Less but better

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Assessments and being evaluated

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The list

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Ending things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Monday club

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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What are the benefits of being a parent in academia?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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What academics can learn from poker players

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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