From me to us

 

At the beginning of the 2019 fall semester, Johan Östling, Anna Nilsson Hammar and I went to a spa and conference center called The Lodge. It is located at Romeleåsen between the cities of Malmö and Lund. The food is good and the view is absolutely stunning. Perhaps not quite as nice as the view of Lake Vättern at Vista Kulle. But pretty close for Scania!

What we did at The Lodge was to spend a day jointly broadening our perspective. What did we want to do together in the future? How were we to build on what we had accomplished? Which challenges and opportunities faced the history of knowledge environment in Lund? Which initiatives were the most important and when should they occur?

At the time, there were many uncertain variables. Neither Anna nor I knew with certainty what our research future would look like. This was in the hands of funding bodies and external experts. Regardless, we wanted to have a plan. Because the research environment we have built together was important for all three of us. It was something we wanted to focus on regardless of our working conditions. We wanted to make it bigger, better, more important.

The day began with us looking back. What had we actually accomplished in the last five years? How had we done that? What did we learn from this? Why did we place such a high value on what we had? This was an extremely enjoyable conversation. Johan described this as “from me to us.” He pointed out that writing a thesis had in many ways been “one single major ego project.” Anna and I recognized ourselves in this description. Because even though we have been part of strong and collegial PhD student communities, the PhD years in many respects concerned realizing an individual dream.

The history of knowledge project was different in nature right from the outset. It was an attempt to introduce and further develop an international field of research no one in Lund had heard of. Initially, it was difficult to impress the people around us. Intellectually, there were many objections – then as now. However, I have learned that research is not just – or perhaps even primarily – an intellectual activity. It’s a social and collective process.

We started in 2014 by building from below. We read and discussed texts and spent time with each other. From an early stage, we also started trying to write together. I remember that after one of our first meetings, Anna and I came to a realization. We were there when it happened! We were not condemned to be new cultural historians three decades after the breakthrough of new cultural history. Instead, we could be the first historians of knowledge. The international research front was still far off in the distance – but we could start to make out its outlines.

I didn’t understand exactly what we did in 2014–2019 while we were doing it. Today, however, I would say that what we jointly created were the conditions for a field to develop and expand. This field consists of a number of interlinked scholarly conversations but has also turned into a local culture at the Department of History in Lund. Many of our colleagues, new and old, have been integrated into this culture. From the outside, I realize that we have been engaged in some form of academic entrepreneurship. I could never have imagined myself doing this.

Now that the time has come to end this blog and this book, I realize that this actually also applies to this project as well. My aim has been, or at least turned into, to try to advance a cultural change within the academy. I want us to talk more about what is difficult and sensitive. I want us to help each other better manage our joint existence as academics. And I want to highlight the human aspects of research and ensure that they are taken into account. My hope is that academic culture will become more generous and less bitter. Obviously, this is not going to magically materialize as a result of a blog or a book. It requires concrete action. But I believe – perhaps naively – in the power of examples and in the importance of individual choices in life. The essentialist way.

Listen, don't listen

 

Academics operate in a world where the rules of the game are not fully known to the players. In addition, they are in a state of constant change. This is because the rule book is what academics in temporary positions of power choose to do with it. Do they choose to reward monographs in Swedish or international peer-reviewed journal articles? Do they count the number of publications or do they read them and try to form their own opinion? Do publication channels play a role or not? Do co-written texts make you more or less competitive?

As if that wasn’t enough, the playing field and the players are constantly changing. In the 1990s, when the Swedish higher education sector was expanded, some historians went straight from receiving their PhD to having a permanent position as senior lecturer. This is completely unthinkable today. In the 1980s, it was unusual for academics to apply for positions at universities other than the one where they received their PhD. Today, academics from elite American universities may apply for a position as associate professor in Kristiansand in Norway. At Swedish universities, foreign leading academics are still rare in the competition. However, the Department of Archaeology, Conservation and History at the University of Oslo has experienced a rapid and dramatic shift in the 2010s. Here, local applicants have not even bothered applying. For the first time in history, a whole generation of Oslo historians have not had a real chance of being employed at their home department.

All these transformations make it difficult to get good advice. Nevertheless, many of us are pretty quick to offer such advice. “Only peer-reviewed articles count,” “edited volumes don’t make you competitive,” “without a second book, you’re nothing,” “no one cares about premodern history.” Nevertheless. As soon as expert opinions in relation to a position are made available, you realize that the rules of the game are hardly set in stone. Above all, you realize that none of the players knows for sure how the rules will be interpreted by the referees. What is crucial for one research funding body is less important for another. A behavior praised by one professor is seen as worthless by another.

At the same time, however, not everything is entirely arbitrary. There are patterns in the noise. If we look at longer time series, this variance tends to level out. Good academics often find their place sooner or later. But out of everyone prepared to offer advice – who should you actually listen to? How does the opinion of a renowned professor hold up against that of a recent associate professor or a successful postdoc? And to what extent can and should you think strategically? Isn’t the research profession primarily based on passion? Doesn’t following your heart result in the best research?

My general principle is to listen to many people but to be careful when it comes to trusting someone blindly. I look upon being absolutely certain how the academic world works as an alarm bell. I simply don’t think anyone knows. How could you when the rules of the game, the playing field, the players and the referees are constantly being replaced?

The group I trust the most, however, are the people a few years ahead of me. Perhaps one may talk about this in terms of a “proximity principle.” Sure, a lot of changes are taking place. Yet, the academy is a slow-moving world. The dynamics of the game do not change overnight. What worked yesterday will probably work tomorrow. However, it’s not at all certain that the recipes for success in the 1990s or 2000s are still effective.

Furthermore, at least in my experience, it’s treacherous to compromise too much with your own ideals and research ambitions. Things typically do not end well when someone tries for a long time to do something purely based on strategic reasons. What brings joy and pleasure must also be included. Otherwise, the sweet taste of victory may turn into ash in your mouth. Carrying out a research project that doesn’t engage you at a deeper level is not all that much fun. On the other hand, academics who can’t imagine doing anything else than what they want to do and who hate all this talk about games, strategy and career typically don’t have all that much fun either. This is a situation where bitterness, whining and envy are close at hand. This is something I try to stay clear of as much as possible.

Hence, I advocate adopting a mixture of strategic thinking and scholarly idealism. What you need to do, as Zlatan Ibrahimović says in his autobiography, is to “listen, don’t listen.” If you are to get anywhere in academia, you must be able to take advice and make some concessions. But you also need to dare to go your own way and shut out the counsel of others. Knowing when to do one thing and when to do the other is an art. Perhaps even one of the most important academic skills.

Four-week planning

 

Every Friday, typically immediately after lunch, I sit down and make a four-week plan. I start by taking a blank A4 sheet of paper and putting it in front of me on my desk. I then make a horizontal line on the top half and make four vertical lines through this line. This results in 10 boxes. One for each working day during the next two-week period. I then take out my calendar and enter all the things I need to do: meetings, lunches, seminars, classes. I exclude public holidays. I then make a brief calculation. How many writing units are available during the upcoming week? (The maximum number for one day is four.)

I then start to think about my three weekly goals. These may involve things such as writing 12 units on chapter 7, making a PowerPoint for presentation X, conducting a Finish On Time workshop, spending two days in the archive. The weekly goals I emphasize the most are my writing goals. I try to use process goals (number of units), but I also tend to make an estimate of what I think this will result in. Here, I typically use generous intervals. For instance, writing 2–5 pages for chapter 7. Before I get started on a chapter, the goal may also be to find the structure for this chapter. This could even be a weekly goal. 

Once I have a pretty good handle on this week, I do the same thing for the following week. I then make a new horizontal line on the lower half of the piece of paper and make four vertical lines through this line. This results in 10 new boxes. I look upon these two weeks as “upcoming.” Hence, I don’t plan them in as much detail. But I still want to know what to expect. Approximately how many units will I have at my disposal? Are there any approaching deadlines? Here, I sometimes discover that things are about to get busy further down the line. This may give me a reason to revise my two-week plan. Perhaps I can address these problems by pushing forward a deadline for myself? You see, I hate working with tight deadlines. 

This is true with regard to both large and small things. A PowerPoint presentation may just as well be created three weeks before a lecture as one week. A conference abstract or a research application can be submitted as soon as the system becomes accessible. Once I have done these kinds of small things, I can also stop thinking about them. Out of sight, out of mind. The basic condition should be that there are not a lot of open loops. The fewer things on my mind, the better. This frees up creative energy and makes me feel better.

Here, I also look back at last week’s four-week plan. What happened to the three goals I set at that time? Have I done what I set out to do? These days, the answer is typically yes. Alternatively, there is a good reason (sick children, something big and important got in the way). The reason why I normally achieve my weekly goals is that I have used these kinds of goals for many years by now. I have a pretty good idea as to my capacity. And I’m not overly ambitious when I set goals. I estimate my units conservatively and make sure that there is plenty of space in the schedule. Because things will happen, and on certain days my energy level is low. Then it doesn’t matter how much time is available. In such a case, it’s better to do some mechanical tasks than to bump up against an empty Word document.

So, how long does it take to make this kind of four-week plan? To some extent, it depends on your groundwork. For me, it usually takes between half an hour and an hour. But then, as you know, I make a fairly detailed plan for the semester. As a result, there are quite clear guidelines on what the four-week plan should contain. At least when it comes to big things such as writing books, articles and applications. In that regard, I know what the aim is. I know which week a chapter needs to be completed for the plan over the semester to work.

After I have done my four-week plan, I usually take a short walk. Perhaps I have a drink of water or go and say hi to a colleague. I then prefer to spend my Friday afternoon doing something fun not related to performance. Such as reading a book on academic writing for pleasure. At around 2.30 p.m., I typically go over to the university gym, Gerdahallen. I find this a perfect way of shifting from work mode to weekend mode. The planning and the physical activity result in the work mode simply evaporating.

Read also: "Finish On Time" and "Planning but when and how?" 

Less but better

One of my favorite books – all categories – is Greg McKeown’s Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less (2011). This is a book I return to several times each semester. Sometimes, I just read the introduction and my own highlights in the book. Other times, I read a few chapters. About once a year, I read it from cover to cover. Trust me, this is a book that can withstand being reread over and over.

The essence of Essentialism is the concept of “less but better.” McKeown gets this notion from German product designer Dieter Rams, whose minimalist approach to design was groundbreaking in the 1960s. During his time at Braun, Rams is known for changing the standard of what radios and record players should look like. Before, these appliances looked more like pieces of furniture. They were large and bulky. Rams’ team stripped away all unnecessary elements and the design was a success. Within a few years, all their competitors followed suit.

However, McKeown’s book is not about designing products. It’s about how individuals design their lives. Using examples from his own life and the lives of others, he argues that people can live better lives by applying Rams’ motto “weniger aber besser.” This, however, requires you to develop an “essentialist mindset.” So, what does this mean?

First, an essentialist is characterized by a belief that the individual is able to make significant choices and priorities. Life doesn’t have to be a long list of musts. Setting up and looking upon one’s life in this way is a choice. You can choose differently. Second, an essentialist believes that certain things are much more important than others. In fact, most things are considered noise. McKeown discusses this as trying to distinguish “the vital few from the trivial many.” Third, an essentialist is fully aware of the many limitations of existence. No individual has the time, commitment and resources to do everything. That is why it’s a mistake to think “how can I manage everything?” It’s better to take a step back, reflect on what you really want to achieve and then select a few things you truly dedicate yourself to doing. The fewer the better.

Using a personal example, I can highlight how I played games between the ages of 20 and 30. Until then, I had played everything possible: board games, card games, computer games and video games. However, I stopped doing this when I discovered the Magic tournament circuit. I realized that I found Magic more fun and challenging than any other game. Why, then, should I concern myself with these other games? The only exception was online poker. It wasn’t quite as fun as Magic, but much more lucrative. In addition to this, I obviously also played other games from time to time for social reasons. But in the choice between going big or going wide, I chose the former. Less but better.

In recent years, I have applied the essentialist mindset to how I work. After returning from my first parental leave in 2014, I have consistently sought to use my time better. I have achieved this by in a disciplined manner spending more time on what really matters and less time on what does not. I have also constantly devoted a lot of time to reflecting upon what is essential. This, according to McKeown, is also something that characterizes an essentialist. Because even though you ultimately do fewer things than a “non-essentialist,” you spend more time on planning and exploring opportunities. This is the only way to get a good foundation for making difficult decisions.

Nevertheless, I’m obviously far from being an altogether successful essentialist. Several times each semester, I find myself in situations where I feel that I’m spread too thin. It feels as if I don’t have enough time to do those particular things that are “important but not urgent.” Such as research, writing and reading. When I feel like this is when I pick out my copy of Essentialism from my bookshelf. It helps me see what I did wrong and what I can do about it.

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Assessments and being evaluated

An element of an active academic life consists of assessing others and being assessed. It runs like a common thread from the first exam as an undergraduate to the expert opinions of the retired professor. But how does it actually work? How do you know whether something is better than something else? What is scholarly quality and what makes someone qualified to assess this?

Apart from grading students, I have in the past few years examined PhD program applications, journal articles, research applications and served as external examiner. I have not received any formal training in assessing and evaluating historical scholarship. Or perhaps I have. I have read, analyzed and evaluated scholarly texts since at least the early undergraduate level. I have participated in critical discussions around seminar tables. What’s this if not formal training in scholarly evaluation?

The seminar culture in which I was trained reached a new level when I was accepted to the PhD program. Sure, the PhD program contained much coursework. However, the higher seminar of the Department of History is where I learned the most. In this setting, you were expected to be present and say things – even though the seminar didn’t offer any credits or you were formally obligated to attend. In my PhD generation, there was a strong sense of loyalty toward the seminar. Being there was more important than sitting in front of the computer writing or in the archive digging.

Then as now, I greatly appreciated general seminar skills. I particularly appreciated those who didn’t always repeat the same thing over and over and who were also capable of giving good comments on things outside their own area of expertise. This requires both intellectual flexibility and an ability to perform empathetic readings of texts that don’t really interest you. In order to do so, you need to approach texts on their own terms and be able to distance yourself from your own worldview. Being able to think on your feet doesn’t hurt either.

These are all typical “invisible skills.” They don’t appear in publication lists, CVs or portfolios over teaching experience. They may, however, sometimes be seen between the lines in books and articles. But far from always. One is often surprised by how unremarkable renowned academics can be when operating outside their own comfort zone. On other occasions, you are amazed at how skillfully a master’s student discusses something he or she doesn’t know all that much about.

Somewhere here is my basic view on what constitutes scholarly quality. Perhaps one could specify it as a kind of intellectual elasticity and a general scholarly ability to assess and evaluate things. Over the years, I have come to realize that this is only one basic view among many. Other academics value completely different things the most: creative choices of subject matter, vast and hard-to-access archival materials, ability to write and how to engage in certain types of theoretical reasoning. Some academics value things close to what they do highly. Others adopt the opposite perspective. They expect even more from academics operating in proximity to their own field.

This insight into this kind of value pluralism has over time made me more humble with regard to my own basic view. How can I be sure that it’s all that good? And, by the way, who’s to say that all academics should be good at the same things? The field of history wouldn’t have been particularly interesting if it only consisted of masters of seminars. We also need academics digging in archives and others driven by theoretical curiosity. We need excellent writers and people who can count. Without the diversity of different types of academics, the seminar culture would quickly turn into some sort of self-referential intellectual exercise. An echo chamber.

Another way of thinking about evaluations and assessments is to actually study this phenomenon. People outside the academy might perceive this as the pinnacle of navel-gazing. But for those of us who work in the academy, this is extremely interesting. My own favorite study in this field is How Professors Think (2009) by sociologist Michèle Lamont. In this book, she carries out ethnographic studies on a number of multidisciplinary research councils distributing prestigious grants. She participates in their meetings and interviews the evaluators before and after. She is particularly interested in how professors assess each other’s efforts as evaluators. What brings respect? What makes you trust someone’s judgment? What makes you lose confidence in someone?

This post is not the place to summarize her findings. But the book is definitely worth reading in its entirety. It’s a great qualitative study offering many general insights. It also gives the reader a chance to be a fly on the wall in one of the rooms where your own applications actually end up. Because even if you only see acceptance letters, rejection letters and, sometimes, the arguments made for or against you, these decisions are obviously made by people. But they are not made individually but in groups. A bit like a seminar.

Further reading: "The role of writing applications in the research process" and "What academics can learn from players"

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The list

In January 2019, I made a list of things I knew I wanted to blog about. This list included experiences and working methods, books and scholars. It also included a number of difficult and sensitive issues faced by young academics. Is it possible to combine the life of an academic with having a family? What are the consequences of the requirements concerning mobility and internationalization for those who are rooted in a specific location? How to address refusals, setbacks and competition? What does it take to be considered for a permanent position?

During the year, more things were continuously added to the list. I read new books and experienced new things. The readers of the blog also communicated requests and ideas. Hence, some of the posts – which I really wanted to write for a long time – were never written. That is a bit disappointing but also sort of a good thing. The blog never became stale. There were always more ideas available.

Once I was given the opportunity to turn the blog into a book, however, things were put in a new perspective. Why not write some of those posts that were never written? Why not give the book readers something unique? As far as I am concerned, I must admit that I have missed blogging during the weeks that have passed since the blog was ended. For me, “A Year of Academic Writing” was always a project based on pleasure, which I also found deeply meaningful in every way. That is why the choice was simple. Of course, there were going to be a few more posts.

It should also be added that there was a pipeline of blog posts already from the outset. When I went live on February 1, 2019, 4–5 posts were already written and scheduled for publication. After that, I tried to write about one post a week. But things got in the way. At one point at the end of the spring semester, I had no post buffer whatsoever. That was not a good feeling. That is why I made sure to have a substantial pipeline ready for the fall semester and not start posting on the blog too early. I also promised myself to exert more self-discipline when it came to publishing extra posts. This resulted in me finishing writing the blog by the end of November 2019.

There and then, I presented the idea of contacting a publisher to the Monday Club. It didn’t take them long to offer their support. No sooner said than done. I compiled the posts, removed the hypertext links and sent out some feelers. Caroline Boussard at Studentlitteratur responded almost immediately. She was familiar with the blog and wanted to meet for lunch before Christmas. We met on December 11, all the important things were completed by the afternoon and in the evening – once the kids were asleep – I returned to my list. So, which blog posts were actually never written? I then wrote these, feeling immensely happy and proud that the blog would be turned into a book!

Here, I would like to emphasize that the posts in this section – even though they were not published on the blog – were actually written during the same year of academic writing as the others. The book may thus be seen as an “extended version” or a “director’s cut.” I hope that both regular blog readers and new readers will appreciate this. Regardless of which category you belong to, I am very happy that you’re reading this. It truly feels like a triumph for the blog that it is now turned into a book. And there is hardly any better way to celebrate this than to write a little more!

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Ending things

It’s sometimes said that a thesis is never completed – it’s abandoned. There is some truth to that expression. Many research projects end long before the academic feels that he or she is finished. The high demands sometimes originate externally, but most frequently from within. For many academics, the pursuit of perfection is one of the strongest drivers. It can even be non-negotiable. 

I have a somewhat different disposition. I primarily like to discover and learn new things. That’s why I am happy to move on to new fields of research. The next project generally attracts me more than the one I’m currently working on. At the same time, I truly dislike leaving things unfinished. I thus need to put an end to things in order to really move forward. Note, however, that it doesn’t have to be the best ending ever. “Done is better than perfect.” 

I haven’t always had this attitude. Nor does it always come naturally. That is why I use a special technique to finish things. I decide in advance how much time I will spend on them. When I agree to write a review, I schedule time for this in my calendar. What I manage to do during this time is what I submit. I use the same technique for applications. I dedicate a certain amount of time during which I do my best to write something good. 

This blog follows the same principle. I had been thinking for years about launching a research blog. To make it happen, I decided to do so for a year and to publish one post a week. Each post would be about 500 words. In my mind, this task was substantial and ambitious. But it was not limitless. There were a starting and an endpoint as well as a clear framework. I knew what to do and I knew when I was going to be done. That’s how I like to work. 

At the same time, I am obviously only human. As the blog attracted readers and some posts received a great deal of positive feedback, I started thinking about carrying on. Long into the fall of 2019, I seriously considered simply keeping going. At least until the book manuscript had been submitted. Or why not until the monograph was to be printed? Perhaps I could rename the blog “Two years of academic writing”? 

In the end, however, I came to the conclusion that the time had come to end it. I like principles and am reluctant to break promises I have made to myself. “Get a plan and stick to it” is more my thing than “Wing it.” I’m sure some people will find this approach rigid, but to me – as I have discussed in previous posts – this is ultimately a way of creating freedom and well-being. 

That is why a year of academic writing is over today. This is the result. For me, this has been an extremely fun, stimulating and meaningful journey. I can highly recommend other people thinking about starting a blog to give it a go. At some point, I will probably do this again in some form. Until then, I hope we meet in other contexts. Thank you for your attention.

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The Monday club

Most of my blog posts have not taken all that long to write. I have had an idea about something I want to say, found a point of entry, after which the actual writing has been a smooth and fun experience. Of course, I have edited and rewritten my texts afterward. In some posts, I have carefully considered how I phrase things. But that first text, the blog manuscript, has mostly taken shape in one focused sitting.

However, there is one theme I have struggled with. I have sat down and tried to do something about it at least a dozen times. But it’s never been good and dynamic. Perhaps I’ve been tense. Because I happen to think that this particular post is just a little bit more important. Hence, I’m going to try to write about it by taking a detour… 

I made up my mind on the title of this post a long time ago: The Monday Club. This is the name of the group of peers that includes Malin Arvidsson, Erik Bodensten, Martin Ericsson and yours truly. For almost three years now, we have each week had a set lunch date when those of us who’ve been able to do so meet behind closed doors to talk about our work and the different situations in which we find ourselves. These lunches tend to last for about an hour and what is said in the Monday Club stays in the Monday Club. These lunches are characterized by honesty, trust and the fact that we all care for each other. 

When we launched the club, it was intended to serve as a writing support group. The plan was that we would talk about ongoing writing projects and get help from the others in terms of setting intermediate objectives and being held accountable. We were inspired by Paul J. Silvia’s Write It Up (2014). Relatively quickly, however, it evolved into addressing all those other things: teaching, applications, requests and feelings. Not least, it has come to be about choices, priorities and daring to look beyond one’s immediate professional horizon. As far as I am concerned, the group has helped me say no, disengage and lower my ambitions. But also to set targets, be confident and persevere. 

Academic work requires all of the above. It is contradictory work and certainly not easy to navigate. Especially not for lone rangers. By joining a group of peers, you’re continuously given the opportunity to put words on your situation and your feelings. You get to share other people’s experiences, difficulties, successes and strategies. Over time, you also learn what drives the others. This makes it easier to both give and receive advice and support. 

For me, the group plays a great role for my well-being and growth at work. During times when we for various reasons have found it difficult to meet on a regular basis, this has had an impact on me. My work has not been as enjoyable. In private, I’ve found it more difficult to let go of my work and relax. The decisions I make on my own are also without a doubt lower in quality than the ones I make in consultation with the group. I tend to take on too much work and create obligations and excessive loyalties out of nowhere. The people in the group are experts in defusing this. They are also very familiar with my writing and working process. They know that my weeks often start with concerns and resistance but that these have often been resolved a week later (subsequently replaced by a new “problem”…). 

I’m not sure whether this post has done justice to the Monday Club. But I really want to highly recommend those curious about this way of working to gather some colleagues and try it out. For those who want more inspiration, I would also recommend Ellen Daniell’s Every Other Thursday: Stories and Strategies from Successful Women Scientists (2006). This is an incredible story of friendship and science spanning 25 years. The Monday Club will probably not be around for that long. But you never know!

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What are the benefits of being a parent in academia?

The difficulties associated with combining an academic career with a gender-equal family life are well-known. Historically, successful scholars have been rich men who didn’t really have to concern themselves with taking care of children, cooking, washing and cleaning. Obviously, this role included participating in social and intellectual evening activities, at one’s own discretion. Travel, conferences and a need for isolation didn’t generally have to be reconciled with the calendar of someone else working full-time. 

The current role as academic is modeled on this privileged position. For women in some countries close to Sweden, it is still almost impossible to seek an academic career and start a family. One child is perhaps possible. But beyond that, it’s a matter of making a choice. Anyone trying to have their cake and eat it too does so at his or her own risk and against better judgment. 

Fortunately, this is not the situation in Scandinavia. Here, there are lots of academics – women and men – who are on parental leave, drop off and pick up children from daycare, work and piece together calendars. How well they compete with others, however, may be up for discussion. But at least they are not disqualified from the outset. Could it even be that they enjoy some advantages? Is it possible that they have something others do not have? 

In order not to overgeneralize, I base the following on my own experiences. How have the years of being a parent with small children helped me as an academic? First, they have offered me a much-needed perspective on my work. They have made me realize that when it all boils down, this is just a job. However fun and stimulating it may be, there are many things that are more important. This insight makes it easier for me to set boundaries and say no. 

Second, the time limitations have served as an indirect blessing. In a normal workweek, I have, at best, five days working 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. I’m typically too tired to work in the evenings. On weekends and longer holidays, my days are filled with family activities. This has forced me to get better at prioritizing my tasks and planning my time. I have gotten better at finishing things and not overdoing them. The latter sometimes feels almost like a superpower. 

Third, being a parent has made me more fearless. I’m confident that my value as a human being has very little to do with my work. My children couldn’t care less if I get praise, grants or citations. What I write and publish makes no difference to them whatsoever. In their world, it doesn’t matter whether or not I have a good period at work (as long as it doesn’t affect my general mood). This has made me better at failing and facing adversity. After all, what I do at work is not that important. I still need to mix baby formula and cook dinner tomorrow.

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What academics can learn from poker players

My undergraduate years coincided with the massive boom in online poker. In the Magic circles I belonged to, it was obvious that we should jump on board. By talking to friends and reading some poker books, I learned pretty quickly how to become a winning player. At that time, around 2005, this was not particularly difficult. The skill level of the average online poker player was low. If you had the discipline to fold starting hands and count pot odds, you were far above average. 

But to become a winning poker player, being good at the actual game was not sufficient. Being able to manage money, choosing who to play and being emotionally stable (in ups and downs) were at least as important. These were my strengths. I wasn’t the best poker player among my Magic friends. I was definitely not as talented as my younger brother. But I had a robust system that I was good at applying. It made me pretty good at winning money. But, more importantly, I was good at not losing money. 

A key concept in this context is the “bankroll,” meaning the capital a poker player has at his or her disposal. This should be separate from the private economy and to some extent be seen as “Monopoly money.” An important principle is that the bankroll should be significantly larger than the amounts you’re betting. If you have 100,000 in a bankroll, losing 3,000 one night is not that bad. But if the bankroll is 3,000, the same loss is disastrous. Then you’ve “gone bust.” It goes without saying that the vast majority of professional poker players have at one time or another gone bust. I never did. I was tough as nails in my money management. 

The concept of bankroll is also useful in the academy. Especially for project researchers. Here, your research money and research time are equivalent to a poker player’s bankroll. This is your game capital meant to generate research results and publications. If you run out of game capital before you receive new funds, you have “gone bust.” Depending on your personal finances, this could mean that you need to take what’s on offer, such as temporary heavy teaching contracts in another part of the country. In such a case, it will be difficult for you to publish, research and write applications. You easily end up in a negative spiral. 

But let’s imagine that you have a year of research secured. What can you do in such a situation? Well, given that you want to continue to do research under reasonably good working conditions (preferably better!), you need to prioritize securing new funds. A poker player would refer to this as “building a bankroll.” A large bankroll enables you to adopt a long-term perspective and take calculated risks. A small bankroll forces you to adopt a short-term perspective and take chances. 

The major advantage of having a decent bankroll is that you can afford to lose. For those with two to three years of research secured, it is not a disaster if a Swedish Research Council application is rejected. You’ll get another chance next year. And the next. This means that you can approach the application process in a relaxed manner and look upon it as part of a larger learning process. The worst thing that can happen is that you have spent a few weeks delving into something and developing your ideas. The best thing that can happen is that your bankroll is doubled. 

For those who don’t have a lot of time, the same approach can be applied to applications to smaller foundations. Such texts can often be written in a week or two and then sent out to 5–6 foundations. So, what you’re betting is a couple of weeks’ worth of work. At best, you win 6–9 months of research. For a poker player, this is an attractive game. “Heads I win, tails I don’t lose much.” However, this bet can’t be taken out if you’re absolutely backed up (50 exams to correct, a presentation at the city library and a chapter deadline a week from now). 

The result is that those who already have research funding have a major advantage over those who do not. In poker terms, they can “protect their bankroll” by allocating 10–20% of their research time to low-intense work on designing new projects and continuously applying for new funds. This means that they never need to force something that doesn’t really exist (or at least not be dependent on the bluff working). A lot of others don’t have that luxury. So, for those who want it and those who want to keep it, it doesn’t hurt to think like a poker player.

Further reading on the topic: "What academics can learn from players", "The role of writing applications in the research process"

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Reflections on almost a year of blogging

It’s been almost a year since I launched this blog. Some 40 posts have been published and a few more are in the pipeline. However, in just over a month, on February 1, 2020, it will be over. At that time, this blog project will have reached its finish line. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the manuscript for my second book. This will require some additional time for writing. 

There are several reasons why the book manuscript will not be finished. First, I knew already in advance that a year for writing a book was a pretty ambitious goal. I’m not a slow writer. Nor am I fast as a bullet. What helps me produce text is that I have good routines, good self-discipline and a good minimum level. This means that I can consistently squeeze out one page a day. Sometimes two. Only rarely more than that. 

Second, I’ve had a lot of other things requiring my attention. In 2019, I have written applications, edited two books, traveled to conferences and organized seminars. I have also received requests for a couple of small writing projects that I didn’t want to turn down. The book has been a priority during 2019. At times, however, the project has been on hold. These are the choices I have made and they are ones I accept. 

However, a project that has not slowed down my book is this blog. Before I started, I was afraid that it would consume a lot of time. To some extent, this is obviously also the case. Blog posts don’t write themselves. But at the same time, at least for me, writing has resulted in more writing. By constantly writing for publication, I have increased my speed. In addition, I have become more fearless expressing myself in writing. Unlike almost all other forms of academic writing, blogging also offers immediate feedback. This has been valuable. 

A further advantage of blogging about my writing and working process is that it results in a form of accountability. My book writing occurs in public, thus creating a form of social contract. Sure, none of you readers will punish me if there is no book in the end. But as far as I am concerned, the promise made to myself is made stronger by making it public. From time to time, I have to report on the progress of the book. This means that my blogging represents additional pressure on me to actually advance in the book project. This pressure has also been valuable. 

More important than all this, however, is the fact that this blog has taken on a greater purpose along the way. As it is now entering its final stages, I realize that it no longer primarily concerns academic writing and writing a second book. It is about what it’s like to be an academic at the beginning of his or her career and everything associated with that. 

Many of us live this kind of life. But we are rarely heard. The voice of the project researcher has no obvious forums or any obvious representatives. Yet, we represent an important part of the academy. Without us, many departments and research fields would have ground to a halt and become rigid. For our well-being, however, we need each other. We need to share experiences and help each other. I hope that this blog has played such a role and that it will continue to do so for a while. 

With these words, I thank you for this year. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! The blog will start again on January 17.

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The glass ceiling

The higher you get in the academic hierarchy, the fewer the women. This is a general pattern. Things may be balanced at the undergraduate and graduate level in different disciplines. Perhaps even more women. Among associate and full professors, however, this balance shifts. Women drop off and men remain. The theme of this blog, writing a second book, is a classic dividing line. More men than women manage to write one. If we add children into the equation, these differences become even more significant. There are very few female historians with children under the age of ten who publish a second book. But quite a few men. 

The general pattern is not exclusive to academia. It appears in all hierarchical organizations, such as the judiciary and business life. Looking at my own cohort of history PhD students in Lund, the outcome is predictable. Six or seven years after having received their PhD, some of the men have written second books, become associate professors (docent) and gained permanent faculty positions. None of the women. This despite the fact that the women have been relatively more successful among the major research funding bodies. Furthermore, several of the women have been employed in permanent, parttime administrative positions. The men have not. 

Why is that? And what can we do about it? Looking at the academic career advice literature, we find Rena Seltzer’s highly readable The Coach’s Guide for Women Professors (2015). This is a practical guide written by someone with decades’ worth of experience in coaching female academics and leaders. Among other things, it includes a great chapter on learning how to say no. This, of course, is something all ambitious academics need to learn. But it’s particularly important for women. In fact, due to current gender imbalances and gender equality requirements, they will receive considerably more inquiries than men. These may involve various forms of reviews, grading committees, supervising, committee work, etc. Men, on the other hand, stay under the radar and can uninterruptedly work on improving their CVs. Women must safeguard their time or drown in smaller tasks. 

For those wanting to read even more broadly, and with an open mind, there is Sally Helgesen and Marshall Goldsmith’s How Women Rise (2018). This is a sequel to Goldsmith’s modern classic What Got You Here Won’t Get You There (2013), focusing on the behaviors preventing successful people from reaching the next level. These books are primarily written for business executives and are based on the authors’ many years of experience in coaching this demographic. But the principles are valid in many different contexts, including academia. 

These two books are written based on an understanding that at high levels, skill, intelligence, talent or drive rarely determine who is the most successful. Everyone on the starting line has a lot of these qualities. Hence, other aspects determine the outcome. Helgesen and Goldsmith are not blind to structural causes, but their focus is on things that the individual him- or herself can do something about. They focus on behaviors in particular. And among the most dangerous are the ones that have gotten us to where we are today. The reason is that what was a virtue at one level – say, always delivering 100% – may be directly harmful at another level. A postdoc or senior lecturer must be able to let go of texts and give lectures that are good enough. There’s simply not enough time to think about each footnote and comma. Not everything you do can be a masterpiece. In such a case, you will drown in work. There won’t be enough hours in the day. 

But which habits tend to serve as obstacles for women? Helgesen and Goldsmith list twelve. These include “reluctance to claim your achievements,” “expecting others to spontaneously notice and reward your contributions,” “the perfection trap,” ‘the disease to please” and “putting your job before your career.” At least my wife, who is on track to becoming a judge, nods in agreement… Perhaps some of the female readers of this blog do the same?

Further reading on the topic: "The second book", "On the importance of a social and intellectual context", "Mobility"

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The 2014 five-year plan revisited

In the summer of 2014, I created my first ever five-year plan. That was not my idea, but an assignment in the online course PostdocTraining. It involved a great deal of effort. Before I embarked on creating it, I carried out a few exercises. They aimed to clarify who I was, where I wanted to go and what I needed to do to get there. One of these exercises involved estimating how good I was at some 40 academic tasks and the extent to which I enjoyed doing them. Another involved visualizing my ideal workday twenty years from now. From when I woke up to when I went to bed. 

They may not sound like particularly difficult exercises. But I was mentally exhausted. I wasn’t used to thinking about my life in these timescales. During my time as a PhD student, I did my best to avoid thinking about the time after I graduated. Four years felt like oceans of time. And if I only did my very best, things would probably work themselves out. After all, that had been the case so far. 

The result, as you know, was that I ended up in the basement at LUX. A humbling experience. So, I decided to carry out the exercises diligently and without any preconceived notions. My motto was try first, judge later. After a couple of weeks, I had created a five-year plan. It was obviously full of uncertain variables. But I was actually quite clear about which situation I wanted to find myself in by 2019. I wanted to be internationalized, to have secured funding for a research project in a new subject area and, by extension, to be employable. 

I looked upon internationalization as something absolutely crucial if I wanted to work as a historian. In my professional context, I noticed that those who wrote in English, regularly traveled to international conferences and became visiting scholars were rewarded with grants and positions. I had yet to do any of this. This was something I needed to change, and this is also something I have done. I now have many publications in English under my belt, I am used to international conferences and I have a rather substantial international network. With small children, it hasn’t been possible to engage in any longer visiting fellowships. In empirical terms, I have also for all intents and purposes continued to have a Swedish focus. But, on the whole, I’m quite satisfied with how I’ve worked on this. A lot has happened in five years. 

The second item has also gone according to plan. A couple of years into my time as a postdoc, I discovered the private investor blogosphere. At first, my reading was based on aimless curiosity and a fascination with an unfamiliar cultural phenomenon. Over time, I realized that this could probably be studied from a historical perspective. The key was when I started reading economic historian Orsi Husz’s articles on the financialization of everyday life. They were incredibly inspiring and served as a portal into this field. At the national history conference in Sundsvall, I approached her. The following year, we invited her to the history of knowledge seminar series in Lund. We then got her involved in an edited volume project, and next year we will work together within a module of the large research program headed by Jenny Andersson. This item on the list could certainly not have worked out any better! 

The third objective was to become employable. This is a point I’ve not really reached. I have yet to become a contender for a permanent faculty position. I hope that the second book, once finished, will enable me to be in contention. However, this obviously depends on who I am facing and what the external reviewers value. Contrary to sports based on concrete results, such as soccer or track and field, history is a sport based on receiving scores from judges. There are a lot of things I’m unable to influence. 

So, what would me in 2014 think of the years that have passed? Would he have been satisfied with the outcome? Yes, I’m absolutely certain that he would. My postdoc years have been my best time in academia. Each year, my work has become more interesting and the stage bigger. I think that the five-year plan I drafted in the summer of 2014 has something to do with this. Long-term planning makes dreams and ambitions more concrete. It offers tools for prioritizing and having the courage to do things that seem scary. In a few weeks’ time, the time has thus come to create my second five-year plan.

Further reading: The Basement

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Chaper 6 and 7

During the last few weeks, I have sort of gotten started on writing the sixth chapter in my second book. It’s about how an organized Swedish environmental movement started to emerge during the years around 1970. My point of entry into this theme is the youth organization Nature and Youth Sweden (Fältbiologerna), which I wrote about together with Anna Kaijser. Our article serves as a point of departure for the chapter, albeit supplemented by press material and other studies. 

The structure of the chapter is quite clear. I start by highlighting how a couple of hundred members gathered at Sergels Torg in Stockholm in March 1969 to protest against the expansion of hydro electric power in northern Sweden. This demonstration aroused a fair amount of media attention at the time. These young people were “no ordinary demonstrators.” The organization was associated with bird watching and outdoor life – not political manifestations. However, this would change in the years around 1970. Nature and Youth Sweden became an active and highly visible part of the new environmental movement. 

In order to show the effects of this transformation, I carry out a chronological review of the history of Nature and Youth Sweden from the late 1950s to the early 1970s. At the beginning of this period, the association is firmly rooted in an older tradition of nature conservation. The key aspects here include experiencing, studying and preserving wild nature. When a member of Nature and Youth Sweden talks about “environmental degradation” in 1961, it means that esthetic values are under threat. They are concerned that a highly productive cultural landscape with cultivated fields and pine and spruce trees will expand at the expense of the untouched expanses. 

A couple of years later, in the wake of Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring (1962), they start to discuss toxic substances and birds dying. But there is hardly any talk of a global environmental crisis threatening the survival of humankind. However, this theme will become important in the late 1960s. That is to say, after environmental issues have achieved their major breakthrough in Sweden in the fall of 1967. Initially, this is an incipient environmental movement taking shape. By the beginning of the 1970s, a radicalization has occurred. Nature and Youth Sweden makes a name for itself in the form of demonstrations and direct actions. A particular target is the environmental policy establishment in the form of the Swedish Environmental Protection Agency. 

I expect the above to result in about 15 pages of text. That’s not enough for a chapter. That is why I plan to spend another 5 to 7 pages on, based on other research, adopting a broader approach to the emerging environmental movement. This includes Carl Holmberg’s study of the Centre Party’s Youth Organization, Jonas Anshelm’s analyses of the Swedish Society for Nature Conservation and Per Lundin’s unpublished study on the activist scientist Björn Gillberg and the establishment of Miljöcentrum (Environmental Center). I have also collected some press material that may supplement my presentation. 

The end of the chapter is to focus on the media controversies surrounding Björn Gillberg. This serves as somewhat of a bridge to the seventh and final empirical chapter in my book, which will concern open conflicts and conflicting claims of knowledge. This is something characterizing how environmental knowledge and knowledge regarding the future circulated in Swedish society in the early 1970s. During the breakthrough phase in 1967–1968, there was a strong consensus regarding the gravity of environmental issues, and Hans Palmstierna served as somewhat of a unifying figure in this regard. In 1971, when this knowledge had started to be translated into politics and law, it was no longer the case that everyone agreed with each other. In 1971, for example, Hans Palmstierna ended up in an open conflict with representatives of the industrial sector. In the spring of 1972, a polarized debate on the future raged between two professors, the “prophet of doom” Gösta Ehrensvärd and the “techno-scientific optimist” Tor Ragnar Gerholm. 

However, actually writing chapter 7 will be a task for 2020. Before I can start working on that, there is a lot more I need to finish. To begin with, writing chapter 6 has turned out to be more difficult than I anticipated. I’m not really sure why. It’s not that it has completely ground to a halt, but writing two pages a day is certainly not doable. Perhaps this is due to the lack of sunlight in November? Perhaps I have too many things going at the same time? Or perhaps it’s simply due to a long book project and a long semester starting to take their toll.

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What academics can learn from Andre Agassi

One of the books that has made the greatest impression on me this year is Andre Agassi’s autobiography Open (2010). Among a plethora of other things, it is about Agassi hating – and basically always having hated – playing tennis. The choice to seek to become an international top player was never his own. It was his father’s. From the time he was able to hold a racket, he was drilled in playing tennis. Tennis was never fun. It was never an interest. It was something Agassi was good at, thus becoming his job. 

In this regard, the life of Agassi resembles that of many others. There are lots of people working with something because, for one reason or another, they have to do it. Many people spend their days on things they are good at because someone else pays them a lot of money to do so. Being able to turn your interest into a livelihood is hardly a human right. 

Nevertheless, one of the most common pieces of career and life advice is: Do what you love! Follow your passion! It’s only when you truly enjoy something that you can get really good at it. Only those who love playing tennis can become the number one player in the world. But is this really the case? Do you have to be passionate about something to get really good at it? What really happens when people find a job they love? 

The latter question is at the center of Cal Newport’s So Good They Can’t Ignore You (2016), another of my 2019 reading highlights. This book is a rejection of the above standard advice. Newport argues that people rarely become happy simply by following their dreams. Many crash and burn on the way. Truly wanting something won’t take you very far when you are facing the Swedish Idol panel of judges or applying for an assistant professor position. 

Hence, Newport advises his readers to skip the “what do I really want to do with my life” phase. He thinks it’s a better idea to strive to be really good at something valued by others. If you do, you will be in a good position to create the career and the life you want. In addition, many people who are really good at something learn to appreciate it. The hatred is rarely as deep-seated as that of Agassi. 

All of this may seem alien to people working in the scholarly community. In the humanities in particular, there is plenty of deeprooted idealism. A lot of us ending up here have, against our better judgment, followed our interests and let these guide us. Those who in their early twenties thought about their future careers, mortgages and family vacations in Thailand obviously studied completely different subjects. 

At the same time, I believe there are many students in the humanities who continued much further than they initially planned precisely because they turned out to be good at it. They were good at studying for exams, analyzing texts and writing essays. A few words of encouragement from a teacher in a thematic course or an undergraduate seminar had major consequences. Perhaps you even turned out to be particularly talented in a research area you weren’t interested in whatsoever? According to Newport, this would not be particularly surprising – quite the opposite. Frequently, he argues, skill comes first followed by a deeper interest. 

But what can we learn from Agassi’s story? Well, one thing is that it’s clearly possible to be very good at something you truly despise. This lesson may be useful to keep in mind for those who find it difficult getting themselves to write grant applications, speak to a large audience or network at a conference. Tough luck. Not everything is fun. Sometimes, it’s simply a matter of doing your job and getting good at it. Maybe even so good that they can’t ignore you.

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Writing about teaching and learning

In the fall of 2016, I was asked by professor Klas-Göran Karlsson to be part of an edited volume project on teaching history at university level. He had an idea that I could write something about thematic and chronological aspects of teaching history. These were issues I had to some extent wrestled with when writing my thesis. It sounded like an exciting and difficult challenge and it didn’t take me long to accept. 

All in all, we were around a dozen people in my department who met for over a year to discuss ideas, experiences and chapter drafts. There was a wide range of people in the group. There were newly graduated PhDs with limited teaching experience and professors with decades of teaching under their belt. Some approached the pedagogical theme from perspectives based on theory and the philosophy of history. Others started off in concrete teaching situations and practical choices. 

Myself, I had a hard time starting to write. I didn’t feel that my own thoughts and experiences were sufficient. So, I set aside time to read and follow leads. In some way, I needed to find something worth building upon. A few years later, I can no longer accurately recreate this reading process. But I definitely recall when I found my way. The key text was Lendol Calder’s “Uncoverage: Toward a New Signature Pedagogy for the History Survey” (2006). I found it deeply inspiring. It was concrete without being boring. Theoretically sophisticated without being abstract and fussy. In addition, it was written in a sharp and smart fashion. 

For me, this text served as a portal. I read everything from Calder I could get my hands on. Through the footnotes, I followed the leads backward. Via Google Scholar, I checked out the ones who had cited him. During a few weeks, I made intellectual discoveries one after the other. If I were to choose the one thing in my profession I like the most, this is it. When new worlds open up and my reading, so to speak, cascades. 

In relation to this, I was asked by Henrik Rosengren, at that time editor of Scandia, whether I wanted to write a “Scandia introduces” piece. Some six months earlier, I had proposed a different subject, but the scholarship of teaching and learning track now seemed more attractive. As a result, I pitched the idea of writing about Lendol Calder’s pedagogical ideas. The result was the text “Avtäckningsmodellen: En undervisningsform med framtiden för sig?” (2017). It was later expanded into the longer book chapter “Kan vi göra på något annat sätt? Utblickar och tankar kring färdighetsorienterad historieundervisning” included in the edited volume Att undervisa i historia på universitetet (2018). 

An important consequence of this work was that Andrés Brink Pinto was inspired by my literature findings. We had each started to test some new approaches in our own teaching. These, we thought, turned out to be successful. Hence, in a low-intensity and organic fashion, a deeper collaboration emerged. In recent years, there have been conference presentations, a couple of joint texts and even a small research project together with Emma Severinsson on how students learn. 

A couple of weeks ago, we had the privilege to visit Örebro where Henric Bagerius and the other historians at the department have revised the undergraduate program on the basis of the same pedagogical ideas we were attracted to. Being able to take part in this work and discuss teaching issues with a cohesive team of teachers with real power over how teaching is to be designed was extremely stimulating. It will be very exciting to follow how their initiatives turn out! 

I could hardly have imagined that all this would follow from Klas-Göran’s invitation in the fall of 2016. But this is often the case with edited volume projects. They have side effects. Not least by facilitating new areas of cooperation. Controlling exactly what will happen, however, is quite difficult. For example, Klas-Göran himself had to address the questions of thematic and chronological teaching of history. This is often the case for research directors. To a large extent, their role is to give other academics opportunities, resources and challenges. What happens next is up to others. As economic historian Kerstin Enflo put it during a seminar this spring, managing academics is “like herding cats.” Myself, I have some history of knowledge experiences of trying to “herd.” In this context, however, I was one of the cats.

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Trial lecture in Lund

Today, a series of trial lectures has been organized for a position as assistant professor of history in Lund. I was one of the people who applied but not one of the people asked to give a trial lecture. Instead, I am at Häckeberga Castle, where Johan Östling, Anna Nilsson Hammar and I are organizing a two-day workshop on the future for the history of knowledge. We are surrounded by good friends, close colleagues and new acquaintances. This is without a doubt one of the highlights of the semester. Yesterday’s traditional Scanian goose dinner was top notch. 

If, however, given the choice, I would have preferred being in Lund today and lecturing on the theme “Why is historical knowledge important?” Permanent positions in history are not readily available. Positions as assistant professor are particularly desirable and notoriously difficult to get. For those who are not mobile or consider long-distance commuting an alternative, there are few chances. It may take many years before they become available. For me, this was the first time since I received my PhD in 2013 that I had a real opportunity in Lund. This window is now closed. Of course, there is a measure of sadness in this. Both in not getting the position and in not being deemed a serious contender. It hurt when the news came that I was not shortlisted. I felt rejected and as if my value was called into question. 

Neither my situation nor my feelings are unique. These things happen all the time in academia. It’s “all in the game” and exists at all levels. Sure, there are those who get accepted the first time they apply for a PhD position, receive a postdoc position or research funding directly after finishing their PhD and then land an assistant professor position or the equivalent. But these people are few and far between. Very few. And, twenty years later, they are not always the most influential or have made the greatest impact. There are many winding paths to academic success. There are also many paths, straight and winding, to professional bitterness. But those paths are not for me. That is not how I intend to roll. That is something I promised myself a long time ago. Come what may, it’s been a great journey. I’m grateful for what I have experienced and proud of what I’ve accomplished. 

The setbacks I have experienced so far have not prevented me from doing what I want. Nor will this one. I haven’t studied history, written a thesis or become an associate professor (docent) in order to get a permanent position. Of course, I want to be able to support my family. But what drives me is not – nor has it ever been – financial security. I want to grow, learn things, write, meet exciting people, read books and discover worlds. In recent years, I have also become increasingly interested in building something larger than myself. Being involved in creating a research environment with a nascent international reputation is very exciting. And none of this really has all that much to do with my employment status. Perhaps the fact that I will for the foreseeable future be a project researcher is even an advantage. There are many meetings I don’t have to attend. There are many fires I don’t need to put out. 

In addition, the five people giving trial lectures today are all good historians and nice people. I have known four of them for about a decade. I’m convinced that regardless of who gets the job, Lund University will have made a good recruitment. However, the one I am rooting for is my friend Martin Ericsson. I have the deepest respect for him as an academic and as a human being. He is an important part of the future of Swedish historical research and deserves a platform from which to work. Good luck, Martin! Your trial lecture will be awesome!

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Digital minimalism

Academic work, and especially writing, requires focus and perseverance. According to Cal Newport, author of Deep Work (2017) and Digital Minimalism (2019), these are two abilities that have become increasingly rare in the 2010s. In a single decade, smartphones and social media have fundamentally changed people’s behavior. Most people spend many hours every day on their phones. Hence, according to Newport, being one of those who do not represents a great competitive advantage. The value of focus and perseverance has never been greater. 

The behaviors he opposes are not particularly difficult to explain. Several of the most highly valued companies globally now operate in the so-called “attention economy.” Their business model is that as many people as possible should spend as much time as possible on their particular platform. The more screen time, the more revenue. As a result, these products are designed to encourage and maintain specific behaviors. It’s no coincidence that feeds follow the same principle as a slot machine. Hit refresh, perhaps there’s an update? Or a like showing that someone notices you. 

I have experienced this myself every Tuesday during this year when I have advertised my weekly blog posts on Facebook and Twitter. It’s very difficult, not to say impossible, not to check how this week’s post is doing. Any likes? Any comments? How many readers this week compared to the one before? This is not a good recipe for maintaining focus and exhibiting perseverance. The good stuff is always a click away. The sense of unpredictability only makes it more attractive. Email may have the exact same function. Because who knows what’s to be found in the inbox? 

Newport’s two books offer practical strategies for managing the state we’re in full of distractions. The core of these books is “intentionalism.” In other words, we ourselves need to figure out how we want to use different digital technologies and develop a “digital philosophy” serving as our foundation. Based on this, we may then establish personal rules regarding what, when, how much and in which ways we want to use different platforms. Unless we do this, we will probably spend more time on these than we really want to. A quick glance easily turns into 15 minutes of lazy surfing. A few chips easily turn into an empty bag. 

But how do you figure out how you want to live in this regard? As a first step, Newport recommends uninstalling everything and spending 30 days offline. After that, you may make well-considered decisions on what, when, how and how much. Which platforms and features offer value and quality of life? Which do not? Is it possible to get everything I want out of Facebook by using it for 30 minutes every Wednesday night? Do I need Instagram? Is it sufficient that I only check my inbox after lunch? 

The answers to these questions are not given. They differ from individual to individual. As far as I am concerned, however, I don’t find these problems particularly difficult at work. Here, I’m pretty good at setting the timer on my phone to 40 minutes, carrying out my unit followed by a break. In the lunchroom, I rarely have a strong need to check my cellphone or send a text message. At home, however, I find this more difficult. Here, it’s much more common that I do the things I don’t want to do (email after office hours, scroll through Facebook or Twitter). Perhaps it’s time to hide the phone and have a few days offline? 

In fact, my wife and I actually tried this during the summer. We both read Digital Minimalism and decided to fully try out this concept for a certain period of time. Among other things, this includes scheduling social time. So, when the kids went to sleep at night, going to bed or reading a book was not an option for us. We should talk even if we were tired! The experiment was quite successful. We managed three weeks offline and these were three lovely weeks. In particular, we appreciated going to playgrounds and on family excursions without bringing a cellphone. We felt so free. Nothing could disturb us. We ourselves decided what we wanted our vacation to look like. This is why we also continued using this “technique” in the fall. When the whole family is going to do something together, we frequently leave our cellphones at home. I hope we will continue to do so!

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Co-writing: Part 3

The third person with whom I co-wrote in the spring of 2016 was Johan Östling. We knew each other well, although not nearly as well as we do now. At this time, we had worked together for a couple of years to introduce and develop the history of knowledge in the Nordics. Johan was a research director. I was a postdoc and funded through his project. Hence, this writing project differed from the ones I was engaged in with Isak Hammar (part 1) and Anna Kaijser (part 2). The stakes were higher. I really didn’t want to botch this. At the same time, I experienced a great deal of safety. If there was one article I was certain would be of high quality and flow smoothly through the peer-review process, it was this one. 

The article we wrote concerned “circulation.” It was a theoretical, historiographical and conceptual text. It thus differed from everything I had written thus far. There was no firm empirical core. As a result, our writing efforts began with a broad reading of secondary literature, especially history of science literature. The key text was James Secord’s “Knowledge in Transit” (2004), but we moved across broad fields: early modern global history of science, history of popular science and Swiss-style history of knowledge. Much of this was new to me, and I felt that I would need a long time getting ready to write. 

However, Johan soon said that we should get started. I trusted his judgment, so we sat down, discussed our ideas and drafted a synopsis. We then divided up the parts and started writing. It went surprisingly smoothly. A coherent text started to take shape, and I felt that I learned a lot during the course of writing. I wasn’t used to working like this. I typically needed much more time to get started. 

Nevertheless, we finished our manuscript. We asked a couple of colleagues to read it, reworked it a bit and then sent it to Historisk tidskrift (HT). At the end of the semester, Johan suggested that we should translate it into English and submit it to Journal of Modern History. No sooner said than done. I felt that my research existence had moved up a gear. Was it really possible to work this quickly? 

The months passed, and one day we received the comments from HT. One reviewer was positive and one was very negative. I don’t recall the exact wording, but it started something like this: “This is an ambitious article aiming for the stars. These can be very good or very bad. This is the latter.” The editor expressed regret about the comment and said that the article could not be accepted. However, we were given the chance to cut it by half and have it published as an essay. Spontaneously, we felt that this was out of the question. We had submitted a really good, well-written article serving as a significant contribution to general history (in our view!). Surely, we couldn’t cut it in half and turn it into some lightweight essay… 

But after having looked it over with fresh eyes the following day, this was exactly what we did. Pride is to be swallowed and the tough reviewer had clearly made some good points. In addition, we were keen to get our ideas out quickly and not wait for another six months to – perhaps – publish the text in another journal. In the spring of 2017, the essay “Cirkulation – ett kunskapshistoriskt nyckelbegrepp” was thus published. 

We also encountered difficulties in Journal of Modern History. But not at all for the same reasons. We received a “revise and resubmit,” but our revision received some severe criticism (especially the parts I had been responsible for revising). However, this was not the end of the story. At the same time as all this was going on, we had initiated a Nordic edited volume project: Circulation of Knowledge (2018). This needed an introduction and there were a few things here and there that we could use from our failed article project. We wouldn’t have been able to do so had our text been “under publication” in Journal of Modern History. Failing there thus turned out to be something positive. We managed to publish the most important elements in the text in a book that was open access and which – it would turn out – ended up being read by people from all over the world. Our text ended up placing the history of knowledge environment in Lund on the world map, and Johan was invited to Washington DC, Cambridge, Sydney, Paris… 

At the same time, we were, once again, fully engaged in writing applications. Here as well, the text we had written proved useful. We were soundly rejected by a large number of funding bodies, but we did get a positive reply from the Ridderstad Foundation. In addition, Johan went on to the next stage with an ERC application, which was to a large extent based on our English circulation text. He eventually didn’t make it across the finish line, but the same text was useful when he later had the opportunity to apply to become a Wallenberg Academy Fellow. Here, he hit the bull’s eye. 

What I want to illustrate with all this is that some of the texts we write circulate in many different ways. They turn into publications, applications, successes and failures. In hindsight, things may seem obvious, but in the middle of the process, it’s impossible to know what is what. It is thus important to keep moving, trying to notice opportunities and not being too depressed when things fail. Because they will. Even when working with Johan Östling. However, and as I have pointed out in previous posts in this series, all this is much easier to handle when you’re writing together with someone else. In such a case, adversities don’t feel personal. And success is better when shared.

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