My Research in a Nutshell

My discipline is wonderfully vast. You can find a home for just about anything here. But at the core of Writing Studies (sometimes more broadly referred to as Rhetoric and Composition) is the relationship between author and audience. I think John Duffy explains this idea succinctly when he writes, “Every time we write… we propose a relationship with others, our readers.” I’m deeply invested in this relationship. Specifically: how is it imagined and enacted?

One way to really zoom in on the author-reader relationship is to extend it to the creator-consumer relationship on social media platforms. Successful social media creators are constantly thinking about their audience, sometimes strategically in order to grow their channels, and sometimes not so consciously as the inevitable hate comments reverberate in their minds. Creator-consumer relationships are especially significant to lifestyle vloggers on YouTube as they strive to create communities that are interested and invested in the mundane details of our lives.

As a YouTube lifestyle vlogger, I’ve noticed an interesting phenomenon that happens when I film, edit, and publish videos of myself online. And this phenomenon has been echoed by several other creators, both amateur and professional. I call it embodied hyperawareness. It is the acute consciousness of yourself—your physical body and your body’s larger categories of social identification like gender, race, ability, etc.—coupled with your imaginations and anticipations of how your audience will perceive you. It’s the sensation that once was paralyzing for me but has now become incredibly productive.

In my dissertation, I theorized this phenomenon. I began by discussing my own lived experiences as a YouTube vlogger. Then, I analyzed others’ YouTube vlogs to explain how embodied hyperawareness is present when vlogging and helps vloggers decide what kinds of information to share, when to share, and how much of it to share. I also discussed some of my students’ experiences and reflections on creating vlogs where they brought up these same ideas.

I also tried to explain why this phenomenon happens when vlogging. I used theories from my discipline and other disciplines to explain how the act of vlogging positions you as both a subject and an object at the same time, and can be really disorienting, leading to this feeling of heightened awareness of yourself and your imaginations of others’ perceptions of you.

The Challenges of My Research

The biggest difficulty of my research comes from the very nature of it. My research aims to contribute new knowledge to the discipline through theory-building. And theory-building is hard. It’s mentally exhausting, it’s isolating, and it often feels endless. The way I often describe my research to friends and family outside of academia is: I have these ideas that are bound up like a big ball of yarn. When I start pulling on one thread, three other threads start coming unraveled. And the more I pull, the messier things get.

I know that I’m immensely privileged to be in this position where my job is to pick any topic in the whole world and just think about it. (this is oversimplifying the professoriate, but you get the point.) I also know that I feel frustrated and angry. It has been six years since I started conducting this research, and I’m still struggling to fully wrap my head around these ideas enough to write a cohesive article. And the tenure clock clicks louder each day—each hour—as I’m struggling to write.

Last year, a big challenge I faced was knowing how to label my research. “What’s your methodology?” was my least favorite question. I’ve since become more confident in responding “I make things. I theorize the making.” I have mentor texts and mentor scholars who I can point to that do this kind of work in my field.

Most recently, though, I’ve found myself wondering: has it run its course? Should I set these ideas down, know that I tried hard enough to solve a problem of my own making, and simply walk away? The start of my research coincided with my PTSD diagnosis, and completing my dissertation was a revolutionarily healing act. But, six years later, I think I am as healed as I will ever be. I don’t need to prove to myself that I can make something valuable out of the trauma that was inflicted on me; I’ve already proven it.

So, I’ll pull up the Google Doc of my article-in-progress another time. I’ll stare at the words I’ve read hundreds of times. And eventually, I’ll decide how to move forward.

My questions for you

Have you ever felt stuck like me? How did you get out?

How do you know when it’s time to move on from a project?

Do you do any theory-building work? How do you overcome the unique challenges of it?

A few years ago, I read Denise Comer’s chapter in Our Body of Work (a fantastic collection, btw): “Embodied CV: Abridged.” Here, she offers a critique of the often disembodied work of the academy, listing entries like:

“Article Completed While My Mother Was in ICU and I Was Making a Four- Hour Drive Multiple Times a Week for Two Months” under her Peer-Reviewed Articles section and “Research Presentation When I Cried for Four Days in a Hotel Room over My Marriage Ending” under her Conference Presentations heading.

Her point is that the traditional CV shows only the final product of our labor, masking our labor itself. I’ve always found this strange for a discipline (Writing Studies) that claims to value process over product.

I think a lot about the parts of my job that won’t ever show up on my CV. This past week alone: the back-to-school pants shopping, the nail appointment, and the aesthetically designed course welcome graphics for the classes I’m teaching. Of course, these tasks are significantly less serious than Comer’s genuine hardships, but as I sit in front of my mirror and take my Shark flexstyle to my hair that I’ve perfectly sectioned off into 6 layers, I can’t help but wonder “what if I didn’t do this?”

Can I put this on my CV?

I’m reminded of my first day ever of teaching. I was a 23-year old graduate student. I had an outfit planned for weeks—a blouse I spent way too much money on at Banana Republic and a plaid skirt with big buttons down the side. I wore small block heels. Yet I was still asked “are you the teacher?” as I walked through the classroom door.

More seriously, I think about the effort I take to connect my scholarship to real-world events as I’m committed to producing work with material impact in the here and now. This often looks like bringing my own personal experiences into my academic writing. This means talking about my experiences with PTSD because there is no other way to fully explain the phenomenon of embodied hyperawareness that I theorize in my work. This means laying bare my own status as a survivor of bodily traumas, only to be discounted by peers who tell me I’m “in the minority of people,” so my experiences don’t merit scholarly attention. This means taking days (sometimes weeks) away from my research wondering if it’s undoing my healing.

Can I put this on my CV?

How do we hold more space for making visible the embodied and emotional labor we do as academics?

*photo was found on Pinterest.

TLDR; I didn’t transfer, and I’m so glad. I realized I liked being away from Miami. I liked that I had a field of cows near my apartment, and “downtown” was a couple blocks of cobblestone streets. I liked the Spanish moss in the trees, and I liked the small glimpse of seasons we saw each year. Life felt easy in this little college town.

During my senior year of college, I applied to graduate programs across the country. I had fond memories of visiting extended family in the midwest every summer, so I chose to attend a program in Indiana. While grad school was a difficult adjustment, I immediately loved Bloomington. It felt like the midwest version of Gainesville.

The skies felt bigger. The driving felt easy. There were cornfields and hills. In the fall, the red and orange leaves felt surreal. The first time it snowed, I stared out my window for hours. The longer I stayed in the midwest, the more it felt like home.

Last year, in a series of events I could never have predicted, I moved back to Miami. I’m grateful what brought me back was not a sick family member or any kind of crisis, but quite the opposite: a dream job.

After accepting the job but before officially moving, I visited one weekend to tour apartments near campus. They were tiny. They were old. And they were still out of my budget. To make matters worse, I forgot about rush hour. It took me over an hour to drive back to my parents’ house only 12 miles away. And it stormed the whole drive home. I took a hot shower and cried, wondering if I’d made a mistake.

I decided to live with my parents for a semester until my boyfriend (now fiance) could move down from Indiana. I saved a ton of money. I ate my mom’s homemade dinners every night. I saw my nephews every chance I got. So many parts were wonderful.

But the commute drained me, and the heat was unbearable. It was October, and I saw friends’ Instagram stories of pumpkin patches and cozy sweaters, and I was still sweating in 100 degree weather.

On a deeper level, I couldn’t fight the feeling that I had somehow gone backwards. I had moved back to my hometown. I didn’t want to run into any high school classmates at the grocery store. I didn’t want to rekindle relationships with any old friends. I wanted to build my new life; this was supposed to be a new chapter.

Today, I’m working on finding ways to paradoxically 1) make home feel new to me and 2) make this new(ish) city feel like home to me.

My fiance and I love the beach. I never went much as a kid because it was far, and my parents didn’t have many free weekends. We love grabbing sandwiches, beach chairs, a beach umbrella, and sunscreen and playing Settlers of Catan (the app version) against each other. We stay until the sun sets and moon peaks over the clouds. We drive back in the dark with the windows down.

I’m working on trying new places alone, especially coffee shops and cafes. I’m still trying to find a personal go-to. But there’s a lot to choose from, and this is a good problem to have.

We went on a cruise a few months ago because we live 30 minutes from the port. So why not?

We have a small pool in our backyard, and I like to dip my feet in and read on my kindle.

There are purple flowers blooming that I never noticed when I lived here as kid. A quick google search tells me they’re called Queen’s Wreath or Sandpaper Vine, and they’re becoming a fast favorite.

I’m also trying to take up new hobbies, like junk journaling and writing for fun (hence this Substack article).

I’m trying to remember that I wanted to leave after my first year in college, but I was so glad I didn’t. I’m trying to remind myself that I’ve built homes in a lot of different places. And I can build one here too.

I want to use this space to think out loud and process what this means for me.

Looking Back.

I vividly remember a fall day during my first semester of grad school, sitting in a Cultural Studies course, listening to the professor talk to us about the academic job market. He told us academic jobs, especially tenure track jobs, in the humanities were hard to come by. Alarmingly hard. Like might-as-well-try-out-for-American-Idol hard.

I left the class feeling shell shocked. It was a true Elle Woods moment.

Six years later, it was time for me to experience this difficulty first-hand as I plunged into the academic job market. I was advised to prepare myself for the very real possibility that this would be a multi-year process as I likely wouldn’t land a job my first go-around. And I was told that, if I did manage to land a job, I just had to get my foot in the door; it was okay if it wasn’t “the best” job and I should view it like a “starter home.”

In case you didn’t know, the process of applying to be a professor is grueling. You send out a ton of incredibly detailed and tailored job applications. You get ghosted by most of them. You manage to get invited to a few Zoom interviews. You get ghosted by most of them after that. And sometimes, if the stars align, you get invited to a finalist interview—the Campus Visit.

The entire process left me really emotionally drained, and it brought out a lot of feelings I didn’t fully process until long after it was over. In applying to jobs, I spent months trying to convince others to see the value of my work and of myself. All at the same time that I didn’t completely see this value for myself.

When the contract for my current job was signed, and the proverbial ink was dried (the email had been sent), I let out the biggest sigh of my life. I think I slept for 12 hours that night.

I had done it. I had managed to beat the odds and land my dream job.

After moving to Miami, getting settled into my new office (I finally had an office!), and learning where to park and how to print, the impostor syndrome trickled in.

I thought: How did I even get here? My dissertation was garbage. My committee only passed me because they felt bad for me. How will I ever write a book? How will I ever get tenure? Why did the hiring committee choose me out of so many other, and more qualified, candidates?

These thoughts colored my entire first year on the tenure track. I felt overwhelmingly undeserving. And I felt like everyone around me knew it.

I managed to make some progress on my research agenda—conferences, networking, proposals and papers submitted for publication, etc. But I felt, as one of my mentors has described it, “like an alien in a space suit.”

Looking Ahead.

The impostor syndrome allowed me to learn so much. It positioned me in a constant state of openness and willingness to learn and grow. But when I think of this next year, I hope it is filled with calm confidence. I still have an infinite amount to learn and so many more ways to grow—as a person and as a professor. But, I hope I can manage to hold space for this learning and growing while retaining a stable sense of confidence in myself.

In writing this article, I’ve had to delete language like “somehow I got the job” and “I got hired and I don’t know why.” I’m practicing speaking more kindly to myself now.

I may not understand why I was hired. I may not feel deserving. But I am grateful to be here, and I will use this opportunity as best as I possibly can.

I’m thrilled to teach two very exciting courses. Both are new to me and new to the university. One is about vlogging, and the other is about social media activism. I can’t wait to learn from my brilliant students. And I can’t wait to continue developing my research, hopefully making more progress towards a book. It’s hard for me to look beyond one year—or really even just one semester—but I’m excited for the collaborations and connections I can’t even envision yet.

Looking Around.

As a practice of speaking more kindly to myself and actively combatting the impostor syndrome (that probably won’t ever fully go away), I want to remind myself (and you!) of some evidence.

• I couldn’t fathom finishing the dissertation until I actually did it. But I did it.

• I couldn’t imagine landing a tenure-track job until I actually did it. But I did it.

• The first time doing something is always the hardest. Experience makes things easier.

• Feelings are not facts. I can feel unworthy, but that doesn’t mean I am.

• Nobody secretly hates me (or you). And if they do, it’s none of our business.

• I’m not doing this alone. I have a wide and deep network of support.

• I love what I do. And on days when it feels hard, I will let the love of it push me through.

Despite reading nearly 100 of my students’ literacy narratives, I’ve never actually written one of my own. I think my first Substack article could be a good place to start. As a professor and researcher of social media, my literacy narrative walks through my personal history with different social media platforms.

Let’s travel back to 2008.

It’s hard for me to remember a time before social media. I had a MySpace profile in 6th grade before the world quickly decided that MySpace was old news and Facebook was the latest and greatest platform. In some ways, MySpace feels like it was ahead of its time. Sure, there were templates, but most people had individually customized profile pages with unique layouts. There were background graphics (sometimes even animated ones) and featured photos and text boxes. Many people even had a signature song that played when you viewed their profile. In case you’re wondering, mine was Kelsey by MetroStation. Then there were “Top 8’s”—the source of a lot of middle school drama.

A few years later, Tumblr was my platform of choice. As soon as I got dropped off by the bus in 9th grade, I’d run over to my family’s shared computer (a Mac desktop that sat in the corner of our dining room) and scroll on my dashboard for hours. My feed was filled with a mixture of quotes, songs, photos, videos, and gifs all in one place. They all followed a specific 2010s Tumblr aesthetic. On the weekends, I’d take pictures of my older sister and strive for her Tumblr fame. She achieved quite a bit of it! Today, she often jokes that she walked so I could run (re: YouTube and TikTok). I didn’t really post much original content on Tumblr, and there wasn’t much personalization. My username was pretty anonymous, and I didn’t know the identities of the people behind the accounts I followed; they were standard fashion photography or movie gif accounts.

Then came Instagram. I initially downloaded the app because it had cool filters for photos, but it quickly became a social media platform of its own. Around the same time came Twitter (Twitter, I will never stop mourning you). Still, both platforms were for connecting with people I knew in real life. At some point, Instagram started to feel curated—in a widespread sense. There was an obligation to make captions witty. There became an art to the order you posted photos in, complete with apps that allowed you to preview your grid and check for cohesion before posting a new photo. Likes on Instagram became a kind of social currency. People were optimizing the publicity of their accounts. The phrase “do it for the ‘gram” was born. It readily gave way to TikTok.

Somehow though, in the oversight of the decade, YouTube wasn’t added to my mix. Sure, it existed for me when I wanted to watch a specific video or listen to a particular song. But it held no value as a social media platform. I didn’t have a clue who Bethany Mota was. (rip, I would’ve loved her.) I didn’t know what a vlog was until I started grad school in 2018 and my roommate introduced them to me on the built in TV of our very gray apartment.

In 2020, at the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, and the height of my PTSD symptoms, I started a YouTube channel of my own. I’ve talked and written about this a looooot elsewhere, so I won’t get into the details here, but, essentially, I wanted to feel more embodied. I also wanted to educate others about grad school. And it just seemed fun.

Present day.

6 years later, this YouTube channel has entirely changed the trajectory of my scholarly life. Creating videos allowed me to realize a phenomenon I theorized in my dissertation and continue to work through in my current research. The skills I gained from building this channel allowed me to teach social media influencer & vlogging classes as a PhD candidate and professor. I’m teaching a brand new class this fall called Vlogging and Content Creation, and as of late July, almost every seat is full, and I am counting down the days until the semester starts.

Social media is often considered frivolous or narcissistic (judgments rooted in misogyny, imo), but for me, it’s been an ever-present combination of creative making, social connection, delightful escape, and cutting-edge research.