I can't sit still. The speaker explains something, shines a vibrant green dot on a screen scarred with graphs and data points, but my mind can't grasp her words. My left leg is bouncing. Stuttering applause spreads across the room. As in a dream, I walk behind the podium and face the crowd.

My first carefully rehearsed words tumble over the upturned faces. Others follow, efficient, eager. An excited choreographer on opening night, I watch the words dance for a moment, and then disappear off stage right. I am relaxed, enjoying myself. Even the sleeping man whose head leans backward, mouth open, does not dampen my elation.

I hear the applause and walk offstage, able now to follow the remaining talks. The crowd filters out, leaving clumps of questioners around the speakers. My co-author shakes my hand and says I did a good job. A moment later he is cornered by a grey-haired professor who slides in front of me. Left alone, I stand awkwardly, looking at groups congregated around the other speakers. I shoulder my backpack and leave the room.

Conference presentations should be an opportunity to make a name for myself. Instead, each one is a parabola of nervousness, elation and disappointment. But maybe, if I keep working, next time I'll nucleate my own crowd. I imagine that this will help reviewers and search committees recognize my name. Hence, my papers will be noticed, interviews will materialize, and I'll be that much closer to my dream of a professorship.