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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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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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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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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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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What to do when things get busy?

Regardless of how well you plan, there are periods when things get busy. Mid-October is a typical such period. I obviously have no idea what your calendars look like, but mine is filled to the brim. There are conferences, workshops, various deadlines and commitments. In addition, there are some major and important announcements I am waiting for. Of course, I’m unable to do anything about these. Nevertheless, it’s difficult not to think about them. 

When the calendar starts to fill up, there are two things that are typically neglected: time for planning and physical exercise. Skipping these quickly gives you a few extra hours. Time that can be used to push onward. In my experience, however, this kind of behavior is counterproductive. If there is a time when I need to clean my head with a run, it’s when I’m stressed. If there is a time when I need to set aside an afternoon for planning, it’s when I feel that I don’t have enough working hours. 

A technique I tend to use in such situations originates from David Allen’s modern classic Getting Things Done (2001). The point is to sit down with an empty piece of paper and write down everything entering your mind. Job stuff, private stuff, worries – everything that comes up. Simply put, a brain dump. The aim is to achieve a complete overview of all the “projects” currently in progress. In this context, projects refer to everything requiring you to take one or more actions. Allen refers to these as “open loops.” 

Step two involves thinking about what needs to be done to push each individual project forward and – in a best-case scenario – to be closed down. The key question is: what is the next action I need to take? This may involve minuscule things: printing an article, sending a reminder email or buying a train ticket. The point is that even if you’re unable to do everything at once, it’s good to know exactly what you need to do next (in all ongoing projects!). This makes the situation more concrete. This means that you can do something about it. 

The third step is to consider when the various actions are to be carried out. A basic rule, for which Allen is famous, is the two-minute rule. That is, if it takes less than two minutes – do it! If it takes longer – decide when to do it. This is particularly important when the calendar is full. What may be postponed? What needs to be done in the next week? What can be finished if you happen to have 15 minutes available before a lunch meeting? 

A key principle is to try to have as few open loops as possible. The reason is that they drain you of energy and require your attention. You become like an old, slow computer with lots of open programs. For the computer to work, you need to close down a few programs. This, according to Allen, also applies to people. By finishing things – submitting a proof for a book chapter, creating a PowerPoint presentation, booking a hotel room or correcting exams and entering grades – a loop is closed. The project is gone. Out of sight, out of mind. To continue using the above analogy, this frees up RAM capacity in the old computer. Suddenly, Word works again! 

For true GTD fans, this approach is more or less considered a lifestyle. Myself, I’m not really that hardcore. But, in mid-October, when the calendar fills up and I feel that I have less and less control, this is the technique I turn to. I did so as recently as last. I had set aside time intending to write, but my head was not in it. Everything was spinning around. This meant an empty piece of paper, a brain dump and a ventilation lunch. After that, the slow, old computer started working again…

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Mobility

Earlier this year, Universitetsläraren, a magazine aimed at Swedish academics, wrote about the relative immobility of its readers. A figure mentioned in this context was that about 65 percent of Swedish historians were employed at the same university where they received their PhD. An anonymous academic was interviewed and talked about the difficulties of entering the Swedish system following a career abroad. Heiko Droste, professor of history at Stockholm University, related that he cynically used to say to his PhD students: “If you want a permanent position, never ever move.” Nevertheless, he encouraged them to move: “It’s good for you as an academic.” 

These articles were quickly shared on social media. In my feed, however, there was no direct debate. This is obviously not due to people not having any opinions on the issue of mobility. It’s because the subject is extremely sensitive. It concerns life choices. It is about who is allowed to participate and who is not allowed to do so. It is about what is highly valued and what is not. 

Furthermore, it’s a matter of different systems overlapping and colliding with each other. In, for instance, the American system, mobility is an institutionalized practice. The option to stay on does not exist. This is also the case in Sweden in the fields of natural science and medicine. If you enter the game of research in these environments, you already know – as a PhD student – that it will soon be time for you to pack your bags and leave. Without an international postdoc, you’re not employable. Immobility is a stigma. 

Should the situation be the same within the Swedish humanities? Is it possible to create stronger research environments if more academics move around? Who, then, are going to move? When in life should this occur? How long do you need to be away for? What are the consequences in terms of who has the opportunity to have an academic career? Does this benefit women or men? Are there any class aspects with regard to this phenomenon? Is it possible to combine the mobility ideal with having a family and a partner who’s also pursuing a career? 

There are no simple or obvious answers to these questions. Not at the system or the individual level. This is primarily due to the fact that, for obvious reasons, the individuals mainly affected – young academics without a permanent position – rarely speak out in the debate. This is not a question in which people want to make a name for themselves. Regardless of your opinion, you are bound to step on someone’s toes. The safe alternative is to remain silent. 

But there are exceptions. Last year, Karolina Enquist Källgren blogged about her lonely international year in Barcelona. A couple of weeks ago, My Hellsing launched a series of blog posts about her time as an international postdoc. They both adopt a broad perspective on their time abroad. Their experiences do not only concern research and work. Their posts also concern life, well-being and interactions with others. These aspects are sometimes forgotten when senior academics discuss the careers and life choices of younger colleagues. 

As far as I am concerned, I have limited experience of living and researching abroad. With the exception of a short visiting scholar stay in Oslo in the spring of 2017 (which was very successful and rewarding), I have worked at the Department of History at Lund University. I have been an undergraduate student, PhD student, lecturer with a temporary contract and an externally funded researcher in the same spot. Has this hampered me as an academic? Has it been smart from a career perspective? I don’t know. It’s hardly up to me to judge.

 Perhaps, it is not possible to evaluate the effects on your career of doing – or not doing – an international postdoc as soon as five to six years after having received your PhD. In general, Swedish historians don’t tend to find permanent positions that quickly. Hence, it is difficult to know what will be seen as valuable and what will not. As far as my academic generation is concerned, we don’t yet know who is allowed to participate and who is not (or under which conditions). Nor do we know what will be the consequences of various networks and contacts. This applies to local, national and international networks and contacts alike. What is clear, however, is that the effects on life as a result of different career choices are immediate. That is why I’m glad that those with practical experiences choose to write about these.

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Skill-related goals

Most of my planning concerns prioritizing what should be done and when. However, before each academic year, I tend to set up a more long-term skill-related goal. This concerns something I can’t do or am not comfortable doing but which in the long run I want to – or need to – be able to do. In previous years, such goals have included being comfortable writing in English and using PowerPoint. Last academic year, my goal was to learn how to write a book that was not a thesis.

In my experience, an academic year is a quite reasonable amount of time to learn something new. It is sufficient time to play down whatever it is you’re trying to learn. This means plenty of time to try, fail and try again. At the same time, this is not an infinite amount of time. If you want to get something done, you can’t wait for too long. 

The background of this routine is my experiences from the basement at LUX. In other words, my lowest point as a postdoc when I truly realized that if I wanted to work as a historian, I had a lot left to learn. What I was and what I knew were not sufficient for getting to do what I wanted to do. Hence, I identified a number of skills I needed to learn: write peer-reviewed journal articles, prepare applications, become a confident lecturer, etc. However, I was unable to learn all of this at once. Nor was everything equally important in the situation I found myself in at the time. That is why I gave myself permission not to worry about everything at once but to focus on learning one thing at a time and then trust the process. 

The year of skill training from which I have the strongest memories was when I was supposed to learn to write in English. It was the academic year 2015–2016 and I had just received a two-year postdoc position through the Crafoord Foundation. This was the longest contract I had been given after receiving my PhD and I really wanted to make the best of this opportunity. The memory of being on my september way out of the system was still fresh in my mind. I was well-aware of the fact that peer-reviewed articles in international journals carried much weight. That is why I decided to mainly write in English for one year – even though it was tedious work for me. I made sure to write whole manuscripts and let colleagues accustomed to writing in English read them. This was also the year in which I wrote journal articles together with Isak Hammar and Anna Kaijser. Of course, I did not master or become fluent in English during this year, but I did become reasonably comfortable. The worst resistance and my fear of making a fool of myself vanished. 

The goal for the 2019–2020 academic year differs somewhat from previous goals. This is because, starting this fall, I now work with Finish On Time. I am very pleased and grateful for this opportunity. This feels exciting, fun and stimulating as well as, obviously, a bit scary. My goal is thus to be comfortable in this new role and that, over time, I will be able to do this a few times each semester without adding too much stress. In other words, more or less the way I have learned how to manage seminars, conference presentations, teaching and public lectures. A few years ago, I could go on and on for weeks preparing for these things. Now, it’s just something I do. That’s why it also feels like this is the right time to try something new. It is time for me to expand my comfort zone.

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Does reading matter?

This is a blog about academic writing, but perhaps it should also be a blog about academic reading? There is certainly no lack of incentives for academics to write. Anyone seeking to attain positions, research grants and a good reputation must write. There is no other way.  But do academics need to read? Or is it in practice sufficient to google, browse and generously use footnotes? Is there ever time to venture outside your own particular area? How does being well-read actually benefit you? 

I’ve been wrestling with these types of questions for a long time. In fact, reading is one of the things I value the most in my work. Writing is rarely as exciting as being immersed in a well-written and illuminating text. Nevertheless, just like many other academics, I feel that I have less and less time to read. When I was a PhD student, I could spend months reading up on new fields of research. I remember reading Paul Boyer’s By the Bomb’s Early Light: American Thought and Culture at the Dawn of the Atomic Age (1985/1994). I highlighted things on almost every page. Reading this book must have taken me a week or two. But what a reading experience! The things I learned! How inspired I was! 

I still prefer reading books and articles in their entirety. When I read for work, I use a pen. I underline and mark things to be able to return to the text. But these days, I relatively rarely read academic texts on what I am researching just for pleasure. This is perhaps a result of having been working on my current project for more than five years. It would require something quite extraordinary for me to have a mind-altering experience by reading about the breakthrough of environmental issues. That is why I prefer to read a bit farther away. My reading is also more based on individuals rather than subjects. I’d rather read what academics X and Y write, regardless of what they write about, than research in areas Q and Z, regardless of writer. 

In my experience, academics who have made an impression on me tend to be interesting regardless of subject. They are able to problematize phenomena and make me look upon things in a different light. They make me discover something I didn’t know I wanted to know. In addition, craftsmanship (i.e., how a skilled academic creates a text, presents a line of reasoning or uses language) can be just as interesting to follow as the actual content. Outstanding academic texts are also always included in larger intellectual contexts. They get better by relating to, building upon and challenging other texts and ideas. As a result, such texts turn into portals to lots of other rewarding reads. 

But how do you get the time to read? Can non-instrumental reading really be combined with writing, teaching, administrative tasks and children who need to be dropped off and picked up? Yes, I think so. In fact, I believe that it’s necessary to make room for “broad reading,” to refer to Ylva Hasselberg (whose new collection of essays Inte utan visst motstånd: Essäer om akademisk kapitalism och akademisk nyliberalism I highly recommend). In the short term, this reading may not matter for your career. A published article is undoubtedly more important than having read a couple of books. However, the long-term effects of reading in terms of intellectual growth should not be underestimated. Nor its social effects. There are few things as rewarding as conversing with great readers. 

But when should you engage in broad reading? And where? Myself, I do so in particular when on work trips. I sometimes also do so at night, after the children have gone to bed. In the last six months, I have also tried to replace my morning surfing routine with a little bit of book reading. A few years ago, when the kids required constant supervision and woke up very early in the morning, this was not possible. But at the moment, it works out pretty well. In the office, however, I rarely read longer texts. Here, I prioritize the opportunity of having uninterrupted writing time, interacting with others and everything else that needs to be done. What’s your approach?

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Boundaries and time off

Most people I know in academia work with their number one interest. What they want to spend their days on is to research and teach, write and read. If they received 10 million dollars in their bank account tomorrow, some would certainly do some things differently. But I think few of them would turn their back on academia and go lay down in a sun lounger. “It’s a way of life,” as Kristian Gerner, who retired ten years ago, usually says when appearing at a seminar or public lecture. 

In light of this, it’s no wonder that many academics find it difficult to set boundaries between work and life. They are attached to one another. Frequently socially as well. And your thoughts don’t necessarily change direction just because you close the door to your office. Sometimes, the best ideas materialize when you are going for a run or taking a shower. 

However, a consequence of all this is that many academics work most of the time. They check their email during the waking hours of the day. There are no clear boundaries between weekdays, evenings and weekends. Vacation becomes synonymous with undisturbed time writing and doing research. In the long run, this kind of lack of boundaries tends to be detrimental. 

As far as I am concerned, I have in recent weeks found it difficult to let go of my job. Ideas have been spinning around in my head but not always in particularly concrete terms. Gradually, I have also broken the boundaries I have chosen to live my life by. More and more evenings have been devoted to reading work stuff. I have also been unable to stop myself from checking my email on weekends. Sure, there are times when there is something important and semi-urgent in the inbox. But how does finding this out on a Saturday morning actually benefit me? I still can’t do anything about it as long as the children are awake. And knowing hardly makes me a better parent … 

There are obviously reasons why things now look like this. May is a frustrating month for anyone wanting to work eight hours a day for four or five days a week. In addition, there have also been some conferences and trips for me. Such things, at least for me, use up a lot of energy. I can manage to be social for three days in a row. But after that, I need some rest. And this is something my planning hasn’t really allowed me to do. 

What happens to me when things pile up is that I get worse at prioritizing what to do. Instead of dropping things, I get started on new ones. I attend an additional seminar. I agree to do something that someone else could have done. I spend less time planning my days and weeks. You certainly recognize this spiral. It’s easy to end up in but difficult to break. 

What I take with me to the next time May rolls around is that I really need to remember that this month doesn’t include as many working days as it seems. That is why it is important to set tough priorities and to have a plan with some air enabling time for recovery. This should not be done in May. This should be done earlier. At a time when your energy levels are higher. 

What I also take with me into the summer is a strong motivation to detox from work. This is a technique I have used in recent years, with some success. It is based on me during the first three to four weeks of my vacation not being allowed to read anything job-related or checking my job email. During summers when I go all in, I tend to combine this with a digital detox. This means a few weeks without the internet. During a couple of summers, I have also, in a fit of hubris, tried to quit drinking coffee. That didn’t really work out. 

But how do you know that a detox has been successful? My own benchmark is that I start to get bored. This is a feeling that at least I don’t associate with adult life. There have been times when I have been tired, worn out, stressed and sad – but I have very rarely been bored. After a few weeks of strict detox, however, this feeling tends to manifest itself. Not in large doses, but still. This is a sign that my recovery has begun in earnest.

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CVs of failures

Academic successes are visible and desirable. Each time we apply for a position or grant, we attach our qualifications and lists of publications. Setbacks, on the other hand, are often invisible. No one is requesting these. Nor do they offer any likes or congratulations. But all academics know that setbacks are more common than successes. We all have long CVs of failures. 

In recent years, these alternative CVs have received increasing attention. In the Anglo-Saxon academic blogosphere, they have become somewhat of a mainstay during the 2010s. Many acclaimed scholars have decided to publicly showcase their illustrious failures: programs they were not accepted to, positions they didn’t get, applications and manuscripts that were rejected. Some of these CVs have gone viral. 

During this first spring of blogging, I also sought to give some insight into my failures and professional setbacks. One purpose has been to present life as an academic as it is and how it feels. This includes failure. I expect to continue doing so. Fail forward. 

As we all know, there is only one way of never failing. To not participate. Someone not applying for positions can never be ranked in the bottom. Someone not applying for research funding can never be rejected. Someone never submitting an article manuscript for review can never be humiliated and rejected. For most of us, however, this is not an option. Our futures as academics depend entirely on participating in the game. 

If we are to remain healthy in the meantime, we thus need to learn how to cope with failures. They can’t always come as a shock and trigger bitterness, depression and self-doubt. Not every time. Then it’s not worth it. If this is what being an academic feels like year after year, then there must be better things to do with your life. 

However, my experience from the competitive gaming world is that it is possible to learn to become a better, or rather more constructive, loser. At the moment of losing, of course, it’s hard to avoid these kinds of emotions. They are what they are. But we can choose to focus on the decision-making and working process, rather than on the outcome. Both in ups and downs. 

The art of losing is a learning process. As I see it, however, it shouldn’t just occur at an individual level. I’m sure that it is possible to develop workplace cultures and collegial contexts where failures are managed in a good way. Where they are visible and valued. Yes, even in demand. 

Some of my strongest experiences from this field originate in teaching contexts. Here, I have experienced times when one of the strongest individuals in the group of students has proved to be imperfect. They have stated quite plainly that a text has been difficult and hard to read or that they don’t follow a line of reasoning. When this happens, it can be incredibly liberating for a group. The behaviors of these students show that coming up short is not dangerous. It is an essential part of all forms of significant learning processes. Conversations in such groups can be far-reaching. 

Whether all academics should prepare a CV of their failures is not really for me to say. But surely it would be an exciting seminar exercise to do together? “Attach your biggest failures and the most hurtful comments you have received. No more than two pages.” I think many departments would benefit greatly from this.

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Back to writing the book

It has now been four working weeks since I completed chapter 2. The same number of weeks have passed since I wrote a single sentence in my manuscript. This interruption was not unplanned. But it turned out to be quite a bit longer than I intended. 

The reasons for this, however, are good, if not very good. I have been in Uppsala and made my debut as an external examiner of Pär Wikman’s interesting thesis Kulturgeografin tar plats i välfärdsstaten. In addition, my Bank of Sweden Tercentenary Foundation application made it to the second round. In addition to this, supervision, editorial work, sick children, review comments and all those other things making up life have required my attention. 

Regardless of these reasons, however, a certain amount of concern has started to creep up on me. This is commonly the case when I don’t write on my main project at the time. I feel as if time is slipping through my fingers and that I’m not making any real progress. Even though I know at heart that I have made the right priorities. 

What complicates everything is that the near future is not exactly an empty page. As always, April and May are patchy. They are filled with public holidays. In addition, there are conferences, shorter writing assignments, various editorial assignments, student papers that are about to be completed… 

How did things turn out like this? Wasn’t this the year when I would entirely focus on writing my book? How did I prioritize things? Why did I say yes to doing all of this? 

The answer is because I wanted to. What energizes me as an academic is taking part in what’s happening around me. I need conversations, colleagues and seminars. The importance of a social and intellectual context, which I have discussed in a previous blog post, should not be taken lightly. I like being part of building a long-term research environment. And I want to be part of larger scholarly communities. Locally, nationally and internationally. This involves many different kinds of work and a frequently very shattered existence, but I think it’s worth it. 

The question, however, is whether my “type of academic” writes any books? Do they do so when they have small children at home? Well, this is what this year-long blogging and writing project is meant to answer. So far, I would say that I’m on the right track. But I don’t have oceans of buffer time. I wouldn’t mind if the kids stay healthy in the future. And that time in June. The time at this point seemingly so open and inviting. I should probably be vigilant about it. 

As for the fall. The fall so completely still and calm in January. Well, it too has begun to take on a different form. I have two edited volume projects I need to finish. A workshop to organize. A couple of conferences here, some new fun project there. And then I have promised to write… 

No, enough about that. Now is the time to start working on chapter 3. Nothing tends to be more reassuring than actually spending time writing on what matters the most. Maybe this time my writing will immediately flow like a charm? Two pages a day. Bam, bam, bam. 

We’ll see after lunch. When this morning’s editorial meeting is finished.

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What academics can learn from players

For as long as I can remember, I have enjoyed playing games. I have definitely spent the most amount of time on the strategy card game Magic: The Gathering. I discovered this game in the mid-1990s at the age of twelve and I have never really stopped playing. The most intense period of playing occurred during my undergraduate years and in my first years as a PhD student. At that time, I was sufficiently good to travel around the world and compete in so-called Pro Tours. These days, my game is so-so. In this post, I’m going to discuss some concepts and attitudes that these types of games help people develop.

Magic is a game requiring skill but where chance also plays a significant role. Games are played between two players. The better player often wins, but far from always. This distinguishes Magic from games such as chess, which don’t include any element of chance. This also sets Magic apart from games of pure chance, such as many children’s games where the only thing that matters is being lucky when rolling a dice, drawing a card or the like. 

The best Magic players in the world win 65–70 percent of their games. Even if they do everything right. Players talk about this in terms of variance. This means that the outcomes vary. In the short term, variance may strike hard. Luck can be more decisive than skill. In the long term, the opposite is true. In order to be successful in playing Magic, it’s necessary to learn how to manage this. 

The key is to focus on playing well. That is, making decisions that offer you the best chances of winning. If a given move gives you a 60 percent chance of winning while the alternative gives you 40 percent, the choice is simple. Regardless, the outcome will frequently not favor you even when you play correctly. Most players find it difficult to handle this. People easily become result-oriented and evaluate their games based on the outcome – rather than on whether or not they made the right decisions. 

Successful players adopt a different perspective. They focus on their own decision-making process and their own actions. The goal is to play as well as possible. In this perspective, the outcomes don’t matter. The player knows that short-term results are influenced by variance, while they are due to skill in the long term. Paradoxically, someone who really cares about achieving certain results should not concern him- or herself with these. It is better to focus on the process. In time, results will also materialize. 

This approach is applicable far beyond Magic. For academics, perhaps the clearest example concerns different forms of applications. In such cases, it’s extremely easy to just focus on the outcome. When things go well, it is easy to believe that this is the result of your own efforts. When things don’t go so well, it’s more common to talk about these things in terms of a lottery. As far as I’m concerned, I look upon these things more like Magic. Skill matters, but the level of variance is great. Hence, it’s important not to focus on the outcome but to focus your efforts on what you are able to influence. 

You can control when you start working on your applications. You can control how much time you spend on writing and revising them. You can control how many colleagues you ask to read your drafts and to what extent you take their comments into account. You can control how many funding bodies and foundations you submit applications to. You can control how well you read the instructions and then adapt your texts to these. 

A seasoned player pays attention to all of the above. But he or she is more indifferent when it comes to the outcome. The player is aware that the result depends on his or her own efforts but also on many other factors. You take responsibility and strive to improve the things you are able to influence. You ignore the rest. 

Who, then, tend to adopt this approach? Well, here is one last twist. It is clear that those who become strong players are typically extremely competitive. Since they care so much about winning, and if they really want to reach the top, however, they have to learn to evaluate their efforts based on parameters other than their immediate results. This is difficult. But focusing on what you can influence and accepting the element of variance is incredibly powerful, not least in academia.

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The basement

In January 2013, I defended my thesis, which received some public and scholarly attention at the time. My department gave me the opportunity to teach full-time for the remainder of the year. In April of that year, I became a father for the first time. I was an editorial secretary for the scholarly journal Scandia. A leading professor invited me to participate in larger applications. On the scale between hubris and self-contempt, I was closer to hubris. An indication of this was that I decided to apply only for multi-year research funding. I didn’t want to work based on small grants or stipends. I was too good for that. 

A year later, I was more humble. None of my applications had been close to being accepted. There were no prospects of further teaching assignments. In the summer of 2014, furthermore, the Department of History moved to new premises. In the old building, where I had been both an undergraduate and PhD student, the staff was mixed. The offices of professors and PhD students could be next to each other. At LUX, things looked different. There was one floor for people with permanent positions and another for PhD students and postdocs. In addition, there was a room in the basement for newly minted PhDs without research funding. 

So, when I returned from my parental leave in 2014, I wasn’t just grounded. I was literally below ground. There was a small window offering some sunlight. The terms of my employment expired within one month. I realized there and then that my back was up against the wall. The basement was not a long-term solution. It was either up or out. 

At this time, postdocs at Lund University were offered the opportunity to attend something called PostdocTraining. It was a digital course aimed at postdocs in all disciplines. I’m quite certain the self-confident me in 2013 would not have attended this program. But the slightly more humble me in 2014 did so. I listened to e-classes and conscientiously carried out the various assignments. I started to realize that the time had come for me to take control of my career and create a long-term plan. If I wanted to work as a historian, I needed to get into the game. 

Another eye-opener for me at this time was Karen Kelsky’s blog, subsequently book, The Professor Is In (2015). It is a brutally honest book on how the academic labor market operates. It is written on the basis of an American context by someone who was awarded tenure, but who subsequently chose to leave the academy. For those wanting to learn the rules of the game in academia, there is no better place to start. For those wanting to retain their illusions and romantic ideals of higher education, it represents dangerous reading. 

One thing I realized when reading The Professor Is In was that my failures in 2013 were not particularly difficult to explain. Taking a look at my CV and list of publications was quite sufficient. These documents clearly showed that I had not understood anything about the academic labor market in the 2010s. I had not written any peer-reviewed journal articles. I had not been published in English. I had not received any grants. I had not presented my research at international conferences. I had not been a visiting PhD student. 

Simply put, there was no real foundation for my ambitions to have an academic career. If I had any qualities, I didn’t communicate these all that well. In the basement, I could no longer turn a blind eye to reality. If I were to make something of myself, I needed to study the rule book and roll up my sleeves. This was the beginning of a personal professionalization process. It’s still ongoing.

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On the importance of a social and intellectual context

The best thing about finding a really good academic text is that reading it is just the beginning. This is because outstanding texts are not written in intellectual isolation – they are part of a larger conversation. Through reference lists and footnotes, windows open up toward new worlds. For those with time, curiosity and access to a good library system, you’re free to follow the tracks and see where you end up.

A recent example for me is Joli Jensen’s Write No Matter What (2017). This is without a doubt a book capable of holding its own. But it also leads to new places. Through Jensen, I discovered the fascinating anthology Working It Out (1977). This originates from the 1970s American women’s movement and consists of 23 personal stories about women’s lives and intellectual work. The contributors are writers, academics and artists in their thirties and forties. Most of them have children. Many find themselves in the shadow of a more successful husband or ex-husband.

This book is a product of its time. Not only in terms of content, but also in purely material terms. The pages in my interlibrary loan copy have turned yellow. There are no highlights or dog ears. When I google the contributors, most of them turn out to be dead. Many of them found great success in the 1980s and 1990s.

But even if the book is more than forty years old, it still feels topical and alive. The stories are straightforward, honest and full of compromises. Between the lines, we find the outlines of men living a different kind of life. Their academic careers, travels, interests and ambitions are not circumvented by obligations. They have time to think. They have time to let the days go by. They have time to worry and feel anxious. There are a lot of things they don’t have to do.

The chapter by Amélie Oksenberg Rorty is particularly interesting in this regard. It revolves around how academic couples develop and what is actually needed to write. She points out that a common pattern is that the man in the relationship receives an offer for a better position. The woman comes along. The joint plan is that she should complete her book or dissertation.

But her writing grinds to a halt. Even though she doesn’t teach. Even though she doesn’t have any administrative responsibilities. She is free. So, why is she unable to write? Doesn’t she have what it takes? The woman and the man begin to doubt her abilities.

Amélie Oksenberg Rorty believes that the obstacle here is losing a social and intellectual context. She points out that many men – once the semester is over or when they have been granted a semester on sabbatical – frequently also become paralyzed. Having time and a door you are willing to shut is not sufficient. Academic work requires social contexts. It requires colleagues, seminars, lunch conversations and coffee breaks.

But the young couple in the story comes to a different conclusion. Well, perhaps the woman is not as promising as the man after all. And isn’t it about time to start a family? This is followed by the real frustration. Because when the children arrive, there is neither time nor social context. The intellectual ambitions – which have yet to be given a chance to blossom – face increasingly steeper obstacles. Simultaneously, the man’s career is taking off…

Amélie Oksenberg Rorty’s chapter was originally written in 1969 as a lecture. It was published in The Yale Review in 1971. At the time, she was married to philosopher Richard Rorty. They got divorced in 1972.

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