rolling out my “Sharing Our Stories” editing and coaching initiative for LGBTQ+ and crip/disabled storytellers. I shared then a little about how my partner’s experiences of aging and age-related disability are part of what has led me to this work. As a follow-up, this week I want to share a little more about how my particular background and training have proven valuable to my partner’s storytelling needs.
As you might imagine, 15 years in academia teaches one A LOT. During that time, I worked hard to be as inter- and multi-disciplinary as I could be, reading widely within and among fields, presenting original research and writing at conferences adjacent to my disciplines, and intentionally taking on topics which placed me squarely outside my training. All those years in the academy allowed me to develop expertise in queer literature and cultural production, histories of gender and sexuality, and a range of critical theory traditions.
This expertise uniquely positions me to work with LGBTQ+ storytellers as they frame, contextualize, and more deeply engage many of the same themes that not only animate the pages of LGBTQ+ storytelling but, as many of us know all too well, our lives.
The challenges of coming out, confronting medical and psychiatric discourses, the threat of violence, sexual confusion, social isolation, and second-class citizenship often go hand-in-hand with the exhilaration of taboo desires, the comfort and safety of chosen family, the fun and satisfaction of sexual exploration, and the self-realization.
When I talk about “Collecting Our Stories,” I refer to a need to approach our memories and imaginations in a methodical way. This helps us decide exactly what story we want to tell, to pursue that story without distraction, and to begin to organize our ideas around a suitable and interesting narrative structure.
In my partner’s case, my training as an historian of sexuality, for instance, means I can help him construct and adhere to a temporal scaffolding for his personal experiences while maintaining a high level of historical objectivity for socio-political context. In the process, we can work together to build a loose-but-compelling narrative arc peopled with the most important figures for the stories he wants to highlight.
“Telling Our Stories” brings another, slightly more technical dimension to the process. LGBTQ+ storytelling is a rich and diverse body of writing. My background in queer literature means I understand the genre’s conventions, languages, references, political meanings, and socio-cultural worth, allowing me to approach an in-process manuscript with a trained critical eye. My background as a critical theorist also allows me to provide a range of analytic lenses through which to view one’s story and thoughtfully add body and depth.
This has helped my partner in many ways, from suggestions on which characters or experiences are worth further development, and which might read like literary tropes we want to avoid, to providing useful and pertinent critical tools from academic fields like queer theory and masculinity studies. This can be intimate and vulnerable work, and I’m able to act as a safe, compassionate interlocutor while simultaneously encouraging him to push himself to dwell on a given scene that is particularly difficult for him to relive.
Finally, when we’re ready to “Present Our Stories” in a clean, readable format, I’m trained in the mechanics of putting it all together into a cohesive, coherent form. This happens at the level of grammar and punctuation, but also one level higher, at that of clarity and flow.
For my partner, this has meant more time writing and less time worrying about technical errors, an excitement and eagerness to share his writing with friends and family, and a sense of accomplishment he wouldn’t have been able to achieve on his own.
While my partner has been kind enough to let me use him as an example, my approach can help all kinds of LGBTQ+ storytellers. He and I have worked together using his memories as source material, but that needn’t necessarily be the case. “Sharing Our Stories” is an approach that strives to span genre and, instead, root itself in a feeling, an experience, and an ethos of connection, community, and commonality as a means of getting at the nuance, the differences, and the uniqueness that each of our individual stories add to the panoply that is LGBTQ+ experience.
Post-Dissertation Calm (III): Why Finishing a Dissertation Often Comes Down to the Week in Front of You
Much of the labor of writing a dissertation takes place at the level of the week.
Decisions about when to write, what to revise, and how to respond to feedback are typically made week by week. Drafts are opened, set aside, returned to, and reshaped across a series of ordinary seven-day periods.
When dissertation writers feel stuck, it is often because the week in front of them feels disorganized or overloaded. Everything appears equally urgent, priorities are unclear, and the work becomes a persistent source of anxiety rather than something that can be approached deliberately.
In that sense, finishing a dissertation often does come down to the week in front of you.
But the week alone is not enough.
While the week is the basic unit in which dissertation work occurs, it only really becomes effective when situated within a larger structure that allows individual weeks to accumulate into meaningful progress.
Why the week matters (and why it’s not sufficient)
The week matters because it is long enough to support sustained engagement with complex intellectual work.
A single day is often too short. Energy fluctuates, obligations intervene, and concentration is uneven. Across a week, writers usually have the opportunity to return to an idea, reread material, revise a section, or sit with a problem long enough for it to develop.
The week is also psychologically manageable. It is easier to orient oneself toward a week than toward a semester or a year, and easier to recover from an unproductive day without interpreting it as a failure of the entire project.
At the same time, there are clear limits to what we can reasonably accomplish in a week.
A week is not long enough to write a chapter, meaningfully revise one, or prepare for a defense. Long-form academic work unfolds more slowly than that.
The week is necessary, but insufficient.
The limits of short-term, urgency-based approaches
Many dissertation support programs are organized around short, intensive timelines, often lasting four to eight weeks. These approaches typically rely on heightened urgency to generate momentum.
For writers who are early in the process or who have substantial reserves of energy, this can sometimes be effective. For many late-stage humanities writers, however, a reliance on urgency can introduce significant (and unnecessary) problems.
When expectations are compressed into a short window, a delayed response from an advisor, an unexpected teaching obligation, illness, or a period of emotional fatigue can quickly destabilize the entire plan.
Under these conditions, difficulty is often interpreted as personal failure rather than as a predictable feature of long-form academic work.
The issue here is not effort or commitment. It is scale.
Short-term approaches provide weeks to accomplish work that realistically requires months.
How weeks become powerful when they accumulate
Weeks become powerful not because of what they can accomplish alone, but because of what they can build when deliberately stacked.
This is where a longer structure changes everything.
When weeks accumulate into months, something different becomes possible. Work deepens. Arguments clarify. Drafts stabilize. Progress compounds.
In a humanities dissertation, this accumulation often maps naturally onto chapters.
One month allows sustained attention to a single chapter: drafting, revising, reorganizing, and settling it enough to move on. Rather than juggling multiple chapters at once, the writer can concentrate on a single line of argument and bring it into clearer focus.
Four such months allow the core of the dissertation — the substantive chapters — to take shape one at a time, without always requiring the writer to hold the entire manuscript in their head at once.
The week still matters. It is where the writing happens.
But now the week is working toward something larger, rather than bearing the entire burden of completion on its own.
Why six months is the right container
A six-month structure provides the containment that makes weekly work sustainable.
It creates enough room for:
feedback cycles and revision
inevitable delays in committee responses
teaching or caregiving responsibilities
illness or periods of low energy
emotional fluctuations near the end of the degree
Crucially, it allows for recovery.
In a six-month container, a difficult week does not threaten the entire project. It becomes part of the process rather than evidence of failure.
This is also why six months is often necessary beyond the four chapter-focused months.
Many dissertations require time for writing the introduction — work that becomes far clearer once the chapters exist — as well as a final month for defense preparation, revisions, and manuscript polishing.
This final stretch is not “extra.” More often, it is what makes finishing possible without unraveling at the very end.
Six months is not about working slowly.
It is about creating enough structural safety for the work to continue.
Returning to the week (now supported)
When weeks are nested within months, and months are held within a six-month structure, the role of the week changes.
The week no longer carries the full psychological weight of the dissertation. Instead, it becomes a site of orientation rather than pressure — a place to return to the work without panic.
Questions such as:
What am I focusing on this week?
What would count as sufficient engagement right now?
What kind of feedback or support would help me move forward?
become meaningful because they are no longer asked in isolation. Each week contributes to a defined monthly focus, and each month contributes to a clear trajectory toward completion.
Finishing a dissertation rarely results from dramatic breakthroughs or bursts of intensity.
More often, it emerges from a series of weeks that are structured carefully enough — and sustained long enough — to add up.
The work happens week by week.
But it is the six-month structure that allows those weeks to accumulate into completion.
If this feels like the kind of support you’ve been missing, I invite you to contact me to learn more. Let’s set up a FREE ½ hour exploratory conversation to figure out what you need and how I can help.
If you’re not ready to make that commitment yet, but want to reflect more deeply on where you are emotionally, I’ve created a FREE short Weekly Reflection for Dissertation Writers Worksheet, a tool designed to help take regular stock of where you are and how to plan the week ahead, You can download the worksheet by joining my email list here.
And if you’re considering structured, sustainable support through the final stages of writing and defense, my 6 Month Slow Burn Dissertation Coaching Cycle runs from February through July 2026 and is built around exactly this logic: weeks that accumulate into months, and months that are supported long enough for the work to finish.
Whether or not you choose to work with me, I hope this framework helps clarify why difficulty at this stage is not a personal shortcoming, but a structural problem — one that requires a structure capable of holding it.
Post-Dissertation Calm (II): Introducing the 6 Month Slow Burn Dissertation Coaching Program.
The Emotional Work of Writing a Dissertation
Most advice about dissertations treats them as intellectual projects. And they are! At least from far way. Once you look a little closer, though, you begin to see the layered emotional and affective components of actually producing one.
We’re told to clarify our research questions, create a writing schedule, and simply sit down and produce pages. This is invaluable — if sometimes vague — advice, and it points to the very real, concrete practices that a dissertation coach like myself can help with: structure, pacing, accountability, and breaking an overwhelming project into manageable parts.
But these tangible writing strategies don’t fully account for the emotional experiences and expense of dissertating — the anxiety, self-doubt, isolation, and exhaustion that so often accompany the work and quietly shape our (in)ability to do it. For many people (myself included), the hardest part of writing a dissertation is not intellectual. It’s emotional.
A lot of times, when failing to account for this affective component and focusing instead only on the “writing” part of dissertating, many perfectly capable grad students conclude that something must be wrong with them. That they lack discipline, confidence, or the elusive quality of “motivation.”
Dissertating can be an intensely isolating experience. Much of the work happens alone, unfolding over years amid anxiety, shame, and self-doubt. It asks us to sustain focus and belief in our work, but takes place outside of the familiar, milestone-based structure of coursework and without the regular affirmation that once came from grades or classroom discussion. Progress can feel invisible for long stretches of time. Even when friends and family are supportive, it can feel impossible to explain what you’re working on, why it’s taking so long, or why it feels so heavy.
Over time, that isolation becomes loneliness — and loneliness quietly erodes confidence.
Many students find themselves wrestling with imposter syndrome and persistent self-doubt. Questions like Do I belong here?, Am I capable of producing something worthy?, or What if my committee realizes I don’t know enough? become a constant internal soundtrack. Alongside this runs the ongoing pressure to prove one’s worth — intellectually, professionally, and personally — within institutions that offer little reassurance or recognition in return.
It is surprisingly common to reach the dissertation stage and no longer feel certain about academia, or even about finishing the degree itself. The version of academic life many of us imagined entering – intellectually vibrant, stable, meaningful – often looks quite different in practice. Reconciling that gap can bring grief, disappointment, and confusion, especially when we’ve already invested so much time and energy.
These emotions are rarely acknowledged openly. Instead, students are encouraged to push through, to be grateful for the opportunity, or to focus on productivity. Yet, ignoring the emotional dimension of this process doesn’t make it disappear. It simply forces it underground, where it tends to resurface as burnout, avoidance, or deep exhaustion.
This emotional strain frequently shows up as anxiety and overwhelm. The dissertation begins to occupy not just time, but mental and emotional space. Even when you’re not working on it, it’s there: in the background of your thoughts, in the tightness of your chest, in the fatigue that makes it harder to begin again. For some, prolonged stress even manifests physically — disrupted sleep, headaches, or a sense of constant tension.
Many people I speak with worry that something has gone wrong because the dissertation feels all but impossible. But difficulty is not evidence of failure. It is often evidence of prolonged stress without adequate support. The emotional labor of writing a dissertation includes managing uncertainty, tolerating imperfection, navigating shifting identities, and holding both hope and doubt at the same time. That is real work, even when no new pages are produced.
Understanding this can be quietly relieving. When we begin to see our struggle as contextual rather than personal, the question shifts. Instead of asking, “Why can’t I just get myself to work?” we might ask, “What conditions would make this work possible for me now?” For some, that means reassessing expectations. For others, it means creating structures that feel supportive rather than punitive. And for many, it begins with taking an honest look at their emotional capacity – not as a measure of worth, but as practical information.
If this resonates, you might find it helpful to pause and reflect more intentionally. I’ve created a short emotional self-assessment for dissertation writers, available here.
And then there is the deeply personal nature of the work itself.
Many dissertations are closely tied to our identities, values, and intellectual commitments. Writing about topics that matter profoundly to us can be meaningful — but it can also be emotionally taxing in ways that are rarely acknowledged. The toll of writing this kind of work is different from the challenges of writing in itself.
It’s no wonder that perfectionism often takes hold. When the work feels this important, it can become nearly impossible to decide when something is “good enough.” Progress slows. Avoidance creeps in. What once felt meaningful begins to feel unbearable.
At this stage, many students begin asking a quiet but honest question:
Is the emotional labor still worth it?
This is not a question of weakness or failure. It is a question of care.
For some, the answer may ultimately be “no” — and that, too, can be a thoughtful and valid decision. But for others, the answer is “yes, with support.” “Yes,” if the process no longer has to be endured alone. “Yes,” if there is room for empathy, encouragement, perspective, and structure that make the work feel survivable again.
Finishing a dissertation can bring profound emotional relief: a renewed sense of accomplishment, confidence in your own intellectual voice, and the grounded knowledge that you followed something difficult through to its end – none of which anyone can ever take away from you. Many people also find that the final months — when appropriately supported — allow space to reclaim curiosity, rebuild trust in themselves, and finally feel ready to defend and graduate.
If you are at a point where you want to finish, but not at the cost of your wellbeing, you do not have to navigate this alone.
For those who are ready to get help finishing their dissertations, I am currently enrolling graduate students in my 6 Month Slow Burn dissertation coaching program.
The upcoming cycle begins Monday, February 2, 2026, and runs through July 2026, guiding you from wherever you are now through writing, defense preparation, and completion. If this feels like the kind of support you’ve been missing, I invite you to contact me to learn more. Let’s set up a FREE ½ hour exploratory conversation to figure out what you need and how I can help.
If you’re not ready to make that commitment yet, but want to reflect more deeply on where you are emotionally, I’ve created a free short emotional self-assessment for dissertation writers. It’s designed to help you take stock of what you’re carrying right now — without judgment or pressure — and to clarify what kind of support might actually help.
You can download the self-assessment by joining my email list here.
Whether you choose support now or simply begin with reflection, you deserve a process that acknowledges the emotional reality of dissertating — not one that asks you to ignore it.
Telling “Our Stories” (1)
For years now, I’ve encouraged my long-time partner, 40 years my senior, to write his memoirs. He’s led an absolutely fascinating life – eldest of 11 on a Nebraska farm, Catholic monk-turned-social worker, gay rights pioneer in his own fashion – and he’s got all kinds of stories, insights, and life-lessons to share. In a gesture I’ve found endearing and wholly in keeping with his character, it’s an idea he’s always gently dismissed, his signature brand of self-effacing modesty preventing him from even considering it.
That is, until a few months ago. Last September, we celebrated the big 80 and, due in part to the concomitant review of his life and, perhaps, a changing perspective on the importance of his own experiences as he’s aged, he’s finally warmed up to the idea of telling his story. Not long after his birthday, he undertook a few first attempts at collecting and organizing his memories, some of which even I’d never heard.
Yet, it’s been evident that he’s struggling to tackle a project like this on his own. Of course, some of this is age-related. For one thing, his memory isn’t quite what it used to be (I mean, whose is!?). He also has a hard time sustaining the necessary level of concentration to write. Physically, it’s difficult anymore to sit at the computer, and writing by hand is no longer feasible. These things are understandable and to be expected, though they still sometimes leave him feeling discouraged or overly-fatigued.
In addition to these age-related challenges, however, my partner simply doesn’t have the literary tools to undertake an endeavor like this. Many of the basic components of writing elude him; things like organizing historical timelines and themes, conceptualizing and developing narrative structure and arc, producing compelling and sympathetic characters with depth, or identifying and pulling on the affective threads that might interest a reader all represent an underdeveloped skillset for him. Nor does he have the attention to detail, sharp eye, or patience needed to edit anything he has managed to write. These are, however, things I can help him with.
Watching my partner confront these challenges with grace, humility, and not a little frustration has inspired me to begin working with other LGBTQ+ storytellers who, for any number of reasons, could use some help in sharing their stories. Regardless of whether you’re already writing and in need of an editor to help you further develop or make presentable your manuscript, or at the beginning stages of brainstorming your project and organizing your thoughts, I can meet you where you are in the process.
I’m currently booking out editing and coaching spots for the next couple of months, and I’d love to hear about the projects you’re working on. I offer a free ½ hour informational 1-on-1 call to prospective client-storytellers, during which you can tell me all about what you’re working on, or what you’d like to be working on, and I can provide you with some idea of how my training, background, and expertise can be of use. Feel free to contact me here through private message, or via email at ifeditingcoaching@gmail.com.
Post-Dissertation Calm (I)
The other day my partner and I were sitting outside a local cafe enjoying the warm, January sun here in Andalucia when he remarked that I had seemed much calmer than usual this holiday season. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike the holidays (I’m no Scrooge and I enjoy giving gifts) but, as he put it, I could be a little on-edge between mid December and early January. Why was I so much easier-going this year?
Only a little later did it occur to me that this had been the first year in a very (very!) long time that the holidays weren’t dominated by a nagging sense of dread and regular waves of overwhelm. Despite seasonal stressors – the inconvenient crowds, endless obligations, and financial pressures – that are challenging for many people, I still felt somehow lighter than ever. I couldn’t seem to put my finger on why, though.
Then it hit me: I defended my dissertation last Spring. This was the first holiday season during which I didn’t have to field endless questions about my ongoing research and writing, when I was going to (finally!) graduate, or what I planned to do after grad school. Instead of dread, this new year has seen me exploring and reveling in the deep gratitude I feel toward myself for deciding to complete and defend my dissertation.
I almost didn’t graduate at all. I very nearly quit after several years of sincere attempts and with a few hundred pages drafted but no idea how I would ever finish. What was worse, for at least a year I was no longer sure I even wanted to.
Not long ago, I was a 7th-year graduate student, out of funding, isolated, unmotivated, and suffering from physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion. There was, despite my best efforts, no clear way out of what felt like a profoundly deep and lonely hole, I was desperately trying to convince myself I didn’t really care whether I finished or not, and just about anything other than dissertating appealed to me as a welcome distraction.
I am, of course, grateful for no longer having to answer the well-meaning questions of friends and family with little more to offer than vagaries and obfuscation. What a relief!
More than that, though, I’ve realized how those questions came to trigger my own complicated, ambivalent feelings about the whole process of dissertating, and how different the experience was from what I’d (romantically!) envisioned, not to mention the incongruence between the deteriorating state of academe and the (romanticized!) version of it I’d half-knowingly (and half-heartedly) insisted on carrying with me all the way through grad school.
In the end, I did decide to finish. The calm my partner and I enjoyed over the holidays is only one way that this decision has positively affected my life so far.
The dissertation experience I had has encouraged me to work to help others who feel similarly stuck, ambivalent, unhappy, yet hopeful about finishing and defending their own dissertations. Deciding to finish your dissertation is a decision to make with careful consideration of your overall wellbeing and an honest look at how much time it will take you to complete it. In the year since defending, I’ve reflected on the two most important things that made me successful and contributed to my finishing: an honest self-assessment of my emotional, mental, and physical wellbeing, and a manageable schedule that allowed me to tackle each component of the dissertation one at a time without compromising that wellbeing in the process.
If any of this sounds familiar, or resonates with your particular experience of the dissertation process, my 6 Month Slow Burn dissertation coaching program might be for you. I’m currently taking on 2-3 graduate students who have already missed the deadline for Spring graduation but can’t stomach the idea of another school year. I offer three different packages, depending on what you’ll need to succeed, that will take us from February through July 2026 – and from wherever you are in the dissertating process through your defense.
“My First Call for Papers” Workshop
It all begins with an idea.
Are you an undergraduate looking for an edge when applying to grad school?
Or, are you a grad student who hasn’t had much luck when submitting conference proposals?
Does the whole topic of calls for papers (CFP) seem unclear? I know it was for me.
I’m offering a new workshop in December that aims at demystifying the process of submitting proposals for consideration by academic conferences by providing participants the concrete tools and actionable steps they need to successfully search for, select, and submit to academic CFPs.
Presenting your original scholarship at a conference is a great way to take the next step in your academic career. As an undergraduate, it looks great on grad school applications, helping you stand out to admissions officers and faculty. If you’re already a graduate student but haven't yet presented at a conference, it can be a wonderful place to test out your ideas and receive feedback on your work from peers.
Finding the right CFP for you and your project, though – not to mention figuring out how to write a successful submission – can be anything but straightforward.
Here’s how I came to submit a proposal to my first call for papers, and how I can help you successfully do the same.
By the end of my sophomore year in college, I was finishing up the final requirements for my American Studies major at the George Washington University in Washington, D.C. I had nearly completed the necessary number of credit hours (many of which, thankfully, also counted toward my primary major in History), and was putting the final touches on my senior capstone project. With the help and guidance of a wonderful advisor, I completed an undergraduate thesis that examined the radical rhetoric of Black Panther Party co-founder Huey P. Newton’s 1970 speech, “A Letter to the Revolutionary Brothers and Sisters About the Women’s Liberation and Gay Liberation Movements,” in which the African American leader outlined some of what he saw as the political and ideological common cause shared by the mid-twentieth-century Black, Women’s, and Gay liberation movements in the United States.
It was, for me, quite an accomplishment, and I was proud of myself. Not only that, working on the project had excited me: it wasn’t just the topic, but the process of writing itself – of doing primary research, synthesizing the work of other scholars, and refining my own arguments – that I found so satisfying. Even better, there was the tangible outcome of having completed one of my two undergraduate majors.
“So, what now?” I asked myself; after the paper had been turned in, and after I’d received feedback from my advisor. It was unclear what the next step – if any – might be. Looking ahead to graduate school, I knew I needed to do something to make my application stand out.
My advisor suggested submitting a proposal to present my paper at a conference. It would be good practice speaking in front of an audience and, if I was lucky, I’d receive some in-person feedback and reactions to this project I’d put so much time and energy into. I eagerly began pursuing this option.
However, once I decided to take this next step, I ran up against several vexing questions. Some of these might sound familiar:
Where do I even look for CFPs?
Once I’ve found them, how do I know which one is right for me and my project?
Assuming I’d figure that much out, how would I reduce what was a 25-page undergraduate thesis to a measly 250-300 words?
Similarly, what if I found a CFP that interested me but wasn’t exactly suited to my project in its current iteration?
As an undergraduate, these kinds of questions had never come up in my classes before. After all, what was the rush? As a sophomore, I had plenty of time to think about things like presentations and conferences! However, getting an early start on learning how to reframe my work with a particular CFP in mind, not to mention the public speaking practice, proved invaluable throughout the remainderof my time as an undergrad. It also helped me prepare to be a graduate student, to ask graduate-level questions and supportively occupy academic spaces with and for my peers.
When I arrived at grad school, I realized it was not at all uncommon for others in the program to continue having these same questions. At this level, not yet having presented at an academic conference can carry stigma. I met a surprising number of grad students who hadn’t presented their original work in any formal capacity (that is, outside the classroom itself). What's worse, with a little prodding it became clear that, not only were many just as mystified about how to approach a call for papers as I was as a sophomore, seeking guidance and clarity on the whole topic could feel like (and signal) inadequacy or unpreparedness.
If you’re an undergraduate looking to up your game and get ahead of the curve, or a graduate student ready to jump into the world of presenting your original scholarship at conferences, I can help.
Since my sophomore year, I have developed and refined a systematic approach to finding, selecting, writing for, and submitting to academic calls for papers. In the last 15 years, this has led me to present at least a dozen papers at graduate and professional conferences throughout the United States and Europe. Often, I’ve successfully retooled the same paper to fit multiple CFPs, sometimes with very different themes and topics. The method I share in this workshop has also seen success with interest from academic journals and other publishing opportunities.
When: December 5, 2025 @ 12:00pm EST
Where: Zoom
Price: $50 per person
By the end of this 1.5-hour workshop, you will:
Know where to look for CFPs, how to choose those best suited to you and your project, and how to read them for what they’re looking for in a successful submission.
Understand the CFP submission as its own literary genre with its own standards and conventions.
Have had the opportunity to work and receive feedback on a CFP of your choosing.
Have prepared your very own 200-300-word proposal submission draft for a call for papers relevant to your project.