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.

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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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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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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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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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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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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Writing plan and timing

Academics constantly juggle various writing projects. Some are at the stage of ideas and drafts. Others are returned in the form of proofs. In order to manage the constant flow of projects, manuscripts and deadlines, it’s a good idea to have a long-term writing plan. This enables you to prioritize between different projects and allocate sufficient time to the most important ones. It also enables you to make informed decisions as to when something should be written.

I mainly structure my writing on the basis of semesters. This typically involves 6–7 different writing projects of varying scope. From reviews a couple of pages long to articles consisting of about 25 pages. When working on major projects, such as a second book, I break down my work into chapters. This makes it easier to plan and manage the project. I don’t know how long it takes to write a book. But I have a pretty good idea of how long it takes me to write a book chapter 20–25 pages long. 

My basic principle when writing a number of different projects is “the most important one first.” I use two criteria to determine this: 1) How important is this writing project for my long-term goals and ambitions? 2) When is the deadline? The challenge for most academics is to not forget the first question. Many of our most important projects – our books and applications – don’t have a set external deadline. Nor do they involve any social pressure. An unwritten book or application doesn’t affect anyone else but ourselves. Hence, it is easy to postpone these and focus on things that are more urgent but less important (such as replying to emails). Despite the fact that we all know that this behavior is self-destructive. Or at least career-destructive. 

So, when I drafted my writing plan for the fall before I went on vacation, I started by putting chapter 5 and chapter 6 at the top. I then noticed that November 15 was the deadline for an international revision of my article “Miljöhumaniora på 1960-talet? Birgitta Odéns miljöhistoriska initiativ och skissernas historiografi” originally published in the spring of 2019. This text is to be included in a forum section in History of Humanities and should then be 4,000 words (i.e., about 10 pages; the original version of the text is about 25 pages long). This brought a dilemma to the fore. The Odén article is less important than my book chapters but has a set external deadline. Since I like having margins, I would like to submit it by the end of October. This means that the text needs to be written some time during the first half of the fall. But when is the most convenient time? 

To decide, I used another planning technique that – to the best of my knowledge – doesn’t have a name. The point of this method is to, as far as possible, combine writing tasks with other tasks directly related to these. The aim is to make writing as simple and frictionless as possible. According to this principle, a thesis review should be written in direct relation to an examination. Not six months later. With regard to the Birgitta Odén text, I had known for a long time that I would be presenting my research on her at the major conference on environmental history known as ESEH in Tallinn, August 21–25. This was the only time during the entire fall semester that I knew for certain that I would focus on Odén. When I realized that, the answer to the question when was suddenly simple. The Odén article was to be written first – even though it was not the most important.

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Stopping

It’s immediately clear to everyone when the spring semester has come to an end. The corridors are emptied of colleagues. There are fewer people in the breakroom and there are no longer any students around. As for me, I still have three weeks left to work. But this is the last blog post of the semester. 

At this particular point during the year, I have a habit of evaluating the previous semester. My focus is not primarily on objectives and results. Rather, I try to get a sense of the feelings I’ve had throughout the semester. What has been the most enjoyable to do? What has been the greatest learning experience? What has given me energy – and what drained me of the same? 

The first thing I do is to simply take a blank sheet of paper and start writing what comes up in my head. Good as well as bad things. What I try to get on paper in particular is what I have fully engaged in. Which tasks actually make me forget about time and space? Which contexts and people inspire and stimulate me? However, it’s just as important to write down what’s been hard. Perhaps resulted in concerns and anxiety. All in all, such an unstructured piece of paper gives me an overview. It becomes a map over emotions. 

After having written such a piece of paper, it is time to start thinking. What of all this do I want to spend more time on? How should I go about this? What do I want to avoid or minimize? How do I do that? These are simple questions and a simple process. But if you take it seriously, it takes a fair amount of time. In my case, I need a couple of days. As a matter of fact, I have set aside the last week of the semester to evaluate and plan. In my experience, the latter is not meaningful unless you have done the former. It’s like groping in the dark. How can you plan for the future if you have no idea what you want it to look like? (Or don’t want it to look like!) 

In essence, my own spring semester has been fun and rewarding. I think it has a lot to do with this blog. Sure, at times, it has been scary writing about sensitive and personal things, but my blogging has always felt meaningful and important. Publish and be damned, as journalists say. The input from you readers has also strengthened my impression that there is actually a need for this blog. There are too many things we don’t discuss with one another. And far too much knowledge is tacit or silent. If this blog is able to make an ever so small contribution in this regard, I’ll be more than satisfied. 

In professional terms, the highlight of this semester was my debut as an external examiner. This occurred in April when Pär Wikman defended his thesis Kulturgeografin tar plats i välfärdsstaten. Preparing for this examination was incredibly enlightening. Carrying it out was exciting. This was the real deal. That is what I want the academy to be like. 

As for my own writing, it has progressed well overall. I have (soon) done what I set out to do at the beginning of the semester. A bit more than three chapters have been written, applications have been submitted and I have finished my review of Wikman’s thesis. In addition, Johan Östling and I have written a so-called position paper on the history of knowledge, which I hope will be widely discussed. 

But, as I have hinted in previous posts, there was a downside to this semester. My schedule has at times felt tight. The room for things going sideways and for having spontaneous ideas has been limited. Things have worked themselves out, but I want greater margins in my life. Because if there is one thing I have learned in recent years, it’s that things will happen. You just don’t know what and when. A sustainable plan must take this into account. Without a generous buffer, the fun aspects will not be as fun. In a worstcase scenario, they will just be difficult. And in such a case, something is wrong. 

What I’m trying to say here is thus that I should schedule more time for my book writing. I haven’t finished my detailed planning for the fall, but I will probably aim to write two chapters instead of four. If I do this, there is plenty of time for the other writing and work tasks I have already planned. In practice, furthermore, it doesn’t matter whether the last two chapters are written next spring. It requires a bit of planning in terms of when I use certain funds for certain projects. But that is certainly something that can be worked out. 

The alternative would have been to cut down on various commitments or write a shorter book. Neither feels right. The things I have agreed to do are things I want to do and look forward to. And as far as the length of the book is concerned, all the chapters I have planned are important for the whole picture. They serve unique functions and dropping one or two of these would result in a different book. This would not necessarily be a bad thing, and if the circumstances had been more pressing, I could have made compromises. But academics don’t write books all that frequently. For me, it will probably take another five years before I start thinking about doing it again. That’s why it feels important to stick to my vision. 

Finally, I would also like to take this opportunity to thank you for this semester. Having so many interested and encouraging readers has been a privilege. I hope that you’re not yet tired, because there is still a lot of blogging to be done. I’ll get back to work in September. Have a nice summer!

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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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Planning, but when and how?

After my post “Finish On Time,” I have started to get questions about when and how I actually plan. Briefly answering these questions is quite hard. That’s why I am going to spend this post on talking a little more about how I do things and why. 

The point of departure for all my planning is that academic work is limitless by its very nature. Research and writing projects have no given beginning or endpoint. In practice, nor do teaching and supervision assignments. There will always be an abundance of interesting books and seminars. The same goes for workshops and conferences. 

This intellectual wealth makes academia an incredibly stimulating work environment. There are vast possibilities and a high level of freedom and flexibility. Greater than many academics realize. However, there is also a downside to all these possibilities. As it turns out, it is very easy to feel inadequate and overworked. Far from everyone can or dares talk about this with colleagues and superiors. Far from everyone receives so much affirmation from the people around them that they can – entirely without getting bitter – take the bad with the good. 

For me, planning is a way of managing the limitlessness of academia. The aim is ultimately for me to feel good and do the right things. What works best for me is to determine in advance – long in advance – what constitutes a job well done at a given point in time. Hence, I set aside the last week before the Christmas and summer holidays to plan for the next semester. The purpose of this planning is to create three concrete objectives I am reasonably confident that I will be able to achieve and which I know have a significant long-term value. 

However, in order to set the objectives I then base my work on, I need some form of foundation. This consists of first going through the upcoming semester. I enter deadlines, conferences, workshops, seminars, time off, commitments, etc. I then determine the number of writing days for each workweek. I define a writing day as four 40-minute sessions (units). 

The next step is to write down everything I would like to write or have promised others to write. I then estimate how much time I need to write the different texts. Here, it’s important not to underestimate the writing tasks but rather to overestimate. No one has ever suffered from being ahead in their planning. I usually ask myself: “How much time do I want to calmly write X?” 

When these two steps are completed, the time has come to see whether everything lines up. Typically, this is not the case. You then need to prioritize and choose which things to discard. I then create an order in which I will work on the different projects and schedule weeks for these. Here, it’s important to schedule buffer weeks. Because things will happen. And if the plan is too tight, it means that you will fall behind in your writing schedule. That is not relaxing. Quite the opposite. If, however, you have enough buffer weeks in your planning, it’s perfectly possible to be ahead in your planning. That is relaxing. That is what I want things to look like. That is when I do my best work. But in my world of small children, this is easier said than done, at any rate during this time of the year. Perhaps February 2020 should be one long buffer month? 

The three objectives for this semester are as follows: 1) writing four chapters in the second book; 2) writing and submitting applications for a multi-year project to the Bank of Sweden Tercentenary Foundation, the Swedish Research Council, the Marcus and Amalia Wallenberg Foundation and the Handelsbanken foundations; 3) serving as an external reviewer and writing a dissertation review for Historisk tidskrift. Of these three objectives, I may need to revise the first. Things may come up. The writing process may progress more slowly than I expect. That is why I’ve promised myself not to get too disappointed if I only manage to write three chapters. That’s also OK. In that case, however, my own deadline for the book manuscript would be moved from December 2019 to February 2020. 

This post on planning turned out a little bit longer than I anticipated. That’s why I have to return to my second most important level of planning – four-week planning – in a future post.

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