I have the best committee in the world.
How often do people say that? Approximately never.
For most people, the committee is a kind of mythical beast. A three-to-five-headed, firebreathing troll who lives inside a tower of books. A tower where there seems to be no email access. Like, never. Unless you did something bad and the troll (or one of its heads) needs to communicate this to you. These three-to-five heads are all the smartest in their field, and the gargantuan proportions of their combined intelligence dwarfs your puny human brains. If they fight (and they do) you have to be nice to all of them. At the same time. Which is impossible to do because they all need to believe that you’re only being nice to one of them. And yes, their six-to-ten pairs of eyes can always see you.
This is what I hear. But somehow, through the grace of Saint Academius or whoever the heck beneficently watches over all us poor saps (no one, this being does not exist, we’re on our own…together…alone…) I am spared the burden of this experience. If my committee were a mythical beast it would be a freaking unicorn.
One of my professors just met with me on a Sunday. During finals. And she had read my notes.
My adviser regularly responds to emails and schedules meetings. She takes notes during our conversations. She sends these notes to me. She is encouraging and says things like, “This is an interesting idea,” and “I like what you said here.”
While the other two members of my committee are slightly more traditional in their involvement with the project, they have not once breathed fire at me nor have they sent me upon any life-threatening quests through the dangerous jungles of any far distant archives searching for texts whose worth was more symbolic than necessary.