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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Why edited volumes?

Not all forms of publications are valued the same. Some offer high status, have a large impact in terms of being offered permanent positions and make it easier to obtain external research funding. Others are less important. According to Karen Kelsky, author of The Professor Is In (2015), recognizing the hierarchies in publication constitutes one of the crucial differences between established academics and PhD students. The former know what counts and act accordingly. The latter grope in the dark. 

In particular, Kelsky advises her readers not to get published in the form of book chapters in edited volumes. For anyone wanting to work in academia, these kinds of chapters, as well as book reviews, represent a waste of time and energy. The focus should instead be on peer-reviewed journal articles (“the gold standard”) and, in book-based fields such as history, publishing monographs with renowned publishers. Such articles make you competitive for being given a tenure-track position, while a book gives you tenure. Book chapters represent a way of burying your research and hampering your career. 

If Kelsky is right, then the majority of Swedish historians are doing it wrong. Here, a large amount of research is published in the form of edited volumes. In fact, some fields and research environments are created around these. What would media history look like had it not been for edited volumes? What would the research field related to historical cultures look like? Obviously, the individual academics in these fields have also published journal articles and books. But edited volumes have played a key role in terms of creating larger conversations and networks. Collective book projects bring people closer together and create shared points of reference. It’s hard to overemphasize the value of this, in particular in the long run. 

As far as I am concerned, I have had good experiences during the last couple of years working in and with various edited volume projects. A particularly successful example here is the newly published Efterkrigstidens samhällskontakter (2019) edited by Fredrik Norén and Emil Stjernholm. For the editors, this was a side project they were engaged in at the same time as they were finishing their respective theses. Many supervisors would advise against doing this, but I would argue that it represents an excellent way of preparing yourself for life as a postdoc. Being an editor offers you experience, contacts and visibility – three things that play an important role in making the transition from PhD student to postdoc as smooth as possible. In addition, it offers skills in relation to juggling several projects at the same time. And such skills are critical after you receive your PhD. 

In my view, Efterkrigstidens samhällskontakter is an excellent book. I hope it gets a large number of engaged readers. But even if it’s not read, discussed or used all that widely, it will have played an important role simply by coming into being. This is because the process leading to a finished book has been exemplary. It started with a symposium in the fall of 2017, continued with two workshops in 2018, and simultaneously with the final work in 2019, the book has been presented at a number of conferences. Some individuals have participated in all of these steps. Others only in some of them. Without a doubt, however, all of these seminars, lunches, coffee breaks and dinners have resulted in a group of people getting to know each other reasonably well. 

This social function, I would argue, is the most important function of the edited volume genre. In this regard, these books do something journal articles and monographs do not. They help create the social networks upon which scholarly conversations are based. 

Sure, it is possible to organize workshops, symposiums and seminar series without these resulting in edited volumes or a special issue. In my experience, however, collaborations are strengthened when working toward some form of joint product. This involves a great deal of work – especially for the editors – but for the scholarly community as a whole, it represents a deeply meaningful endeavor.

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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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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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Text and style

Academics want to be read by their peers but also by others. Many want to reach out to a wide audience and be discussed in editorials and op-eds. Perhaps commenting on current affairs as an acknowledged expert. Others prefer to gain recognition within the academy. To be cited and discussed. To be invited to Harvard as a visiting scholar. To be a keynote speaker at a major international conference. 

Neither is particularly easy but, obviously, not impossible. There are a lot of academics who succeed. Some even manage to combine cutting-edge research with being in the public light. What most of these academic stars have in common is that they write very well. They are able to make almost any subject fascinating. 

This theme – language and style – is something I have been able to avoid up till now. In spite of external pressure. A blog about academic writing can’t only concern productivity, feelings and failures. Sooner or later it surely needs to address what brings life and momentum to a text? OK then, but I’m going to use some outside help. 

In the last few days, I finished reading Magnus Linton’s recently published book on academic writing: Text och stil. Om konsten att berätta med vetenskap. This book is unusual in its genre. Not only is it written in Swedish. Linton is also a journalist and author. Not an academic. However, he is able to present both an overview and an insight into how the academy works as a result of, among other things, being a writer in residence at the Department of History of Science and Ideas at Uppsala University. 

Linton’s book is tight and well-organized. Many of the points made in the book are illustrated in a congenial fashion. Linton writes the way he tells his readers to write. Playful and concrete, with rhythm and drive. Simultaneously, he offers classic advice: write simple, write short, write for the reader. Make sure to vary the length of sentences and which words you use. Delete and purge. 

As far as I’m concerned – which has probably been noticeable in the blog – I lean toward a minimalistic ideal. I prefer simple words, short sentences and expressing myself in concrete terms. Abstract or poetic texts don’t impress me. In academic prose, furthermore, I prefer an argumentative style over a narrative style. If I want the latter, I’d much rather read novels by Kjell Westö or Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie than a text with academic ambitions. 

When reading Linton, however, I start to become uncertain. Is my style of writing too boring? Have I become too comfortable in my ideal style? Should I try to write in a more narrative and colorful fashion? Use more scenes and metaphors? And how frequently do I really try out new words and new styles? Ever? Do I simply play it safe? 

Yes, perhaps. It’s certainly worth considering. Perhaps it will even be the goal of the next academic year: developing as a writer by stepping outside my cozy comfort zone. Those reading this blog come fall will see!

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