As many of you are well aware, abstracts for the Society for Neuroscience Annual Meeting in October are due in just over 24 hours. Have you written yours yet? Me neither. Have you done the experiments whose exciting and paradigm-shifting results you intend to describe in this abstract? Oh yes, me too....sort of.

With a five-month lag time between abstract submission and actual face-to-face science talking, it's not at all uncommon for a neuroscientist to find herself at a crossroads come mid-May. Unless you've gotten a solid chunk of sexy data over spring semester (because let's face it--the months between the end of SfN last November through mid January of this year were pretty much a wash), there may be a...loose end or two that needs to be tied up over the summer before you have a poster's worth of data. And tie you shall! Come October you will have a beautiful, compelling story that will have conference-goers surrounding you 4-deep through the entirety of your poster session--even on Wednesday!

But what do you do now, with a deadline looming, and just a smattering of raw data (or worse, merely the outline of an experimental design) to work with? I imagine there are some PIs out there who only let their labs submit abstracts once they've got those shiny <0.05 p values in hand, and that is a completely legitimate, if conservative, way of doing things. On the other hand, you can submit an abstract that I like to think of as a teaser--one that hints at the work that will be presented, whetting the attendees' appetites, but without giving too much away.

I am quite a proponent of the latter approach, and I'll tell you why: very few people read the abstracts. Moreover, those who read them won't remember them. Here is a little story to illustrate that point:

During my penultimate year of grad school, I had a rough patch where I collected basically no data. Nothing worked, not even in a negative way. I was just getting ramped up to start a new direction, when SfN abstract time rolled around. I took a risk and wrote a vague abstract with an even vaguer title that loosely touched on new direction experiments, and crossed my fingers that the new thing would work. Guess what? It didn't! However, I had a completely different thing pan out at the last minute, and  I presented that instead (luckily, vague title was so vague that new data still sort of fit under its umbrella). I had the best poster traffic I've probably ever had in my entire career, and not one single person said, Hey, I thought this poster was supposed to be about X, but this seems to be about Q, WTF BAIT & SWITCH! Did not happen.

But this is not just about not getting "caught." As a scientist, the best thing you can do for yourself is to get people to come listen to you talk about your research, full stop. And at a gigantic meeting like SfN, presenting a poster is by far the best way to make this happen. No abstract, no poster. So submit an abstract, any abstract! Lock that 4-hour slot of time with a 6x4' easel board IN, folks. The absolute worst that could happen is that your lab explodes and you have to withdraw--which, though in theory sounds like you're making a public proclamation that you've Failed at Science, is honestly NBD. Do you actually think people are going to remember when you're applying for faculty jobs or up for tenure that you had a withdrawn poster that one time? No. Nobody cares. Your poster is but one in a long itinerary of things people are going to forget as soon as they get back to their hotel rooms.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an abstract to write.

It's mailbag time, folks! This email comes from a post-doc who's just about ready to fly the coop, and when I read the question within, I absolutely had to answer it on the blog. It's one I imagine many, many of you are also thinking about, and that is SO important if you're looking to land a faculty job--how do you create a unique science identity for yourself ?  Our reader writes:

Hi Dr. Becca,

I've enjoyed your blog ever since someone forwarded me a link to your
post about giving a good talk. I've appreciated your insight and
humor, and all of the advice links too (I also love cocktails so your
blog is kind of perfect). I am currently in my second post-doc
position, which isn't uncommon in my field, and plugging along -
trying to do all those things I'm supposed to (get manuscripts
published, writing grants, mentoring students). This past winter, I
had two phone interviews, one of which led to an on-site interview,
for which I am still waiting for final news. So, I feel like I am
competitive for the type of job I want (a teaching/research mix,
primarily working with undergrads). However, I feel like I am still
struggling to form a cohesive scientific "identity" for myself (I
don't know what else to call it). As I've moved from lab to lab, I've
worked in different systems, and although I can see a cohesive
theoretical framework for why I have worked on the questions that I
have, it is still hard to fit them together in a way that makes sense
sometimes. I am also not sure if I should be doing something right
now, as a post-doc, to make things be "mine" more. I feel like I am
putting my all towards the project that is paying my salary (a grant
received before I arrived), and making creative contributions to it,
but I don't know how to start my own thing without spreading myself
too thin.

Anyways, is this something you've given much thought to? I don't worry
about it too much, but then someone will ask me something like "so are
you developing a model system that you will be able to bring with you
when you leave?" or "will you be bringing any grant money with you?"
(at the job interview - my answer was no) that makes me feel terribly
inadequate. 

OK, first: my blog is kind of perfect!!!

Second: Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! You need a scientific identity. One of the things that not just faculty hiring committees, but also study sections and award selection committees are looking for is that you are an independent investigator who, if given a lab of your own, will be able to start a whole new line (or several lines) of research that is separate from the work of your mentors. Now, this doesn't necessarily mean that you can't be using the techniques that you learned during your training, or studying the same model system, or even asking related questions. But you must be able to show that you can take what you've learned and do something fresh and new with it.

But how do you go about getting that identity? My experience is that it can happen in a couple of different ways. Most commonly, you have an open and honest conversation with your PI about what ideas you can take with you. In other words, he or she may agree to let your project, or parts of your project go, and it's up to you to build a research program around that. I highly recommend having this conversation sooner rather than later--meaning, before you even start applying for faculty jobs. Your research statement will be the best it can be if it's clear you have a direction and purpose to your work that is yours and yours alone.

Alternately, it may be the case that your project has more or less been  yours from the beginning. In grad school, my thesis project was a little side extension of the primary work that was going on in my lab, and my advisor kept talking about how I was carving a niche for myself, but I was so clueless I didn't really understand why she was pointing this out to me. My post-doctoral work was also a bit of a tangent, and my PI was more than happy to let me run with it. As he often liked to joke when presenting my data at a talk, if I'd known what a monstrous pain in the ass my project would be going in, I never would have done it in the first place (not true, but it really was a painful beast).

The bottom line is this: when people ask you what your research program is, it's not enough to list the projects you're on. Find a common theme in the work you've done, build it up a little, and then mold it--add a little here, trim there, fluff this bit out, etc--until it's yours. This is the fun part! You've been in science a while now, what do you love the most? What questions would you answer tomorrow if you walked into a fully equipped, staffed, and stocked lab? Who do you want to be when you grow up?

Allow me, for a moment, to borrow from the venerable and ever-quotable Keanu Reeves, as I take this opportunity simply to say:

Whoa.

I won't sugar-coat things, you guys. This semester--and I say this with absolute certitude--was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. Ever. Like, soul-crushingly hard. TMJ hard. Last semester? Last semester was nothing; it was shopping. This semester, I had six people in my lab (including undergrads) who were counting on me to show them how to do science, while at the same time I had to create and teach a class completely on my own.

This class....where do I even begin? It was not an intro class; it was not a class anyone has taught before at NJU, or possibly at any U. It was my idea. There is no appropriate textbook. Each lecture--3 a week--was made from scratch. From my brain, from pubmed, and from the godsend that is Google Image search (and sometimes YouTube). It took ALL of my time. All of it. I have no idea how some of you do this 2, 3, or 4 (!!) times in a single semester, even without a lab to run.

Classroom time was not so bad, and at times it was truly awesome. I've never had a problem with public speaking, especially when I'm talking about things I love, and it made me so happy to share what I care about with NJU's neuroscience-inclined undergraduates. There were some real moments too--the kind of moments pre-professor you dreams that future-professor you will have--philosophical conversations about evolution and the brain and the human condition or whatever. And I have to say, those tiny flickers of an indication that maybe you have caused your students to really think about something...it is a fucking amazing feeling.

But I swear, putting those lectures together was very nearly the death of me. There was always one to work on. Always. There were nights I genuinely thought there was no way I could come up with more than 10 minutes' worth of material to talk about the next day. But I had to, because this was my class and mine alone. And so I did.

Here is the thing about being new faculty--the thing that you know in an abstract way, and that you want, but don't necessarily process until you're actually in it: everything, all the time, is all up to you. There will be a lot of things you simply can't delegate, because in the beginning, you are the only one who knows...well, pretty much anything. And in addition to all those things that you planned on having to do, a million little fires pop up Every. Single. Day. And you have to deal with those too, because again, this is your show.

And still! I am over the moon that this is my job. Stress-induced jaw pain notwithstanding, I feel like I've made it through my first "real" semester mostly unscathed. Without question, there were times I wasn't sure April would ever come, when friends and family would ask me how things were going, and it was all I could do not to burst into tears. It was so, so hard, but here we are. I am super excited for the summer, when I can finally shift my focus to getting the lab in high gear, and write my first R01. I'm speaking at an awesome conference in June, and can look forward to collecting vintage terrariums, books, and trophy cups for my wedding.  I'm through the woods (for now).

Fun news, folks! The most excellent Scicurious has graciously let me scribble all over her walls at Scientific American today. In a bit of a break from my usual tales of early tenure-track shenanigans, I instead offer a commentary on a New York Times neuroscience write-up from last week. To put it briefly, this neuroscientist is not impressed. Read here!

'Tis a joyous day, dear readers, as we're blessed with the good fortune of another guest post by the most excellent NatC, who you may recall put forth some most excellent wisdom on negotiating not long ago. Dr C is just coming back to earth after a  hugely successful run on the TT interview trail, and after fielding some exceptionally competitive offers from some exceptionally Classy Institutions (not to mention negotiating LIKE A BOSS), she's  finally signed on the proverbial dotted line (which in actuality was probably more like a solid line). It was without question a very very very stressful decision, and I've asked NatC to expound on the decision making process here in the illustrious pages of FTTT, for the benefit of all of you. Many thanks, NatC!

There’s a lot of really great advice out there about TT Job Search – from writing research plans to negotiating an offer. All of which has been extremely helpful – for my sanity if nothing else – through this process. But there’s one question that no-one’s discussed yet: how does anyone make any major choice between two perfectly viable options?

Decisions are always deeply personal. Sometimes there are factors which make a decision more straightforward– a significant other refuses to move to a state due to work (or perhaps due to the state’s increasingly draconian stance on women?); or one department has the only other person in the world that understands and can support your fancy new technique; or one…um… difficult senior faculty member.

Often there is one offer that is clearly better. But sometimes, based on the tangible things: salary, teaching requirements, lab space, start up package, there is no obvious choice. Add to that wildly different institutions/departments, and the deciding factors become the peripheral* things - like “fit”, personalities, size of the institution, administrative support in the department, and location of the institution.

How is it possible to evaluate and compare these kinds of intangible differences?  Especially since in many fields of research, there is a range of different kinds of departments in which I could work - medical school departments, college-based departments, and strikingly different kinds of departments within those categories. There are large institutions and smaller schools. Different locations: East coast versus West coast versus Midwest. City versus college town. There are different research focuses of the departments – I could be one of a cluster of sub-field specialists, or I could be the person in that department. It’s like choosing between beverages: a negroni, a manhattan, or a glass of wine for example. They are all perfectly valid options, and there are advantages and disadvantages to each of these, but they are all so different it’s almost impossible to compare them directly. Without the ability to see the future, it is impossible to know which is the best.

There is one more catch to this decision. These comparisons make one huge assumption - that all the offers come within the same time frame. With a window for interviews of more than 4 months, there is a pretty high likelihood of needing to make a decision about one job before interviews at another have happened. Making a decision without knowing all of the options – or even the likely range of options – is even harder.

My strategy for making major decisions has always been: (1) obsess, fuss over, and generally over-think details for a few weeks, (2) Make complex spreadsheets to get my thoughts clear, usually with a glass of wine, a negroni, or a manhattan at hand; (3) Re-visit institution; and (4) wake up one day feeling certain of what to do. (5) Never second-guessing the decision – especially at some point further down the line when things are (inevitably) less than perfect.

[Note: This strategy FAILS rather spectacularly when some options are still only possibilities when decisions have to be made. It can end up getting stuck in a loop between (1) and (2)].

Clearly, I’m not an expert at best-practices in decision making, so people – help me out! How do you make decisions like this? Or, for that matter any major decision about where to apply, what kind of institution, what kind of department?

How does one decide whether to take a risk and turn down an early offer when there are interviews (but no actual offers) lined up at more attractive places?

What are the things outside the startup package to consider when taking a tenure track job?

Is it helpful to focus on the imperfections of each place, and decide which you are more comfortable, rather than the things you like?

*Not to say these things aren’t important. Having worked in a department with poor admin support, I can assure you it matters. A lot.

Neither my grad nor my post-doc PI was the type to say no to a photo op, and so I became accustomed to the ritual early on: the scrambling to find a clean lab coat for them to wear for the interview, the pulling up of spreadsheets and closing of Snood  windows on the lab computers, the setting up of “I’m doing science!” type activities on the benches.

On one particularly memorable day, my post-doc PI burst into the lab Cosmo Kramer-style, and frantically ran down the length of the room, poking his head into each of the bays. “How is NO ONE doing bench work right now?!!” he yelled. “PBS is here!” The truth of the matter was that most of our research didn’t involve a ton of daily bench work, so it was not at all unusual to find the shakers and microcentrifuges sitting silent. Looking up from my Google Reader very complicated data set, I offered, "Do you want me to, like, pipet something?"

He pledged his eternal gratitude, and I quickly set up a rack of 1.5ml microcentrifuge tubes next to a beaker of distilled H2O as the cameras began to roll.

Last week, I was asked to participate in a video for NJU commencement, and an eerie sense of deja vu washed over me as I doted around the lab, making sure everyone was wearing their appropriate PPE. We'd gotten a couple of good action shots when the videographer said, "You know what we really need? One of those shots where you're holding up a tube and looking at it." "Yes!" I exclaimed. "We scientists do that all the time!"  And so we searched the lab for a passable colored liquid, finally settling on one of our pH standards. We were all cracking up, but awesome grad student managed to keep a straight face as he did the honors.

Doesn't he look so...sciencey?

I was struck by a comment today in what I can only imagine is now a record-breaking post by Scicurious: her musings on the challenges of networking. If you haven't yet stopped by, I highly recommend you do--great issues raised, and fantastic comments from her readers. But what moved me didn't have much to do with networking per se; instead, it was the mention that only her PI attends small meetings, while he sends her mainly to the biggies--SfN and sometimes Experimental Biology, I presume.

Now, the big meetings are awesome, and some might argue that you get more "bang for your buck" at those, where your entire field, in a very broad sense, is all in one place. I love SfN to pieces, but I can honestly say that at this point, SfN is (for me, YMMV) a reunion. It's less about absorbing crapload of science, and more of a chance to catch up with my friends from grad school, my post-doc, and friends I met at other meetings. Small meetings.

There's this scene in Back to the Future when Doc Brown sees the flyer for the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance and remarks, "Look, there's a rhythmic ceremonial ritual coming up," and that was basically my thought process when I, as an undergrad, saw my first flyer for a scientific conference. Look, there's a gathering of individuals intending to discuss a topic of interest coming up. I was totally fascinated without comprehending exactly what it even meant, and sent off my travel award application as fast as I could. Fortunately, they gave out a ton of travel awards for this conference, and I went. Every year, for the next six years.

Since that fateful day, I've probably been to 3 or 4 other small meetings, some for several years in a row. Small conferences (and by small I mean really small, <250 attendees) are the bomb. Here's why:

1. They can be relatively inexpensive, because they usually only last 2-3 days so you only need 1-2 nights in a hotel. Moreover, they often provide breakfast and lunch, and sometimes even dinner, depending on the meeting and its location. I went to one where they had a stocked freezer full of ice cream treats, and you could just go and take them whenever!

2. The intimacy provides much more opportunity for non-awkward shmoozing than the giant meetings, where all the BSDs are hanging out with their pals from grad school. You never know who you'll sit next to at lunch/dinner/the bar! Plus, it's easy to seek out new friends who are and will be your contemporaries. Unless you wildly change fields, these current grad students and post-docs are the faculty you'll be seeing at meetings forever. I hadn't realized how many great friends I'd made from all these small conferences until I was at a new one about two years ago. I remember looking around the opening reception and thinking, Wow, I know a lot of these people already! There really is a fantastic group of young scientists in my sub-field, and we are just about poised for total world domination! That was a fun feeling.

3. There is often a strong emphasis on highlighting the trainee attendees. In addition to travel awards, most small meetings I've been to have had one session of grad student/post-doc speakers, and all had wine-filled poster sessions. Wine + science = much, much winning, and a little liquid courage never hurt anyone.

4. You will learn a TON. Small conferences are for people in a small field to get together and share their ideas, and you get to listen in and participate, you lucky stiff! Because there is only ever one thing going on at any given time, you're afforded the luxury of paying attention to the speakers, instead of flipping through the program, stressing about what you're missing. Not only will it help you figure out who the real movers and shakers are in your sub-sub discipline, but you'll have a better opportunity to see how everyone's research fits (or doesn't fit) together, and you end up with a clearer sense of the field as a whole.

When I come back from SfN, I'm exhausted. My back hurts from standing all day, my feet are blistered, and my liver is begging for a lemonade cleanse.  But when I come back from a small conference, I'm invigorated. I feel smarter. I have ideas about where I want my research to go and how it fits into my field. If you're ever feeling down on your science, the best thing you can do is go to one of these small meetings, and you'll be all ramped up and ready to start 5 new projects when you get back. If that isn't reason enough for your PI to let you take off for two days, I don't know what is.

Finally, how do you find these conferences? You can start by checking out the lineups for the Gordon and Keystone meetings. But you can also just try googling the sciencey thing you love + conference, and see what comes up! There are SO many meetings out there--now go forth and attend them!

If you've been on the twitterz the last couple of nights and run in the same circles I do, you may have noticed something called #dinnerdare, which is basically people trying to one-up each other with pictures of their dinner. Now, during the week my dinner is usually about 1/3 a head of iceberg lettuce with some cottage cheese and goldfish crackers, but I do like me a good old fashioned twitter challenge. Tonight I threw my hat in the ring, and this was the result.

Normally I hate it when you go to someone's house for dinner and you say This is so good, where'd you get the recipe? and they're all Oh, I just threw together whatever I found in the pantry all fake-modest and whatnot. But the reality is that throwing together what I have in the pantry cabinet (my entire kitchen is smaller than many people's pantries) is usually how I cook, because I'm not organized enough to plan actual meals when I go to the grocery store, and I sincerely loathe the grocery store near my apartment here in NJC. However, I think that in general, food will taste really good no matter how you end up putting it together, as long as you keep the seasoning simple.

The only protein I had in the kitchen was a bag of frozen EZ-peel shrimp (uncooked), so I decided to use those as a starting point. I put them in a bowl of water to defrost, and dug through the crisper drawer in the fridge for some veggies. A vidalia onion, red bell pepper, and bag of baby spinach called out to me, so I got them out. At this point, I had a couple of choices: I could make a dang quesedilla, or I could do something fun. Fun, obvs!! I switched  on the broiler, cut the bell pepper in half the long way, took out all the middle bits, and put it on some foil to roast (skin up).

Next I got out some grits, which were my only starch option besides spaghetti (yawn). I always cook grits in milk instead of water, because they come out so creamy! While the grits were cooking I chopped up about half the vidalia and put it in a pan to semi-caramelize. When the grits were done I spread them out on a plate and stuck that in the freezer to cool. Shrimp with hot creamy grits is fine, but this is a contest, people! We need to get a little fancy.

When the red peppers were done, they looked like this:
Black on the top, still a little red on the sides. I stuck them in the freezer to cool for a bit so they weren't too hot to peel by hand. Once they were cooled and peeled (the skins should come right off), I chopped them up and put them in a bowl with the onions. I added a splash of balsamic and a splash of cream, and went to town with the hand blender to make the coulis. I sauteéd the shrimp and set them aside, then quickly wilted the spinach in the same pan (this literally takes about 60 seconds) and set that aside, too.

When the grits are cool they become somewhat hardened into a rubbery grits disc.  Appetizing, right? Right! I cut two beautiful triangles and ate the cutaway bits because I was starving. I dredged the triangles in flour and fried them in some vegetable oil until they were brown and crispy. I patted them down with a paper towel, laid them on top of the spinach, dumped on the shrimp, and artistically spooned on a healthy serving of my coulis, and voilá! An aesthetically and gustatorily pleasing dinner.

Actually, this dish kind of cracks me up because I feel like it's straight out of a 2002 "tapas" menu at some cheesy lounge called Karma or something. But you know what? I don't care, because it's totally delicious, and has a lot of nice textures.

So, this happened:

The letter is, of course, in response to the very delicious Sazerac cocktail we all drank together during Mardi Gras a couple of weeks ago, and I have to admit that I'm pretty flattered. Moi, with my measly little 200-hits-a-day, life-in-academia-and-sometimes-cocktails blog, warrants a quasi cease-and-desist letter from a big ass IP law firm? They must think I'm super influential and/or making money off this thing! Believe me, Cooley--I wish.

Now, let's break this down a bit, shall we?

1. Sazerac brand rye is named after a bar that itself was named after the Sazerac cocktail, so let's not kid anyone that your version of the cocktail is "authentic." In fact, the original wasn't made with whiskey at all, but with cognac.

2. Though I never "purported" (your words) to be authentic, as far as I can tell, there's nothing tragically wrong with my recipe. I've got all the main ingredients--rye, absinthe rinse, sugar cube, Peychauds, lemon peel--the only distinction is that I don't insist upon your brand, and that I happened to pour myself a double. It's not like I made a rum & coke, here. I've had a veritable host of Sazeracs at countless bars in my day, and I could probably count on one hand the number that were made with actual Sazerac brand rye.

3. Either way, you know what's one thing you'll never catch me putting in a Sazerac? BOURBON. So your suggestion to use Buffalo Trace  (which you conveniently also produce) as an alternate to rye in my Sazerac cocktails is where you really lost my respect.

4. If I'm reading this post on cocktail IP rights correctly (yes, this is a thing! ht William Gunn), even if the name of a cocktail is trademarked, the trademark does not protect its ingredients or recipe, since these things are technically "mixtures," and mixtures can only be patented, not trademarked. Moreover, it's not even clear to me that the Sazerac brand TM in fact covers the Sazerac cocktail name.

5. My guess is that you may have tm'd the name "The Official Sazerac Cocktail," which--let's be honest--is about as meaningful as "Ray's Original Pizza." If you have, yay for you! But it doesn't preclude anyone from making themselves a regular old Sazerac any way they damn please, and it certainly doesn't keep that person from writing about it on the internet.

Happy Mardi Gras, folks! It's been a while since we had a cocktail together, has it not? It has, and tonight is the perfect occasion to put an end to this silly micro-prohibition we've inadvertently imposed on ourselves. One of my favorite cocktails in the world has its origins down in the Big Easy, and what better day for us to drink it together than on a day when there are a lot of other people drinking it? If you can't beat 'em join 'em, I always say. And in this case, why would you even want to beat 'em in the first place? Here is the classic Sazerac--hopefully it will tide you over until SfN 2012 this October, when we can actually drink one together in NOLA. That will be the best!

The Sazerac is like the Old Fashioned's sassy cousin, and it's served in a rocks glass without any ice. You'll need:

3 oz rye whiskey
splash of absinthe
sugar cube
Peychaud's bitters or Bitter Truth Creole Bitters
lemon twist

Chill the whiskey on ice in a shaker--stick it in the freezer while you prepare everything else. Pour a bit of absinthe into the glass, swirl it around, and dump it (into your mouth if you want).  Add a sugar cube to the glass, and douse it with a few good shakes of bitters. Muddle the sugar and bitters until the cube is completely broken up, and then strain the whiskey in. Drop in a large lemon twist that you've twisted backwards to release the oils, and enjoy!

Notice the beautiful pink tint? That's the Peychaud's. Yum!