The Philosophers' Cocoon

Which Objections Should You Include in a Paper?

This is a guest post by Andrew Moon, Assistant Professor at Virginia Commonwealth University.

When philosophers write papers, they also discuss objections to their own arguments. But how much should they do this? A paper could go on forever with discussions of more and more objections, making the paper unhelpfully long.

ONE way to know which objections to include is to present your paper at a few conferences and run your main argument by a few people in the relevant area of expertise. If an objection commonly comes up (e.g., it's the first thing that comes to mind when you mention your argument to someone), then that's evidence that it should be dealt with in the paper. Idiosyncratic objections (which might still be good objections!) probably needn't be dealt with.

These factors matter because they make the paper better and more enjoyable to read. More people will enjoy reading a paper if the objection mentioned is the one they have, not an idiosyncratic one that they don't find plausible. Following this advice will also increase the probability that you will deal with the objections a referee is likely to have.

This has implications for when YOU are the referee. The fact that you have a good objection to the argument in a paper you are refereeing isn't sufficient reason to not accept. It takes some knowledge of how people in the philosophical community would likely respond to the argument. It also requires some self-awareness of how idiosyncratic of a philosopher you are. These factors will help you know whether the objection you are thinking of is sufficient reason to not accept the paper.

Kinds of writing (guest post by Kwame Anthony Appiah)

This is a guest post by Kwame Anthony Appiah (New York University) on reading and writing fiction, for a series of blogposts we are hosting on philosophers who write fiction or poetry (see here for an earlier installment).

My mother was an artist who became a writer because she found that it was easier, while raising children, to compose fiction than to paint. (A brief teenage conversation with my mother: “Mummy, why did you stop painting?” “You were born.” Guilty silence.) The first draft of my own first novel was written in about a week. For no recoverable reason I had imagined on paper the scene of a young man dying, probably poisoned. I showed it to my husband, Henry, who said: “Now, you have to explain how it happened.” He then set me up in the study of our sabbatical house in Ithaca and brought me sandwiches every few hours and regular cups of tea. Taking the first draft to a final version took longer, of course; and had the assistance of a splendid editor, the late Miles Huddlestone at Constable, in London. But I have never had another writing experience quite like that.

My mother’s writing didn’t proceed that way, either. Like most of my other books, her novels were made in pieces over a longish period of time, interrupted, in her case, by us children and, for both of us, by the rest of life. I think it’s true that fiction-writing can be done in the in-between times, when you can focus intensely for a few hours on making the next brick of the edifice. Novels—even the mystery novels I have written, which need both a structured unfolding of discoveries and an underlying set of events, a working plot—can be made in bits and out of order, then assembled later. I wrote mine by composing a murder to solve, one whose solution I didn’t know in advance, placing some characters into a context around it, and then moving their world forward and inventing slowly a way to make sense of the crime. Then, of course, I had to go back through what I had written and seed the clues and make sure people were in the right places at the right times. An odd process, but it worked well enough. But there are other ways to do it: one real novelist I know well plans his novels out in meticulous outline before he gets going.

Poetry, too, which requires great concentration, can more readily be done in unconnected blocks of time. (Wallace Stevens had a full-time job as an insurance executive, and still managed a Pulitzer Prize for poetry!) I published a poem once about doing philosophy, but otherwise the only poems I’ve published, since high school, were in a slim volume of family poems by my grandfather, my mother, my sister and me, that my mother produced many years ago. They are old-fashioned, metrical, verse, often rhymed. Some of them work for me like a diary, as a record of experience, as Wordsworth’s “Daffodils” must have been for him. I wonder about his famous assertion that “poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” I do not doubt that this was true for him, but for me poetry has often been a way of managing feeling rather than a spontaneous expression of it. But I agree with him that you can only do it in tranquility and after the event. And sometimes, at least for me, poetry is the expression of an attitude or idea rather than a feeling; as in two poems called “Books” and “Heritage,” about how tradition encumbers and enables, which you can see among the few verses on my website.

I have only ever published one short story, which came about as a result of an invitation from Melvin Dixon to contribute to an anthology written by gay men of African descent. For some reason, I never took to the form. I think it may be because I like closure, the sense of an ending, and in the modern short story that isn’t so much of a thing. Which doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy reading them. I do. But, for what it’s worth, my one short story was also possible to compose in bits and pieces, between teaching and writing philosophy.

Do my novels have anything to do with my philosophical work? Avenging Angel is set in Cambridge and has philosophers among the characters, but Nobody Likes Letitia is set on a remote Scottish Island, free of philosophers, and Another Death in Venice is also a philosopher-free zone … like Venice itself, mostly, though Giorgione’s Three Philosophers, one of my favorite paintings, was commissioned by a Venetian merchant. None of the novels has much real philosophy in it, though the philosophers in the first discuss a real philosopher’s puzzle, the surprise exam paradox. It’s more like the philosophy in Stoppard’s Jumpers, though: it’s meant to sound like philosophy, without actually doing any philosophy. If there’s anything in these novels relevant to my philosophical work, it is that they explore questions of identity. I’m not sure you could write a novel that wasn’t in some sense “about” identity, even Robert Musil’s The Man Without Qualities! (Strange fact: Musil wrote a PhD dissertation on Ernst Mach.) My protagonist is an upper-class English Catholic, an insider-outsider in the complex world of class and religious identity in Anglican England. I was raised as an Anglican, but not being white made the parts of my childhood spent in England, a sort-of insider-outsider thing, though I have to say that no amount of racial condescension ever made me feel out of place in the villages in the West of England where I grew up alongside my white cousins. A lot of the English poetry I love—a love I learned from my mother who loved it too—is, like “Daffodils,” about landscapes I love. I am writing a new kind of fiction, for me, now, started in the last month, about a childhood growing up across places. We shall see if it comes to anything: I get less done during the teaching term, but I’ll try to keep it moving ahead in those in-between times.

People want you to connect the parts of your life. The conventions of autobiography, though not, perhaps, of modern auto-fiction, don’t encourage you to say, “I did this, and then I did that different thing. No connection.” But I think I started writing novels precisely because it was so unlike writing philosophy. The disconnection was the point. It didn’t take away from my energy for philosophy; instead, it provided a respite from it. Serious philosophical writing is exhausting, and I have to be in the right mood for it. Writing fiction helped me recover the mood by taking me away from philosophy for a while, if you see what I mean. But the key to writing fiction, I think, is reading fiction. My mother placed a pile of her favorite novels on my bedside table in our home in Ghana at the beginning of the summer vacation, and we lived in a house full of novels; Austen, the Brontës, Dickens, Galsworthy, Trollope, D. H. Lawrence, the Russians (Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Turgenev), some Goethe and Flaubert and Hugo in translation, but also African novels by Chinua Achebe and Camara Laye and Ama Ata Aidoo and Doris Lessing and Nadine Gordimer.

I continue to read novels as much as I can, even though there is too much philosophy that I haven’t read and should be reading. It is a habit I can’t give up. And two years ago, as the chair of the judges for the Booker Prize, I read a hundred and seventy odd new novels in nine months, which was a wonderful but also a strange experience! Discussing them with my fellow judges was like being in a fabulous book club. But reading novels in order to rank them is an eccentric artifice. Only people who don’t understand literary criticism think it is a matter of grading stuff. (That’s what’s so odd about F. R. Leavis’s criticism: the only question seems to be, Is this part of the Great Tradition? … but I suspect I am being unfair.) This sort of grading gets in the way of really immersive reading.

The one writing task I do that involves finishing a complete “work” in a single session is my Ethicist column for The New York Times Sunday Magazine. I settle down, usually on a Saturday morning, and open the file of questions from readers that sits on my laptop and answer them usually in order, doing anything from three to ten at a time. Then I put them together in groups of about the right length—1200 to 1500 words. (I’m told the final length of the next column on a Thursday or Friday, which depends on arcane newspaper-layout mysteries I do not pretend to understand.)

One final thought, which is a point about reading fiction, not about writing it. There is a connection between my fiction reading and philosophy, which shows up through the presence of discussions of fiction in my philosophical writing. I find I learn a great deal about ethical life by thinking through the experiences of characters in the sort of densely realized worlds that novels imagine. Our philosophers’ examples are often very thin, schematic and sketchy; and that may be good for some purposes. But moral life is thick, dense, luxuriant. Philosophy that doesn’t recognize this can be of great theoretical interest: but it can’t do the thing that the heirs to Socrates, from Plato and Aristotle to the Roman Stoics, thought they were doing, which is helping you to live well. I’m not claiming that my mystery novels are much assistance there. But literary fiction—including mystery novels like the one I read last night, John Banville’s marvelous Snow—can be. I learned that at my mother’s knee.

In the mood for philosophy: on the importance of setting the mood for philosophical thinking

I've been learning how to write fiction. It's been a slow process, going on for about three years now, and after many rejections and writing about 15 stories (far more if you count all the unfinished ones) I got my first short story published published in a magazine here.

It has been an interesting learning experience so far, and I'm still learning.

One thing I've learned is the importance of mood. Mood is very important for fiction writing, and also perhaps for philosophy. It's an under-appreciated aspect of why we love some philosophical works and keep on turning back to it. 

The YA novelist Maggie Stiefvater says in her online course  that mood is more foundational to a story than the idea or the plot. The reader engages with the novel because she wants to feel something. When people go to the movie theater (ah remember!) they don't go to see e.g., two friends having a drunken weekend in Las Vegas, or about an asteroid about to hit the Earth and a team of scientists trying to stop it. No, we go into a movie wanting to feel a certain way. Do we want to feel excitement, are we in for some goofy fun, do we want to feel sad? That's what we're looking for in fiction.

Psychologists commonly make a distinction between emotions, which are directed and more transient (e.g., anger, disgust) and moods, which are less directed, more enduring, such as nostalgia or playfulness. I need to look more into this distinction as I'm not sure how well it holds up, but a fine-grained distinction isn't really needed for this post, I could grant that emotions also have their role, but they need to be more enduring/less directed than a momentary emotion that quickly fades. Moods are semi-persistent mental states and are influenced by many different factors. Stiefvater argues that though we write for ourselves, we also write for others, and our writing only really works if we can move our audience. Eliciting mood is an effective way to do this. We want to listen to sad music because it evokes a sense of nostalgia, wonder and peacefulness. Sometimes, we are in the mood for such things.

By allowing works of art to elicit moods in us, particularly music, we engage in a kind of cognitive scaffolding, as Joel Krueger points out. Art is experiential.

But philosophy is also experiential. Pragmatist authors such as William James, John Dewey and others have discussed the importance of mood and temperament in philosophizing. So, for example, William James discusses what makes life worthwhile is not the drive for survival, as evolutionary ethicists hold, but "the social affections, all the various forms of play, the thrilling intimations of art, the delights of philosophic contemplation...the rest of religious emotion, the joy of moral self-approbation, the charm of fancy and of wit--some or all of these are absolutely required to make the notion of mere existence tolerable" . 

Some philosophical works have a very distinct mood. I will be teaching Zhuangzi next term (together with my colleague Pauline Lee) and one thing I find is that, at least in the inner chapters, there is a consistent mood of playfulness and profundity, Zhuangzi (though highly likely extensively edited and not by one author) the mystic, the sage who doesn't take himself too seriously. I think the mood is an important contributor to the work.

Why referees can spot what's wrong in your paper, but often can't tell you how to fix it

Today, I was watching Neil Gaiman's fiction writing master class, where Gaiman offers advice for how to edit your fiction. A lot of this could just as well apply to non-fiction writing. For example, Gaiman says that your first draft is for your eyes only. If you didn't leave it too late, let the first draft sit for a week and then go back to it. Try to read it like you are reading someone else's work, not too harsh but nevertheless, a disinterested person who might advise you to cut where you might be reluctant to cut. 

Once you've done the second draft, the piece might be ready for some other readers to provide comments. I find it useful to find someone to read my work before it goes out for review. By this, I don't just mean to present the work at a conference or a colloquium, but someone who actually reads the piece as it is written. I've had so many talks that worked beautifully as talks, but their energy and persuasiveness just didn't translate on the page and they got rejected over and over. One useful way to solicit a review is to do a swap.

But it's not always possible to find an external reader, and that's when you'll have to rely on referee reports from the journal you submit to.

Some people tell me they find referee reports completely useless and they don't consider at all what the reports say and just send the paper on to the next journal. I find that discomforting, as someone who does a fair (but not enormous) share of refereeing I put a lot of care in my reports. Maybe I am just more lucky with referee reports than many people are. Even referee reports accompanying a reject decision are often useful for me to further improve the paper. For other papers, the reports are indeed useless. Those are typically the reports where the reviewer wants to see the paper go into a direction I just don't see it going. 

Anyway, Neil Gaiman helped me realize that even in a seemingly not-useful referee report, there is some valuable knowledge you gain (unless the reviewer was just inept, or inattentive, this sometimes happens, but don't assume it too soon!). Namely, if the reviewer says "this didn't work for me" or "I didn't get it", they are always right. They are always right, because indeed, the assertion depends on the reviewer's reception of the work. If they didn't get it, or it didn't work for them, that's valuable information. A lot of redrafting, or excessive familiarity with the topic, or being neglectful to spell out a line of thought can lead a referee to be puzzled. Thus, a referee who says "I'm puzzled here," is giving you valuable information. That referee is saying that there is something puzzling there (to at least one person). It's something you need to fix. 

The philosophy paper as an experience

I'm teaching a graduate course Fiction Writing for Philosophers (syllabus here,  some videos on how to write fiction I made here, writing dialogue, idea, plot, governing idea,  character, point of view, emotion and scene building). I designed this course to help philosophy grad students to understand that philosophy can be expressed in a variety of ways, not just in the format of papers or monographs. It helps them to recognize philosophical fiction, and to write it too. 

Writing fiction is also valuable because it teaches you to write with the reader in mind.

Fiction writers must achieve two things, first, they must write a story that works. The story must be internally coherent, the elements (character, plot, governing idea, point of view, world building etc etc) must all work well together to deliver the story. Second, it must also move the audience. If the audience gets bored and zones out, or abandons your work halfway, then it didn't work for them. 

What makes a story work? Movies, novels, and other fictions as well as artworks more generally move us because they give us an experience. We want to be moved, we want to feel, be transported by the artworks we interact with. John Dewey in Art as Experience saw experience as the driving force of art making and art appreciation: "By common consent, the Parthenon is a great work of art. Yet it has esthetic standing only as the work becomes an experience for a human being."

I saw the Parthenon only once, when I was 18, on a school trip to Greece. We walked up the slope and it was very hot and dry, and none of us had even the slighted interest in ancient architecture. Moreover, the building looked unfinished, with many parts schlepped away to the British Museum, and its scaffolding were even then a near-permanent fixture. Yet, I was impressed by the building and how it was integrated in the surrounding landscape. I understood somewhat why architects, and people more generally, kept on being inspired by this building. 

What's true for artworks is also true for philosophical works. Philosophy that continues to resonate is philosophy that creates an effective experience. How often does one not encounter philosophical papers that are completely boring, that don't excite you, that you just don't care about? Sure, they might be coherent and well-researched, but if they don't do anything for the reader, if they leave the reader entirely unmoved, they have not done enough.

 

Publishing popular philosophy books (and a travel book during an international lockdown) - Guest Post by Emily Thomas

This is a guest post by Emily Thomas of the University of Durham.

I recently published a popular book, The Meaning of Travel: Philosophers Abroad. Written partly as a travelogue, it explores philosophical issues around travel, from the Age of Discovery to the present day. I learned a few things from writing it, and I hope describing them might be useful.

 

Why write a popular book?

Not as an easy route to career advancement 

Academic monographs aim at the highest levels of scholarship: diligent, rigorous world-leading research. Although popular monographs can evince a great deal of research and undergo peer review, I assume most do – perhaps even should - fall short of this highest level. The kind of precise, pernickety attention to detail required of the highest scholarship fits awkwardly with works which aim (at least partly) at making ideas accessible and engaging. If you can produce accessible, engaging and world-leading research, then congratulations - you can stop reading now. 

Academics write books for all kinds of reasons. To prove something, explain something, tell a story. Here’s a reason not to write a popular book: to land an academic job or promotion. At least, I believe this is true of countries with established ‘research excellence’ frameworks, such as the UK, Sweden, Norway, Netherlands, and Australia. In these contexts (and many others) what matters above all else is publications in leading peer-reviewed journals and academic presses. Universities are not motivated to hire or reward colleagues engaged in other kinds of publishing: popular books are neither ‘essential’ nor ‘desirable’ criteria for academic appointments or promotions.  

 
Philosophers might want to write popular monographs to facilitate public engagement or societal impact. The UK’s 2014 Research Excellence Framework saw case studies built around books by Clare Chambers, Marina Warner, and Robert Macfarlane. However, this involves much more than just writing a book. Publishing is a one-way communication between you and your readers, whereas public engagement or societal impact requires two-way communication. (On alternative ways to achieve impact as an early career scholar, see here and here). 

Some Reasons I Reject Papers

One of the recurring discussions on this blog concerns paper rejections and the ongoing quest to get a paper past peer reviewers. The big question is how someone can increase their odds of getting a paper accepted to a good journal instead of just accumulating rejection verdicts. I thought it might be useful to share a little insight from my own experiences as a reviewer since I have given a lot of rejections and only a few revise-and-resubmit (R&R) verdicts, though all those papers got an “accept” from me after revisions).

When I first started peer reviewing a few years ago, I thought it would be very difficult to differentiate between papers that warranted R&R verdicts and those that should just be rejected. I wound up being wrong about this for the most part. (There has been only one paper I’ve reviewed that I think was genuinely on the borderline.) The reason I was wrong is that most papers I review feature glaring problems, some of which should be addressed well before the paper is submitted to a journal. Here’s a short list of the common reasons I have rejected papers as a peer reviewer:

• The paper ignores relevant literature. Sometimes, when a paper is in my wheelhouse, I can detect this immediately, but even in other cases, a quick search on PhilPapers often reveals that other philosophers have addressed the same issue as the author and that the author is either unaware of this or has ignored those scholarly contributions. I don’t expect authors to cite every existing source on their topic (which would be utterly impossible in certain subfields), but if robust and relevant debates on that topic are not even acknowledged in the manuscript, then the paper is seriously deficient in its level of scholarship.

Turning Your Dissertation into a Book

A while back, Marcus addressed a question from Big Dawg about how to turn one’s dissertation into a book. I finished a project similar to that during the last semester, so I can provide some timely input on the subject. I’ll start with a short summary of how I got the book contract, and then I’ll say a bit about how to approach a project of this sort.

Background

I got my book contract in a somewhat unusual way. When I was midway through graduate school, my dissertation advisor published an environmental ethics textbook with Routledge. Sometime afterward, Routledge sent him an email asking him to provide some feedback on their editorial process and his experience. Evidently, one of the survey questions was about in-progress work in the field of environmental ethics that he thought might be of interest to the editors who work on their series of books in environmental studies. One of the things he mentioned was that I was working on a dissertation at the intersection of the ethics of procreation and environmental ethics.

Months after this happened, I was contacted by one of the editors from Routledge asking about my dissertation. That was in Summer 2015, and I was only getting started on the project. Even so, I sent her a copy of my prospectus and promised to follow up with her when things were further along. Down the road, after the dissertation was finished, I made good on that promise, and she requested to see some chapters. So I provided them. A while later, I was invited to submit a formal proposal for review. The proposal was essentially a 4000-5000 word pitch for the project. Beyond providing a summary of my main arguments and a sketch of the book’s layout, I needed to explain how it compared to similar books and who the audience for the book would be.

Getting writing done: a pluralistic approach

Conventional wisdom has it there are only a few ways for academics to be productive scholars. It says successful and productive academics write a bit every day even during the busiest of teaching times. They block out time into manageable chunks, they turn off email etc. They focus, time box and regiment. 

The idea behind this one-size-fits-all time regimenting is that writing every day helps to counter procrastination and writer’s block. But the evidence that this is the main road to writing success is tenuous. Helen Sword (2016) conducted interviews with 100 successful academic researchers from across the disciplines, most of whom had been recommended by their peers as ‘exemplary writers’. She also had a large questionnaire with 1223 academics (including grad students, postdocs, tenure(track) faculty.

Importantly, Sword found that only 12.8% of “highly successful” academics, and 11.5% of other academics in the bigger survey wrote every day! As she writes, “roughly seven out of eight academics surveyed do not write every day; daily writing turns out to be neither a reliable marker nor a clear predictor of overall academic success.”

So, definitely do not feel demotivated if you can't make writing every day. As Sword details in this book Air & Time & Light & Space: How successful academics write, making and managing time is also not the only thing that goes into academic writing. What also matters for successful writing is to have good habits about craft (so-called artisanal habits), social habits (not working entirely in isolation, helping your social network such as friends, family, editors etc help you), and emotional habits (writing needs to be intrinsically rewarding and not a chore). 

 I asked on Twitter what people's writing habits were, and found a very diverse and wide range of practices (see here for the full thread). A few examples below: 

Against referee-proofing one's papers

There are many ways to write a paper. Philosophy would be boring if that weren't the case. 

Still, I want to register a worry about what I think is an unproductive trend in how people write papers, that is, the increased tendency to "referee-proof" them, addressing all sorts of worries and concerns potential referees might have. I see this more and more in papers I'm refereeing. I used to assume those papers had been through review before, but I think authors are doing it pre-emptively now. I also see referee-proofing offered as explicit advice on how to get one's stuff published. For example, in a recent article on this blog on how to get published Marcus Arvan writes: 

Finally, I worked on referee-proofing articles, as I found through a lot of trial and error that one really does need to try to foresee and head off "every possible objection" referees can raise to a piece--as, in my experience, if an objection is reasonably foreseeable, some referee will raise it, and it might just be the objection that (if you don't address it) leaves them unconvinced enough to recommend publication.

It's obviously a good idea to write in such a way that readers do not misunderstand you and that you make your claim as clearly as possible. There's nothing wrong with referee-proofing in that weaker sense. 

But I question whether it's advisable or even possible to referee-proof in the stronger sense of heading off every possible objection, as Marcus supposes, so I will here gently and in the spirit of constructive dialogue (I think!) register my disagreement with him. Here are my reasons why I think referee-proofing is not advisable.

1. As you referee-proof, you sacrifice space to flesh out your position 

One wants to get published and maybe the chance increases due to referee-proofing. Still, referee-proofing is not without cost and one cost is the space one has to devote to head off objections of imagined referees rather than carefully staking out the position.

As an example, here are two papers I wrote (both written while I was not on the tenure track). They aren't refereed proofed at all yet got into decent journals, this one in Australasian Journal of Philosophy on origins of philosophical intuitions and this one in Philosophers' Imprint on mathematical realism and the evolutionary origins of maths. I spend practically no time in responding to potential objections, because I want to flesh out the positions I defend there in detail. The time you spend replying to imagined and projected (not actual) objections is time you do not have to develop your position in detail, which readers can then assess and respond to.

Obviously, both papers do take into account certain objections that actual people gave (actual referees, the editors of both journals, friends who read earlier drafts, audiences at conferences etc etc) but I did not try to imagine all possible reasonable objections for myself. This was particularly important for the AJP paper, as the journal has a fairly strict word count policy (at least upon initial submission). PI has more freedom in this respect, but one still tries to keep the word count manageable. I really wanted to flesh out the positions in as much detail as reasonable word count allowed. The platonism paper required numerous references to empirical literature to do so, as well as detailed engagement to Justin Clarke-Doane's evolutionary anti-realism about mathematics. I could not do that and also respond to imagined referee objections while keeping these papers manageably short. 

2. Can we anticipate objections of potential referees?

The fact that two referee reports will often have very different objections/concerns indicates that it is hard to anticipate which objections referees might have. Alone with one's own thoughts, one cannot obtain the required epistemic friction that's caused by interactions with actual people who are responding to one's ideas (see Medina on getting out of one's comfort zone by interaction with actual people and situations).

I'm not saying it cannot be done. Thomas Aquinas' Summa theologia (random sample here) is a nice example of careful addressing of potential concerns. It is also very long. In sum, we risk either picking out some objections that our audience doesn't necessarily care about or  end up with a very long, exhaustive list of objections. 

 

Writing and Publishing at Teaching-Heavy Institutions

In today’s post, I wanted to take a look at research at teaching-heavy institutions. Before moving forward, I wanted to explain my motivation in writing this. First, as more and more job seekers seem to be taking an interest in colleges with heavy teaching loads, including two-year institutions, I thought hearing the views of someone at a heavily teaching-focused institution might be of some value. I also hoped to hear from others who teach at such colleges about their own experiences and views on writing.

I will organize this post around several questions that have arisen in discussions with other faculty at similar institutions or others who are seeking employment at these sorts of institutions.

First, a word on what I mean by teaching-heavy schools. I have in mind schools that both have a heavy teaching load (let's say, 4-4 or higher) and also see themselves (as reflected in tenure requirements, contract specifications, and culture) as concerned solely or almost solely with non-research requirements. If we think of colleges as falling along a spectrum, my own institution is firmly toward the teaching side. It transitioned from a 2-year institution to one offering 4-year degrees about a decade ago, but the requirements for faculty and the cultural norms have remained the same. The load is 5-5-2 (2 in the summer) and the tenure process involves significant scholarship of teaching and learning. (We must attend many pedagogy seminars and workshops, and we must submit about 300 pages of research examining elements of our teaching, but there is no push for anyone to publish any of it.) There are no research requirements for tenure or in our contracts other than the pedagogical writing we need to do for the tenure process. I know of other colleges with 4-4 loads that also require little or no research and involve lots of interaction with students outside of the classroom. I think of these as teaching-heavy as well.

What are the downsides for writing in this environment?

There are a few, I think. First, there is no pressure to publish, and for many of us (myself included) it is easy for writing to get pushed onto the back burner if there is no pressure. Second, it can be difficult to find others in our institutions who wish to be actively engaged in research. This can make those of us who wish to write feel a bit alone. Third, we tend to have smaller departments, and so have less opportunities for the sort of engaged philosophical discussion that can inspire writing projects. Fourth, at some of these institutions (certainly at mine), there is almost no opportunity to teach courses related to our research interests.

Drawing philosophical thought experiments

I've now finished my final drawing for a book under contract with OUP entitled Philosophy Illustrated, which fill feature line drawings of 42 thought experiments, and reflections written by experts.

What can make a visual artwork philosophical? 

By now, it is becoming increasingly well-established that fiction can be philosophical. Lots of speculative and other fiction is deeply philosophical, and stories were one of the ways in which philosophy used to be written. An early example is Ibn Tufail's Hayy ibn Yaqdhan‎, a philosophical novel which contains a rich long thought experiment of a boy who grows up on an island without culture or education and who learns, through his own experience, about the nature of physical reality and ultimately also about God. 

Eric Schwitzgebel argues here that stories can be philosophical. He writes: 

I reject the idea that philosophy is argument. If philosophy is argument, then Confucius's Analects is not philosophy, and the pre-Socratics' fragments are not philosophy, and the aphorisms of Nietzsche and Wittgenstein are not philosophy. I say, instead: If an essay, or a parable, or a dialogue, or an aphorism, or a movie engages the reader toward new reflections on fundamental questions about meaning, value, the human condition, the nature of knowledge or art or morality or love or mentality, pushing us out of our settled and conventional ways of thinking, challenging us to explore and reconsider -- that's philosophy. Most real philosophy, as experienced by most people, takes the form of fiction.

If we can use a wide range of media to express philosophical thoughts, what would make a picture philosophical?

Obvious examples of philosophical visual artworks include the works by René Magritte, M.C. Escher, Salvador Dalí, Pablo Picasso and many more. For example, Magritte's Balcony (right) is a clear visual play on Manet's Balcony (left), but it is more than a crass memento mori where young beautiful people are replaced by coffins. As Magritte himself wrote about this work "For me the setting of The Balcony offered a suitable place to put coffins. The "mechanism" at work here might form the object of a learned explanation, which I am unable to provide. The explanation would be valid, indeed beyond question, but that would not make it any less mysterious. ”

Writing philosophy papers – some reflections, tips and tricks (J. Adam Carter)

By J. Adam Carter (University of Glasgow)

It will be hard to follow up Neil Levy’s post in this series - he’s published over 200 articles! If my own remarks diverge from his, reasonable principles of epistemic deference suggest you should go with what he says rather than me! In what follows, I’ll give an overview of some of the things that work for me. I don’t mean to suggest you should do all, or even any, of these things. But if you run up against a wall and want to try something different, maybe some of this will be of use.

In no particular order, here are some things that, for better or worse, I both (i) actually do and (ii) am under the impression are pretty helpful.

Keep a Paper Ideas List

Ideas for new papers often strike unexpectedly (in fact, this is something I’ve published about, through the lens of virtue epistemology, here). The fact that new ideas can strike unexpectedly is entirely to be expected: the literature on the psychology of creativity tells us that the ‘Aha!’ experience of an insight often hits when we’re not actively working on a problem.[1](For an amazing story about this phenomenon, read about Yitang Zhang and the twin prime conjecture!) Given that insights are hard if not impossible to channel at will, I find it helpful to write down an idea immediately whenever the idea strikes. I keep a list on my phone (currently about 50 ideas jotted there—just a few short sentences for each, capturing the gist), and, when I’m ready to write a new paper, I go to the list and pick one. Of course, some of the ideas on the list will probably never be drafted (and that might be for the best—some are probably crap, or perhaps already covered by someone else!) But it’s helpful to know they’re there anyway.

Making progress on writing when the going gets tough

This instalment of our series on how to write philosophy will be devoted to how to continue when you are stuck on a project. Continuing to write isn't a matter of willpower or perseverance. It's a matter of setting modest expectations, being kind to yourself, and not let the technicalities of philosophy get in the way of your motivations for why you wanted to write what you're writing in the first place. 

There are many situations when you cannot bring yourself to write on a project you'd like to write on. For example, grading, administration and other tasks are sucking away your mental energy. This especially applies when you have a high teaching load; in the UK you can have a significant admin load too. Maybe you devote lots of mental space to politics and feel so much despair there's no headspace left for creative philosophical thought. Or you had to let the project go because of other, more urgent writing projects and it's now dormant on your computer. Before you know it weeks, or even (the horror) months have gone by and you haven't been able to work on that project you were so excited about. You look at your lecture notes or slides, and you wonder, what's the point? 

Here's a way to get back to writing that has worked for me. I'm not putting this out here to say that I never procrastinate or always follow this advice, but in the past it has helped me. This is useful both for newer projects and revise and resubmits, but my focus here will be on projects that are not revise and resubmits (I'm hoping to still commission a guest piece specifically on R and R).

Devote just 20 minutes today to a specific project if it seems formidable

The idea of writing a whole paper or a whole book, or even writing a chapter or part of a chapter can be daunting. Sometimes it helps not to see it as a chapter of a monograph, or a paper, or even in terms of a word count, as in "today I will write at least 500 words". Note that word count aims work for some people, notably Neil Levy, but personally, I prefer to see it just 20 minutes, with no word count expectation.

I resolve, "Today I will spend at least 20 minutes writing at the chapter". You find a quiet time in the day, as early as feasible -- the later it gets, the bigger the risk it never happens -- and you write for those 20 minutes. Do not scatter them across several projects, just put them in the one thing you want to write, today. If you feel more inspiration and want to write more, that's fine, but the thing is to start with low, modest expectations. You can do this even if there is a pile of grading waiting for you. 

On rejections for journal submissions

This is a guest post by Jon Robson, University of Nottingham for our series How to Write Philosophy.

Rejection is a big part of academic life. By far the most likely response to any job application, funding bid or journal submission is rejection. Here, I offer some thoughts on a very narrow aspect of this phenomenon: journal rejections (a very common phenomenon given that many of the most prestigious philosophy journals have an acceptance rate that’s well below 10%). Specifically, I will focus on the broadly professional aspects of responding to such rejections. Rejections from journals – especially those accompanied by ‘uncharitable’ comments – can also have negative effects on, for example, your psychological wellbeing. Advice for how best to deal with this is far beyond my limited area of competence. What I am competent (or at least experienced) in is thinking about the future of a recently rejected paper.

First, it’s important to remind yourself that a rejection merely represents the view of an exceptionally small number of your colleagues (often only a single colleague). To run the risk of comical understatement, philosophers don’t always agree. That one editor or a few referees judge your paper to be unworthy of publication is very poor evidence that this view will be the consensus amongst scholars in your area (indeed, I’d very be surprised if we could identify a single paper which every philosopher thinks ought to have been published). Yet, it’s similarly important to remember that the referee is a professional colleague and – at least when things go well – one with a reasonable level of relevant expertise. Often, they will have put a lot of work into their comments, ensuring that – again, all being well – the rejection is accompanied by useful feedback. It’s easy to be critical of referees (fun too), but many of them do an awful lot of diligent work for no real recognition.

So, what’s the best way to respond to rejections? Let’s deal with the easy cases first.

 

How to write a philosophy book - the monograph as laboratory

This is a guest post by Donovan Schaefer, University of Pennsylvania

I’ve always thought writing was strange, and writing a book is the strangest of all. A book project is like building a little planet of words from scratch. It’s disorienting and exhilarating at once.

Common sense says that writing is a transcription of what’s in our heads. But that’s wrong. We write to figure out what we think. It’s a laboratory, not data entry. The intuitions that we have in mind about how pieces of information fit together look different when they’ve taken form in a document. Or, put another way, when we write we realize that our watery sense of how an argument will play out has to be given more definition and structure once it actually hits the page. In this sense, writing is problem-solving.

This is strange enough with an article, but book-length writing takes the dizzying self-surveying of one’s own mind and draws it out in extremis. The book spools out, folds back in on itself, becomes a sort of organism, with the different parts and components demanding to be connected and synced up just so.

This is part of the reason why rewriting existing material (from articles or book chapters) can be a mixed bag. On the one hand, the work is there and done. On the other hand, the milieu of the book changes how the material needs to be oriented. This shift is likely to be subtle rather than major, with each paragraph needing to be brought into alignment with the project of the book (which can’t not be different from the project of the article). I find the re-alignment work of bringing an existing piece of writing into the system of the book is always more than I expect it to be. That isn’t to say it isn’t worth it, but it takes a certain kind of headspace that’s different from writing or even ordinary editing. And the further I am from that initial piece of writing, the more likely I find the reworking taking up a disproportionate amount of time and energy.

As Max Weber writes, “[i]deas occur to us when they please, not when it pleases us. The best ideas do indeed occur to one’s mind in the way in which Ihering describes it: when smoking a cigar on the sofa; or as Helmholtz states of himself with scientific exactitude: when taking a walk on a slowly ascending street; or in a similar way.”

This haunting by one’s own thoughts seems to be proportionate to one’s level of immersion in writing. You feel it with an article, but it goes overboard with a book. Coming up with a system for catching these ideas when they fly by is indispensable for me. I have notepads everywhere I go (including by my bedside). Even if it seems so obvious that I don’t see how I could possibly forget it, I force myself to write it down anyway.

One of the strangest parts of writing a book is that the concentrated writing changes you as a writer even as you’re writing. I find I get a stronger feel for my own style (in that moment), my own limitations, and my own methods as I work. Besides, so much of style is about systematization. A stylistic device used once is a tic, used twice is a motif, and used three times is a statement. Writing long-form lets you build that interior in a way that you can’t with an article.

Writing a philosophy book

This is a guest post by Fiona Ellis, University of Roehampton, London

There’s no one way of planning and writing a book (whether philosophy or otherwise), and much of it has to do with temperament. Some people like to map everything out in advance (Iris Murdoch), others make it up as they go along (Haruki Murakami), and most people probably do a bit of both of these things. The first important thing is the big idea – this is the book’s main selling point, and it makes the project worth doing in the first place. In my 2014 book God, Value, and Nature (OUP), the big idea was that there are expansive (i.e. non-scientistic) conceptions of nature which can be pushed in a theistic direction, and that predictable ways of resisting this move involve a contestable conception of God.

I like to have a fairly clear sense of where I’m going, and once I have the basic idea I set out a provisional chapter structure. This was easy to do for God, Value, and Nature because I was following a particular line of argument and reproducing its structure at different levels of content. I knew where I wanted to go, and it was mostly a matter of spelling out the relevant arguments. There were surprises along the way, but nothing too shocking. Things are trickier with the book I’m planning at present, for the argument is more complex, and there are murky depths which will surface only when the writing process begins. I usually aim at 7 or 8 chapters, and squeeze the initial plan into a couple of pages. It took about 2 years (including a term of sabbatical leave) to produce a complete draft of God, Value, and Nature. I wrote most of it before getting in touch with a publisher because I didn’t want to be constrained by a particular plan or timeline, and it meant that the submission was in the best possible shape.

I write each chapter as if it’s the finished product, and try to avoid having a series of incomplete drafts. Loose ends and gaps mess up the developing argument, and my books tend to have a fairly tight structure. The downside is that I can end up spending an inordinate amount of time on one chapter, but things can go really smoothly too. Once I’m happy with a chapter I’ll share it with one or two friends; I’ll then revise it in response to feedback before moving on. I work best when there’s an uninterrupted stretch of time – ideally a few weeks or more where I can go for total immersion. If the weather’s half decent I’ll start and end each day with a swim, but apart from that I’ll be mostly at my desk. This is my idea of paradise, and the second best is when I can organise a few days along these lines.

Writing papers - in lieu of a guide

This is a guest post by Neil Levy, Senior research fellow at the University of Oxford

I’ve published a lot of articles – more than 200. So it seems like I should have some tips worth sharing on how to write them. I’m not sure I do. I thought of calling this post How to write a philosophy article, but I’m not sure I know how. I also thought of calling it How I write a philosophy article, but I’m not even sure I know how I do it. What follows is a description of how I tend to generate ideas and turn them into papers. Perhaps something in what I laughingly call my process will help others. Or perhaps the lesson is that you have to find your own.

Most people (I gather) generate the argument, more or less, before they sit down to write. Writing is a craft for them. The thinking happens in conversation with others, in the shower, in teaching, while running, or whatever. This sometimes happens for me too (though usually when reading). That’s nice when that happens. But it doesn’t happen all that often for me. I don’t tend to sit down with a clear idea of what I want to say.

Rather than a craft for me, writing is thinking. When I sit down, any idea I have is incredibly vague and very fragile. I really don’t know whether it will amount to anything. I try to sneak up on it, rather than express it. I often begin by describing the problem I’m concerned with, rather than jumping straight into it. I will often write (what I hope will become) a first section, describing the terrain of the debate as it stands. Only then do I really try to develop my idea. I try things out, on paper (well, on the screen). I write the ideas as they come, as fully and carefully as possible.

The advantage of doing things this way is that by the time I get to trying out the ideas, I have a fairly good idea of the lay of the land in the debate. The disadvantage, of course, is that doing your thinking on paper is labor-intensive. When I try to make my vague thought a little clearer, I sometimes find that it melts away. Vague thoughts are often confused thoughts. Because I write on a lot of topics, at the germ of an idea stage I often don’t the debate well enough to know if the idea is novel, or whether there are obvious objections to it. The result is a lot of abandoned papers. I have lots of paper fragments floating around on hard drive. Sometimes, they’re not unsalvageable. I abandon the paper because the idea evaporates, but I come back to it months later (maybe after reading something that suggests a different way of approaching it). Sometimes, they’re complete dead ends.

Writing formal philosophy

This is a guest contribution by Richard Pettigrew, Professor of Philosophy at the University of Bristol for our series How Philosophers Write:

Stephen Hawking speculated that every formula he included in A Brief History of Time would cut its readership in half. In the end, he included only one, E = mc2, and the book sold half a million copies every year for twenty years.

You often hear a similar complaint from those who work in the more formal parts of philosophy--Bayesian epistemology, philosophical logic, formal semantics, decision theory, voting theory, formal approaches in metaphysics and ethics, for instance. They lament that their work is not so often read, not so often discussed as work on nearby topics that do not use a formal framework.

Now, I don’t know whether the numbers support this gripe, but whether they do or not, there is certainly a lot of work in formal philosophy that is not easily accessible to people who aren’t fully immersed in the formal framework it uses. And while this is no doubt due in part to the difficulty of the mathematical techniques in play, it is also partly the result of the way in which some formal papers are written. And, indeed, mea culpa, I include a number of my own papers in this--I read them back sometimes and hate myself for not doing more to open them up to a wider readership. So I’m writing this not from the smug position of someone who claims to know all the secrets, but rather from the position of someone who’s trying to get better at making their formal work easier to read and digest. I’m not sure whether I’m succeeding, but here are some of the writing techniques I’ve been trying to use. I’d love to hear alternatives or supplements in the comments.

Should you write articles on marginal or moribund topics?

Should early career philosophers devote time and energy to writing journal articles on figures, topics, or debates that are moribund, marginal, or otherwise unlikely to gain interest among other philosophers? Obviously, this turns on complicated metaphilosophical and professional issues too large for a blog post, so let me offer an autobiographical perspective, following Thi Nguyen’s approach in an earlier post in this series.

I did my doctorate at Durham University, starting in September 2006, submitting exactly four years later. My topic was the neglected later writings of the still-controversial philosopher of science and self-styled ‘epistemological anarchist’, Paul Feyerabend (1924-1994), author of Against Method. In terms of publishing articles on his later work, the prospects were mixed. On the one hand, Feyerabend was considered old hat. Genuinely important in his day, sure, but relative to ‘old-school’ concerns, no longer on the agenda of philosophy of science.

On starting papers, or: how I got over professional despair and learned to love philosophy again

This is the first instalment of our new series How Philosophers Write, a series aimed at demystifying the writing process of how we write publishable works. It is not meant to be universal advice, but rather meant as a series of very personal accounts. Through these accounts, we hope that readers (graduate students, but also more experienced philosophers) will learn something through the exemplars they see. As Confucius says (Analects 7:22), " When three men are walking together, there is one who can be my teacher. I pick out people's good and follow it. When I see their bad points, I correct them in myself."

We hope to discuss such topics as writer's block, finding new topics, publishing on topics that are not fashionable, overcoming the psychological obstacles of revise and resubmit, picking up a project again you left a long time ago. Please contact Helen De Cruz (hde-cruz@brookes.ac.uk) if you want to write a contribution.

Our first piece is written by Thi Nguyen, Associate Professor of Philosophy at Utah Valley University. 

This is a very personal story about how I got over an extraordinary degree of academic writer’s block. None of the particulars may apply to you. If there’s a general lesson, maybe it’s that your writing process might turn out to be really weird, and really personal, and you may need to go on a long and painful voyage of self-examination and tailoring your process before you can write. (Or maybe not. Maybe this is all easy for you.)

I had a devastating, decade-long case of philosophical writer’s block, which I got over only fairly recently. To give you a sense of how big a change it was: during all of my graduate school years, I wrote one paper. During my first three years as an assistant professor, I wrote… one more paper. And then I figured out some stuff. And since then I’ve been happily writing about four papers a year. And I wrote a book, too. And most importantly of all: I actually like what I’m writing, now.The first things I wrote felt like ripping out my own teeth and bones, so that I could mash myself into a box labelled “Professional Philosopher”.

Writing on obscure topics in philosophy: A few tips for younger colleagues

If you write on Plato, you should start in medias res. If you write on Thomas Aquinas, you can do the same (unless you are writing for a journal specialising on something completely different, say, business ethics). If you write on a slightly less known author, I would suggest adding at least the dates of birth and death and perhaps a short description of their main work (say "the epistemologist XW (1200--1250)"). What about writing on a niche topic, say, South Asian philosophy? If you are writing for a non-specialist journal, you will need to explain a lot, since no one will know even the main authors, ideas and schools you will name. Nonetheless, this does not mean that each new piece on that niche topic should resemble a pale summary of scholarhip on it. Even if you need to tell, say, who Jayanta was and what nyāyā means, this does not mean that you cannot make an original contribution to the debate.

1. Just start with what you discovered. Did Jayanta think that justification is not needed in the case of the "ought" domain? Are you the first one who noticed this move? Be sure that this is your departing point.
2. You can then move to the background needed to appreciate the depth of your discovery. Do not just start with the background, otherwise your reader will think there is nothing new and close your article before reaching its core.
3. Be sure that theme and rheme are well distinguished in your article. The reader should not be confused about what is just a short summary of the background and what is your new and original contribution.
4. Please remember that an article is not a book. You can only convey one point. Don't try to overdo or you will not manage to convey anything at all.

What do other readers working on niche topics do? What do you recommend to your students?

Cross-posted, with minor modifications, on my personal blog and on the Indian Philosophy Blog, where you can read some interesting comments

Writing Strong Letters of Recommendation for Not-So-Strong Students

If you stick around in philosophy for long enough, you'll almost surely be asked to write a letter of recommendation for one of your students at some point. I did this a few times as a graduate student, but recently I've run into a problem with doing this.

When I wrote letters of recommendation as an ABD graduate student, the students who requested a letter provided me with a resume, personal statement, and a description of the programs they were applying to. They were among the very best students I had ever taught, and they discussed various aspects of their application with me in personal meetings prior to my writing their letter. These letters are easy to write and don't require any embellishment to be an asset to the student's application.

But I have recently learned the hard way that a lot of requests for letters of recommendation do not fit this description. In my current position, I have been asked to write letters of recommendation for students that I barely know, students who only did somewhat above average in my class, and students who provide me very little information about the programs to which they are applying and what they're saying in their personal statement.

Inclusive citations and editorial word count policy

As executive editor of the Journal of Analytic Theology, I've been working with the other editors on a document to spell out our editorial practices and procedures. Having such a document will, we hope, inspire confidence in authors who submit to our journal and in our referees, improve transparency of the review process, and hopefully provides a set of guidelines for us as editors as well.

One thing we've been trying to address is citation practices. In particular, we've now included the following policy: 

Papers should normally be under 9,000 words in length, the word count is not including references but including footnotes, appendices and other supplementary materials. Longer papers will be considered but note that they need to clear a higher bar, and need to have some justification for their length. We value economy of expression. We are not including the list of references in the word count so as to encourage authors to cite inclusively, i.e., to cite work that has meaningfully played a role in

the ideas of their paper, rather than only signalling their knowledge of the prestigious or most well-known works in the field. [emphasis added]

Let me briefly elaborate on this policy. Although analytic theology is not exclusively a philosophical field (it is interdisciplinary), we get a lot of analytic philosophy of religion and have noticed that there is a trend among authors to cite sparingly, as is the general practice in analytic philosophy. 

When you cite sparingly, as Eric Schliesser observed, citation are in danger of becoming a commodity, a favour to be bestowed, presumably in exchange for other goods. And as Marcus Arvan argued, by having sparing citations we end up using citations as a form of status signalling. That is why philosophers tend to cite prestigious papers from prestigious journals, so called "agenda-setters". That practice is riddled with implicit biases--all things being equal, we're less likely to cite women, people of colour, people from less prestigious institutions.   

While it is difficult to fix these issues right away, one thing editors can do is to explicitly encourage people to cite inclusively, asking them to cite work that has actually played a role in their thinking. For unlike Marcus I am not convinced people just read and cite top generalist journals. But they might still cite, all things being equal, work from such journals as it is deemed more influential and agenda-setting. When the word count becomes pressing, how often do we not cut down on citations? And it is likely that the cutting of citations is riddled with implicit biases, thus further exacerbating unbalanced citation practices. 

By taking the pressure off the word count for references (after all, Journal of Analytic Theology is an online open-access journal so we do not need to worry about print runs and page counts), and by explicitly encouraging our authors to cite inclusively, we hope to redress the imbalance somewhat. 

Sexual Assault and Citation Practices

By Peter Furlong

Another philosopher recently looked over a manuscript I had been working on for a book. He noted that in a footnote, I cited a comment from someone that has recently fallen from grace because of sexual assault issues. My friend, reading my manuscript, noted that readers might not respond positively to the inclusion of this footnote.

Before moving on to the issue of how we should treat these sorts of offenders, I want to say something about my specific case. The footnote was not really necessary. In the book, I was saying something about conflicting intuitions concerning an issue that people have been weighing in on for centuries. People have strong intuitions on both sides; this is well known. In a footnote, I quoted a particularly forceful endorsement of commitment to one side of this issue (one that was not even made in a piece of scholarship). The person I quoted does not even really work much in this area, just, apparently, has extremely strong views on this particular question. So I cited it to illustrate just how committed some are to particular answers. It was an illustrative citation, rather than one that recognizes prior contributions from others.

Writing service

Pendaran Roberts (Warwick) writes in:

I saw that one blog post about the student asking for help with their writing sample and another blog post about non-native English speakers. I was thinking that my skills and experience could be of service to people. Maybe you could share the below with your readers? I’d be a good resource and could provide a personalized experience. I was thinking of trying to do this kind of work part-time to help people. 

_____________________

I am offering a service where I help philosophers develop their writing samples and perfect their writing more generally. I have a PhD in Philosophy from a UK university but know both US and UK English. I have a dozen academic publications, many in top 20 journals (https://philpeople.org/profiles/pendaran-roberts). I can help you to achieve your academic writing goals to get into a PhD program or to get your ideas published. 

Please just email me at pendaran@mac.com. We can discuss what help exactly you need and agree on a fee. My help can range from merely proofreading your work to in-depth coaching to develop your academic writing ability.

If you are a non-native speaker, I am also happy to be of service. I am not an English teacher but can read through work, correct English mistakes, and help with the overall feel of your writing. 

Accountability Tools

While I was working on my dissertation proposal, I came across Robert Paul Wolff’s blog post “How to write a doctoral dissertation in philosophy.”  For the most part, I thought it was great. (I just reread it for the first time in years.  I still think most of it is great advice.)  I thought it was so great I emailed it to several of my classmates who were ABD.  Some of them hated it, and so we all took a break from the serious business of grad school to argue about it. I have no intention of returning to that argument here.

Instead, I want to talk about just one of the things that Wolff says.  Here it is:

On the first day, write one page and stop. The next day, write another page, and stop.... If you are able to, write two pages a day.... Also, do not write four or five pages on a really good day and then figure you can take a few days off. Those few days will stretch into eternity. You are a tortoise, not a hare. Slow and steady wins the race....

He also suggests the following for those who might need extra motivation, but I think it might be of use even to those who are fairly self-disciplined:

…cut a deal with a fellow dissertation writer. You will send her a page a day by email, and she will send you a page of her dissertation every day by email. You will read her page [it only takes a minute] and send back an encouraging word, and she will do the same for you.

Writing Groups

For my first few posts, I wanted to talk about writing.  In particular, I wanted to talk about practices—both individual and communal—related to writing.  I am interested in how the act of writing (and the act of avoiding writing, for that matter) is related to other behaviors.  I am also interested in how we might better integrate the act of writing into our lives, perhaps to make us more productive, or perhaps simply to make us happier.

Dissertation Reflection Series, Part 9: When It's Over

The final suggestion I offered in the previous post in this series was that graduate students should not expect to be overjoyed when their dissertation is finished, but I said nothing about what graduate students can expect after they’ve finished their dissertation. So what is post-dissertation life like?

In the short term, you’ll probably feel some sense of relief. From recent PhDs I have spoken to, this feeling is pretty common. It’s not just that you’re freed from the burden of dissertation work –  though that’s obviously part of the story – but rather that you’re freed from the burden of graduate school. Think for a moment about how many hoops you have to jump through to get a PhD: course requirements, teaching assignments, comprehensive examinations, a language requirement, the dissertation, and perhaps more. You have some flexibility with regard to how you meet some of these requirements, but it’s often fairly limited. As a teaching assistant, for instance, you are unlikely to have much input in assigned readings or methods of assessment that are used in the class; the professor will usually make those judgments without your input. As another example, you don’t have much (if any) say in what graduate courses are offered each term, and in smaller programs, course offerings could be fairly limited.

It’s a safe bet that some of these requirements won’t seem so burdensome, since you’re likely to enjoy fulfilling some of them, but after toiling away at them for the better part of a decade, you will be ready to be done with them. The first day you wake up and realize you have no graduate school requirements on the agenda can bring a sense of relaxation that hasn’t been felt in a long time.

That being said, do not expect the semester after your defense to be easy, assuming that you’re pursuing long-term academic employment. Most people end up in a temporary position for their first job, so there’s not a ton of time to relax before you’re back to polishing job applications and trying to add to your CV. Some experience a post-dissertation slump, often as a result of no longer having a grand project that demands their attention and provides structure to their priorities. Even if that doesn’t happen to you, it’s safe to say that your workload won’t significantly lighten after the dissertation concludes. In some respects (e.g., increased teaching responsibilities), your first position will likely require more work than what you were required to do as a graduate student.

Nevertheless, even without feeling overjoyed at the completion of your dissertation or being freed from the labors of academic life, completing the dissertation still provides a persistent source of gratification over time. Most of the good feelings associated with academic achievements do not come from immediate euphoria or the ongoing process of their completion. (This is true even in cases where portions of that process are enjoyable: I generally like writing, but this enjoyment is easily overwhelmed by tedium when addressing a revise-and-resubmit verdict or preparing a manuscript for submission to its third or fourth venue.) Instead, the satisfaction that comes from most academic achievements is a stable, gradually accumulating sense of accomplishment. The dissertation, so far as I can tell, is not an exception to this rule.

Dissertation Reflection Series, Part 8: Lessons Learned

I’ve spent prior posts in this series recapping various aspects of writing the dissertation that can make the process difficult. Since these have been scattered across posts over the past few months, it’s worth recapping them:

1. The dissertation is a different kind of project than most anything else one does in graduate school.
   • The dissertation lacks rigid structure and concrete deadlines.
   • The dissertation is a much larger project  than most others pursued in graduate school.
   • There is more riding on the completion of the dissertation than any other single project in graduate school.
   • Work on the dissertation cannot be easily postponed.
2. The need to pursue publication (to be competitive on the job market) can lead to an abundance of non-dissertation commitments late in graduate school.
3. You will most likely need to go on the job market at least once while your dissertation is still unfinished.
4. Your dissertation work may lead you to lose your enjoyment of  writing.
5. Your dissertation work can be impeded by personal crises (e.g., financial difficulties, health problems, mental illness, relationship struggles).

After all that, I briefly described how I actually got the dissertation done in the end. So what are the lessons that can be taken away from all this to help graduate students prepare for the dissertation stage and ultimately complete it? Here are a few suggestions.

Dissertation Reflection Series, Part 7: Getting It Done

I ended the last part of the series on a cliffhanger. Here’s an abbreviated recap: after a series of starts and stops on the dissertation, January arrived, and it still wasn’t done. In fact, there was still quite a bit of unwritten material. After returning from the APA Eastern meeting, I faced the fact that time was running out, and I really didn’t want to drag the project into the summer. So how did I finally get it done?

First, a little background is in order. During my very first semester of graduate school (all the way back in Fall 2010), after completing all my preliminary research and determining what I wanted to argue, I wrote and revised all 3 of my term papers in an intense 4-day writing binge. In total, I wrote around 15,000 words in this stretch. The routine during those 4 days went roughly as follows: get up, get a bowl of cereal, turn on the computer, bring up MS Word, write for 4-5 hours, 30-minute break for lunch, write for 5-6 hours, 1-hour break to make and eat dinner, write until tired, go to sleep, and repeat.

Now, let’s be clear: this is not a sustainable or desirable model for academic writing. It doesn’t come anywhere near the well-balanced academic life one might want, and it’s incompatible with significant teaching and service commitments. But for a short spell at the very end of the term (when I no longer had teaching commitments), it was effective.

Fast forward to January 2017. When the semester got rolling, I tried to emulate this schedule as much as possible. After allocating the necessary hours each week toward teaching and job applications, I put as many hours as possible toward dissertation writing. As many as I could without losing my mind.

For two months, I became a social hermit, worked out less, and refused to take on any additional projects beyond what I was already committed to. I was teaching a course that I had already taught several times, so my required teaching prep was relatively minimal. Grading did take longer than it normally would have, though, since it was not as high on my priority list. The grind wasn’t fun, but it was successful. I sent out the polished first half of my dissertation to committee members in early March and followed up with the revised second half two weeks later. The defense at the end of the month was uneventful.

The costs of the grind were severe. Once post-defense revisions were submitted in April, I set my research aside for almost two months, a longer break from my research than I had ever taken during graduate school. While I had succeeded in my two major goals for that semester – finding a job for the following fall and finishing the dissertation – these triumphs brought little joy. The mental and emotional toil wrapped up in the prior academic year had left me exhausted, and the only good feeling that could be savored was relief. It was time for a break.

And so the narrative portion of the series concludes. But there are still two parts to go. In the next segment, I’ll summarize the major lessons that can be drawn from prior posts and consider how those insights might help graduate students prepare for the dissertation stage and eventually finish their degree.

Dissertation Reflection Series, Part 6: When Other Things Seem More Important

As I said in the previous entry in this series, I believe there were two moments where I came close to not completing the dissertation. The first occurred in Summer 2016 when the tedium of dissertation work stifled my enjoyment of writing. As I noted in Part 5, I eventually snapped out of that spell and got back to making steady progress. In October, I had to disrupt my momentum to polish dossier materials and send out job applications, but that brief gap in progress did not affect me too much. I kept sending material to my advisor, and everything continued as planned. A defense at the end of January looked likely.

Unfortunately, things did not stay that way for long. Outside of my philosophical life, two things happened that fall that had a significant impact on me. The first was the 2016 U.S. presidential election. I had, for the most part, tried to ignore the political developments in the U.S. over the summer and focus on my work, but the all-encompassing election coverage on social media and the vitriolic nature of the campaigns made the events difficult to ignore. When the results were finally obtained on November 8th, the outcome was not what I had hoped for, and many of my peers spent the remainder of the night (and a chunk of the morning) in the close proximity to hard liquor.

Dissertation Reflection Series, Part 5: When You Start to Hate Writing

In the last few parts of this series, I have discussed several major factors that make the dissertation difficult to complete. Since it’s taken several weeks to get to this point, let’s recap what I’ve highlighted thus far:

1. The dissertation stage of graduate school lacks a rigid structure and concrete deadlines.
2. The dissertation is a much larger project than anything else in graduate school.
3. The dissertation has higher stakes than any other project in graduate school.
4. Unlike many other things in graduate school, dissertation work cannot be easily postponed.
5. Other commitments often hinder your ability to make consistent progress on the dissertation.
6. Dissertation progress (often) must be maintained even when navigating the academic job market for the first time.

That seems like an impressive list. It’s not hard to see why the dissertation would be tough to finish given this information. Here’s the catch: none of these factors explains why the dissertation was the hardest part of my graduate career. I actually think I was rather well-prepared for these things, insofar as that’s possible. The biggest reason that finishing the dissertation difficult was something I had not anticipated and something I was not ready for.

For a time, working on the dissertation actually made me hate writing.

Dissertation Reflection Series, Part 4: The First Job Market Run

Part 3 of this series focused on the problem of stacking commitments – the tendency for non-dissertation commitments to overwhelm one’s schedule in the final stages of graduate school as one tries to become a viable candidate on the job market. Now’s the time to consider the job market itself and how the initial run can impact your dissertation work.

First, let’s start with the ideal scenario. You manage to get a couple publications during graduate school, and the rest of your CV is pretty solid. You spend most of your summer finishing a full draft of your dissertation. Only revisions and the formal defense remain. You then devote the remainder of your summer and the first half of the fall toward job market preparation. You make sure all your statements are polished and that your writing samples have been thoroughly revised and edited according to feedback from your colleagues. You keep pace with the job market deadlines while making revisions to your dissertation manuscript and schedule a January defense, ensuring that your dissertation will be done long before you start your first job (if you're able to snag one).

Dissertation Reflection Series, Part 3: Stacking Commitments

In my last post, I emphasized the ways in which the dissertation stage differs from other aspects of graduate school. One of the major differences is that the dissertation is a much longer project than anything else you will be required to complete. Given its length, it’s no surprise that you have to devote a lot of time to it over the last year or two of your graduate studies. In the abstract, that might not sound too terrible, since you aren’t saddled with coursework or preparing for comprehensive exams. If only it were so simple.

In this and the next part of the series, I consider two related features of the dissertation stage that both threaten to rob you of your writing time: commitments tied to side-projects and professional development and the job market push that will most likely occur during your final year of graduate school. We’ll start with the former – what I call the problem of stacking commitments.

Dissertation Reflection Series, Part 2: A Different Kind of Project

In the first post of this series, I highlighted four factors that made the dissertation stage of graduate school challenging for me. In this post, I focus on how the dissertation differs from other graduate work and why these differences tend to make writing the dissertation more difficult than the other stages of graduate school.

Difference #1: Lack of Rigid Structure and Concrete Deadlines

The first few years of graduate school are highly structured. You take courses with clear reading lists and concrete deadlines. You have conversations about the course material every week, and the professor will often give you insight into the kinds of topics that would make for good papers. Often, you’ll get some feedback on in-progress work (through peer review, presentations, etc.) during the course.

Dissertation Reflection Series, Part 1: Is It Really That Hard?

By Trevor Hedberg

In Spring 2017, I finally completed my doctoral dissertation. While the experience is still fresh in my mind, I thought it might help graduate students to offer a little perspective on what it’s like to write a dissertation and what makes it such a difficult part of graduate school. In the opening segment of this series, I want to consider a question that crossed my mind several times during my first four years of graduate school: is writing a dissertation really that difficult?

Philosophy through fiction story competition: Why you should write a story and submit it

I'm organizing a short story competition for philosophical fiction, funded by a grant from the American Philosophical Association's Berry Fund for Public philosophy. 

The aim of this competition is to encourage philosophers to use fiction to express their philosophical ideas. Some philosophical ideas as better expressed in a story than in a traditional essay. As works by Iris Murdoch and Jean Paul Sartre indicate, you could potentially also reach a big audience through stories. The competition is open to everyone, including students, making it an excellent opportunity to try your hand at a slightly different way of doing philosophy. Next to the cash prize of 500 USD and publication in Sci Phi Journal of the winning story, we are also publishing an edited volume of submitted stories that make an excellent contribution to philosophy. 

Read more about the competition, including the rules, dates, and how to submit here. A couple of points to keep in mind: 

• Word count is at least 1000 words, maximum 7500 words
• Genre needs to be speculative fiction (e.g., fantasy, science fiction, horror, magical realism)
• Story needs to be accompanied by a food for thought section, explaining the philosophical rationale of the work (max 500 words, not part of overall word count). This section will be part of the evaluation
• Story needs to be unpublished - this also means it should not be on your personal website, blog or similar (this is a common norm for fiction publishing)
• Deadline 1 February 2017, decision by 31 March 2017
• The review process has two stages: first, initial vetting by a team of experienced readers at Sci Phi Journal, second, evaluation by three judges: Meghan Sullivan (Notre Dame), Eric Schwitzgebel (UC Riverside) and Mark Silcox (University of Central Oklahoma). By entering the competition, you accept their decision is final. They will select the winning story, as well as a number of very good entries to be considered for an edited volume (you can opt out of the volume, but you need to do so explicitly upon entering the competition)

Read more about why fiction is a valuable philosophical tool here. 

Now you may ask, " Is this competition for me? I've dabbled somewhat in writing stories, but never anything serious." Or you may worry that writing for this competition might take away valuable research time. I hope you would consider submitting your story to us. As I explained in the interview: 

The professionalization of philosophy has led to some unfortunate consequences, some of which include a narrowing of what is deemed philosophically interesting. There is great pressure on graduate students and other untenured philosophers to write papers that would end up in “good journals”, that is, a limited number of general philosophy journals and some specialist ones. The problem is that these are highly restricted in their scope.

So, I hope that this competition will liberate us somewhat from the yoke of writing papers for good journals, and free up our minds to write in a different way, and maybe see philosophical ideas in a different light. This, in any case, was my aim in launching this story competition, as well as the workshop Fiction Writing for Philosophers, for which the call will go out later this year. 

If you are new to writing fiction, you can read some tips by Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, or those for a bit more advanced writers by Ursula Le Guin. 

A Dissertation Retrospective

Hey ya'll. Sorry for the radio silence. I've been rushing to finish my dissertation so I can start a new gig in the Fall, and its been all consuming. I'll be designing some new courses from scratch later this summer, at which point I plan to continue the syllabus design series. But in the meantime, since all I'm thinking about lately is my dissertation, I thought I'd share my impressions of the process. So join me after the break for a look back...

Happily ever after? Career advice for mid-career academics

The Cocoon is foremost a forum for early-career philosophers, but I have decided to put together some advice for mid-career academics. This is partly because I am in this situation (I am now senior lecturer, which is the equivalent of an associate professor), after a long period of temporary positions. It is also partly because I have seen that many associate professors are faced with challenges that do not get much attention, because people assume - mistakenly that associate professors have figured it all out by now.  I hereby pool some advice I heard from other academics as well as my ideas on issues facing mid-career academics.

For a graduate student, postdoc or any other academic who is not in a tenured or tenure track position, it seems that happy ever after starts once one obtains a tenure-track position (or equivalent), a bit like the female protagonist finding a suitable partner in a Jane Austen novel. People outside of the tenure track look on in disbelief as their tenured and tenure-track colleagues grumble about committee work, heavy teaching loads, the lack of accommodation for their spouses, decreasing pension and healthcare benefits, and the decline of wages in real terms. The thought presents itself that if only I had such a job I wouldn’t complain. When I was a postdoc, I entertained such thoughts.

Now I know that obtaining a tenure-track position is only the beginning. It definitely beats being off the tenure track, but it is not happy ever after. You need to be savvy about your career in all stages—all the way from searching for a tenure track job to being a full professor. In Jane Austen’s novels, it makes sense that the match is the end of the novel. After all, women in Jane Austen’s time had few prospects, and the main way to have economic and social goods was to marry, and that was the one and crucial decision to make. 

With the erosion of tenure and an increasing mobility of academics, finding your tenure track job no longer resembles a Jane Austen novel, where you find yourself with your dream job (Mr Darcy) or a job you deem suboptimal (but, hey, your PhD is getting stale and you need something permanent, Mr Collins).

According to several surveys, associate professors are less happy and experience less career satisfaction compared to people of other tenure-line ranks. The job uncertainty is finally gone but new doubts creep in: Is this it? Here follow some points of advice.

Working together: There must be a way

I am a passionate fan of co-working, since

1. I believe that working with other people (especially if one works with always new people and not always with the same group) helps one becoming aware of one's implicit presuppositions
2. working with other people allows me to achieve more ambitious goals (in my case, an example are the volumes on the Reuse of texts in Classical Indian philosophy I edited for the Journal of Indian Philosophy---I would not have been able to achieve that target alone, since I lack the relevant expertise in many fields of Indian philoosophy)
3. working with other people is more fun, and fun motivates one whenever one is stuck in a difficult situation

This being said, however, working with other people is also difficult ---so much that serious workers often end up thinking that "it would have been easier to do all on my own!" (if you have been working with other people and this thought never occurred to you, you are either a saint, or an excellent co-worker with excellent co-workers… or you are the one everyone is complaining about:-)). In this post, I want to explore the possibility of working with other people with mutual satisfaction. There must be a way, if we do not want only saints to co-work.

1. Speak openly about your expectations
In my case, in one case I discovered half-way that my co-editors did not think it necessary to read, correct, send to the authors, re-read, re-correct, re-send to the authors… all the articles of a volume we were editing together. For me, the opposite was so obvious that I did not even deem it necessary to say it explicitly ---now I do.
2. Speak openly about your editorial choices
You will not anticipate how much time you will save if you decide to spend some time arguing about whether to use the Chicago or the Oxford Manual of Style before starting to write or edit articles. Also, decide whether you expect the book/article/… to have sections, numberings and the like.
3. Speak openly about what you want to do yourself
I am a big fan of delegation since I want to focus on more substantial issues than the position of footnotes. Thus, it makes sense for me to discuss well in advance about how much money we can invest in outsourcing proof-reading or the like.
4. Speak openly about the time (and money, about which see above) you want to invest in the project
5. Speak openly about realistic deadlines
6. Speak openly about your rules
For instance: Will any contribution to your edited volume be discussed by all co-editors? Will any comment to the author be previously read by all co-editors? If so, will all co-editors have the time to respond swiftly?

Do you have further suggestions? What works for you? For a fuller discussion of some of these issues, see this post.

Why I blog

By Helen De Cruz

Thank you to Marcus Arvan for raising the question why not more early-career philosophers blog. In fact, across the board most philosophers do not blog, and I'm not sure whether early-career philosophers are underrepresented. Still, the question remains why so few philosophers are bloggers. As some of the readers might know, I like to blog, and I think it can be part of an effective way to engage with philosophers outside of the normal routes. 

The importance of proofreading

"The academic monograph is dead! The days of small university presses are numbered!" This is a common refrain among analysts of academic publishing in the digital age -- sometimes proclaimed with glee (especially by those technology enthusiasts who would like to see websites and digital databases take the place of the academic monograph), but more often in the form of a lament over the decline of publishing. And yet, monographs still play an important role -- not only for individual career paths (especially in disciplines where "having a monograph" is seen as essential for promotion to more senior positions), but also as major contributions to scholarship.

I count myself among those who think that monographs are of singular importance to philosophy and cannot easily be replaced by journal articles. Not every important philosophical idea needs to be turned into a monograph, obviously, and though I don't mind it if monographs include published material, I do feel cheated when a "monograph" I've bought turns out to consist solely of superficially rewritten journal articles (just call it a collection of published essays, then!). Which brings me to another confession: I regularly buy (and read) monographs, sometimes (gasp!) even the pricey hardcover editions.

However, on more than one occasion, I've been disappointed by the books I've bought -- including some of those I've been most looking forward to, written by colleagues whom I respect and even admire. I don't mean the philosophical content of the books in question -- which, on occasion, has been groundbreaking -- but by the simple fact that these books were riddled with typos, missing footnotes, incomplete references etc. -- Whether it is because of rushed deadlines (which I've discussed here) or because of misplaced trust that the publisher would take care of it, I don't know -- what I do know is that no one could possibly have proofread the galleys without spotting at least the more glaring typos.

Which is why I am imploring authors -- established scholars and those planning their first book -- to make sure to proofread their manuscripts/galleys before they get sent to the printers. Don't rely solely on the publisher to do this -- many of them have outsourced typesetting (which sometimes introduces typos, as I'll discuss in a future post).

For my recent book A Critical Introduction to Testimony (which, if I'm permitted to plug the book a little, is the first comprehensive survey of the epistemology of testimony since Coady's 1992 book; for a longish essay review click here), I was lucky enough to have research funds that allowed me to hire two fantastic student assistants who helped with the proofreading and indexing. Even so, I went through three rounds of proofreading myself -- and asked the publisher to prepare an additional set of proofs, just to make sure all the corrections had made it into the final product.

Even in the final round of proofreading, I still found a sentence that said "testimony" where it should have said "evidence" (thereby rendering the sentence tautological), and, in spite of my best efforts, I imagine there are still some typos hidden somewhere in the 264 pages... (If you, or one of your students -- yes, the book is eminently suitable as a class text, thanks to study questions etc. ... ok, enough already -- spot any typos, do let me know as the publisher informs me the book is selling reasonably well, so there may be a second edition.)

In a recent post, Marcus discusses the process of writing a book proposal and pitching it to different publishers. As he notes, writing a book is a massive commitment of time and resources, and few authors would be comfortable with publishing a book that no one reads. However, in this day and age, buying and reading an academic monograph also constitutes a non-negligible commitment of time and resources on the part of the reader (just look at the average price of a Routledge or OUP hardcover!), and no author should be comfortable with publishing a book that is riddled with typos, missing references, a useless index, or which unnecessarily tests the reader's patience in other ways.

So, when you write a book -- whether it's your first, or your twentieth -- do make sure to proofread it properly.

So, you want to edit a book? Or to participate in an edited collection? Read here first!

I have discussed here and here my analysis of authors as belonging to a continuum of which the two extremes are the category of "artists" (they want to impress with a great narrative, and see their writings as works of art) and that of "communicators" (they want to engage in discussion, and see their writings as open to modifications).

Now, I would like to add a few new insights derived from my recent work as editor (I am constantly editing or co-editing books ---currently I have four co-editorships going on):

• While reading the drafts sent to me, I invariably add post-its or the like with questions such as "What do you mean by that?" or "Do you mean to say that x?" More often than one would expect, I get an answer from the author in the same post-it and directed to me alone. However, as an author I think you should focus on the fact that hardly anyone will read your article as carefully as the book editor. Thus, if she or he does not understand something, this means that you have not been clear enough and that you have to clarify.




• Since I am a communicator much more than an artist, and a syntetic much more than an analytic person, I am not particularly annoyed by typos, imprecise bibliographies and the like. Nonetheless, after I have commented upon the first draft and told the author about such problems, I expect them to take care of these flaws. They can decide to either spend time (e.g., by looking carefully through their article, checking grammars and dictionaries and the like) or money (e.g., by paying an English native speaker and/or a proofreader) on their articles, but I think it would be unfair from them to expect me to do it (in case you are wondering: I regularly have my articles checked by an English proofreader).

Last, a warning (in case you want to work with engaged editors like me):

• I find collections with no specific purpose useless and slightly annoying (because one never knows what one will find in them) and I take my job as editor extremely seriously. Thus, I expect the authors and co-editors working with me to work on shared enterprise (and not just to deliver their article as if it was a parcel). If you are not ready to re-think your article along with your editor, send it to a journal and not to an edited collection. But, let me add that almost all the authors who have worked with me in the past have hated me (like any other editor, I suppose) during the process and thanked me a lot afterwards, since articles are incredibly improved while going through this process.

What are your insights as editor and author?

If you are editing a book, you might also be interested in this post (on what one can delegate while editing a book or article, sorry for some Indian-specific items).
Cross-posted, with minor modifications, on my personal blog.

A non-funded project on deontic logic ---And some general notes on peer-reviewing projects

I have already written about the importance of writing project applications for European scholars. For people who do not have a tenure (i.e., the very vast majority of scholars and the almost-totality of scholars under 40), projects are the only way to get their research financed, since it is very difficult or almost impossible to survive out of teaching alone. Recently, a personal experience made me reflect on the ethics of peer-reviewing research projects. At least in part, my reflections harmonise with the ones Marcus, Moti and others have spelt out, on this and other platforms, concerning peer-reviewing articles on journals. Nonetheless, I would be glad to read your opinion on this specific issue (if you think that it lies far away from you, consider the fact that you might be asked to be a peer-reviewer earlier than you think).

Some months ago, departing from Decemeber 2013, I started working on a fascinating project, the formalisation of the deontic logic of some Mīmāṃsā authors (Kumārila, Prabhākara and Maṇḍana). Given that I am not an expert on formal logic, the project has been conceived together with some colleagues working on formal logic and on the IT tools for automating it. After some preliminary work, we submitted a project within the "Mathematics and…" call of the WWTF. The other principal investigator was Agata Ciabattoni and the other collaborators were Björn Lellmann and Ekaterina Lebedeva. Agata and Björn would have been working with me on selecting the logical rules from the relevant Sanskrit texts, translating them in formal logical language and developing automated deduction methods to reason about them.
Ekaterina, as a linguist and an expert of the intersection of language and logic, would have taken care of the fact that our translations of Sanskrit passages into logical rules did not entail logical ambiguities.

Unfortunately, however, the project has not been funded. I read the four reports, and they all sound positive, so that it is difficult to imagine what we could do better in order to improve our chances by the time of a resubmission. This is a pity and made me consider various other failed projects of colleagues and friends. It seems that there are two types of failures:

1. justified failure: The peer-reviewers give pertinent reasons for which the project is not worthy of being funded.


2. unjustified failure: The reports are entirely positive, or at most contain suggestions for further improvement. Nonetheless, the jury of the funds decides not to fund it.

Strangely enough, it seems that 2) is much more common than 1). In my case, I received a motivated refusal only once, and even then, the refusal was not motivated through scientific reasons, but rather through the fact that I was asking for more money than the university could have wanted to invest (it was a FIRB project in Italy, about the critical edition and study of Nyāyamañjarī 5). In another case (again a FIRB in Italy), the project has not been funded and this was the general comment:

By investigating the work of Jayanta Bhatta from a linguistic point of view, the research project aims to make Indian philosophy available to Western scholars. Topic and methodology are very well thought through. The scientific profile of the research group is outstanding.

The following is an extract of the comments received by a friend on a project which has also not been funded. I have omitted names and titles and further identification marks, but nothing else:

The stand-alone project entitled [om.] submitted by Dr. [om.] appears sound and promising. The applicant proposes to prepare a critical edition with an English translation of the Commentary [om.]. Dr. [om.]'s critical edition of [om.] together with an English transaltion will definitely fill up a long-standing gap in the Indological studies and in philosophy of language, It will be a powerful resource for future research. [om.] The applicant has spelt out the goals and subgoals of his research very clearly. The time line that he has given is pragmatic and the project executable within the proposed time-frame. He has chosen a very competent researcher as his project assistant [om.]. National and international collaborators in the project are all very eminent scholars, in fact stalwarts in the area. I am very hopeful that the project as outlined will make significant contributions to the field. The proposed project lies in the interface area of Indology, Sanskrit Grammar, Philosophy of Language and Metaphysics and has an inter-disciplinary flavour to it.

However, on the last page, under the heading "Suggestions" ---suggested by the jury and not added by the peer-reviewer---, the same peer-reviewer writes:

As the applicant needs to collect material from libraries in India too, he should also try and interact with the established [om.] scholars in India.

This sounds like a genuine suggestion, but has become the reason for rejecting the project.

In the case of deontic logic, the motivation for the refusal was that the project was "very appealing but also very ambitious". The four reports, as I said, are in fact positive or vey positive, although one of them contains indeed the adjective "ambitious" as an answer to the heading "What are the strenghts and weaknesses of the project?" ---the heading is part of the jury's document and had not added by the peer-reviewer:

Strenghts: Even if partly succesful, the project will make a strong contribution to mathematical logic, computational logic and Indology. Truly interdisciplinary, strong feedback between mathematical technology and the application.
Weaknesses: Perhaps a bit too ambitious.

I do not want this to be a rant, but a general reflection. It seems that, given the general economic difficulties, juries are only looking for excuses for letting down projects. Thus, I wonder:
It seems to me that if you care about the project you are peer-reviewing to be funded, then you should just avoid all suggestions. This sounds paradoxical and sad, since one indeed wants to help a project by adding insightful comments. I, as one, cannot remain silent on anything and surely not on something I care for. Nonetheless, it seems that adding comments or suggestions is easily read as a reservation and this is consequently used as the best excuse to let down at least one further project ---given that there are anyway too many good projects to fund them all.

What are your experiences? Which judgements did you receive or write?
Cross-posted, with some changes, on my personal blog

Ought one not respond to bad papers?

In my second year of grad school, I audited a course on Davidson. In reading one recent paper on Davidson’s triangulation argument, the entire class agreed that this individual had CLEARLY misinterpreted Davidson, and that this paper was an all-around bad. I asked the prof if she would write a reply, since she was (and is) working on Davidson’s triangulation argument. She replied that a paper’s being mistaken and one’s having good objections is not sufficient motivation for writing a reply to a paper. Her reasoning was something like this: I only have a limited amount of time and energy to put together papers, and if I reply to bad papers, I won’t have time to focus on the papers that are good. It’s better to focus on quality papers than crappy papers. So, in general, one ought not spend time replying to crappy papers. Furthermore, replying to a paper indicates that it is worth the energy of a reply.

What do you all think? If this is right, what do you do with these papers? Do you just ignore them? When it is appropriate to ignore a paper? Ought we also not cite such papers?

 

Dissertations that became books

I recently picked up Walter Sinnott-Armstrong's Moral Dilemmas (Blackwell, 1988), which developed from his doctoral dissertation. Having written a serviceable but undistinguished dissertation myself—one that would be wholly unsuitable for publication as a book—I'm always impressed by people whose dissertations are good enough to publish.

It occurred to me that it might be a useful exercise for graduate students, in thinking about their dissertation topic, to look at some books that were based on the author's dissertation. Even better would be to compare those books to the literature on that same topic from the five to ten years prior to the book's publication. The point is not necssarily to learn how to write a book-worthy dissertation, but to see how to write a dissertation that makes a really good contribution to the literature. (Since the book will probably differ from the dissertation, it might be worth getting the dissertation from ProQuest if you're really interested.)

One obvious problem in doing this is finding books that are based on dissertations. Sinnott-Armstrong's Moral Dilemmas is one. Peter van Inwagen's Essay on Free Will is another, though fourteen years elapsed between his finishing his PhD and the publication of the book. What other books were based on the author's dissertation?

Reflecting on the MA Thesis: Some Interesting Data

Last semester, I defended my Master's Thesis. While writing it, I tallied the daily hours I put toward the project in a Google Document. I'll get to the data analysis momentarily, but first, a little background is in order.

I began serious work on the MA Thesis in Spring 2013 (though I had toyed around with ideas in the latter half of 2012). Initially, I approached the project in the way that seems most common: I tried to work on the thesis for a short amount of time nearly every day. This approach to getting things done has been discussed here before, although my familiarity with that strategy originates with  Stephen King's endorsement of that strategy in his On Writing. This strategy did not work well for me; I found it very hard to make meaningful progress in short intervals and was frequently discouraged by my inability to meet daily goals. I tried setting goals based on word count (1000 words per day), page count (3 pages per day), and even just time (2 hours per day), but these changes didn't make a detectable change to my output or my ability to meet the specified goals. While I made some progress on the thesis that spring, it was neither the quantity nor quality that I had hoped for: much of it got scrapped over the summer.

When I resumed work on the thesis in August, I adopted a new strategy: a weekly hour count with no daily requirements and no specific page- or word-related goals. Though I adjusted my weekly target on a few occassions (e.g., when the thesis was under review by my committee), I generally aimed for 12 hours per week. I saw a drastic improvement in results compared to the previous semester. My thesis turned out to be about 35,000 words (including footnotes and references); almost 30,000 of them were written in an 11-week stretch. (It may also be worth noting that I was taking two graduate seminars during this timeframe: writing a thesis in my PhD program is optional, and I did not want to slow down my time to degree.) While there are probably several factors that explain why the writing process went better in the Fall than the Spring, these details suggest that one of them was the change in how I approached the writing process. 

But the hour tally reveals more than just this general observation. You can view the tally at this link. Here are some of the details that stood out to me:

1. I routinely fell short of my weekly target and fell 22.5 hours short of my total target. I took a few weeks off from thesis work during the semester, but there were 13 weeks with definitive targets. I only met those targets 6 times. What's interesting is that I still got the project done in the desired timeframe. Perhaps 12 hours per week was an unnecessarily ambitious target.
2. Of the 114 days that I charted, there were 65 days where I did NO work on the thesis. That's right: a 0 shows up on the grid 65 times. When you crunch the numbers, that means that on average, I only worked on the thesis 3 days a week during this stretch. I suspect this is the most important piece of data because it suggests that I do not work best by trying to chip away at a project on a daily basis. Rather, it seems I needed large blocks of time (evidently of 3-7 hours) during which I could fully engage with the thesis.
3. I did very little thesis work on Mondays and Tuesdays but worked a ton on weekends. I only worked on the thesis for 15.75 hours (12.5% of total hours) on Mondays and Tuesdays, but I worked on it for 62.75 hours (50% of total hours) on weekends. My suspicion is that this is partly explained by point #2, since large blocks of uninterrupted time are more likely to crop up on weekends. But here's the interesting part: my schedule on Mondays and Tuesdays was actually much lighter than it was on the other three weekdays. I held office hours during the middle of the week, Thursday featured a 3-hour night seminar, and Fridays are the usual day that the department hosts guest speakers or holds other events. So why were my Mondays and Tuesdays so unproductive? There are a number of possible explanations, but my suspicion is that  these days functioned as recovery days. After working on the thesis for 7-10 hours on the weekend (which happened several times), perhaps I just needed a couple days away from it.

I was deeply surprised at these results, since I've been told so often that working daily in small increments is the recipe for writing success. But it's hard to ignore the data.

After I defended the thesis, I shared these observations with two of my committee members. One of them expressed a need to follow a similar approach when writing his own original work; he found that the daily, bit-by-bit approach worked well for him only when the work he was doing did not involve a lot of his own original input (e.g.,  when he was editing an anthology). Another committee member said that he had to chip away at his writing on a daily basis -- no matter what the particular project was -- and that his attempts at trying other approaches in the past had all failed.

What's the moral of this story? It's hard to infer a ton from one person's examination of a single project, but I suspect there may not be any general one-size-fits-all approach to writing philosophy. Perhaps the only way for us to learn what writing strategy works best for us is to experiment and monitor our progress. I'll certainly be recording my progress again when I get to the dissertation, and I encourage others to give it a try. What you learn about your work habits might surprise you.

The Kelleher Method for getting feedback on your papers

Ethicist Paul Kelleher explains a nice method for getting feedback on your papers: 

1. Write draft. 2. Convert to a 30 min talk. 3. Get some philosophy pals to hear talk via Google hangout. 4. 30 min q&a. 5. Better paper!

— Paul Kelleher (@kelleher_) December 5, 2013

Not only does this strike me as a nice idea—provided you can get several philosopher friends to be in the same virtual place at the same time—but it also strikes me as the best use I've seen of Google hangouts. Now if only you could somehow buy everyone pizza and beer for their participation....

Self-citation, self-promotion?

Via Feminist Philosophers and The Economist, I just learned of a recent study on gender and citations in political science. In political science, the study finds, women's papers tend to be cited less often than men's papers are, even "after controlling for a large number of variables including year of publication, venue of publication, substantive focus, theoretical perspective, methodology, tenure status, and institutional affiliation." The average paper in the study garnered 35 citations, but papers authored by men averaged five more citations than those authored by women. The study's authors suggest that this "is likely because (1) women tend to cite themselves less than men, and (2) men (who make up a disproportionate share of IR [international relations] scholars) tend to cite men more than women."

One of the study's authors—and the only woman of the three—reports some anecdotal evidence to The Economist that "women see self-citation as a form of self-promotion, and thus look down on it. Men see it the same way, but draw different conclusions."

I've cited myself in a few papers, and I have felt a little bit weird about it. Self-promotion (even in a purely descriptive, non-pejorative sense) does make me somewhat uncomfortable, though I think it is sometimes valuable to me and to others. But in the end, I chose to cite my previous work because it was relevant. The papers in which I cite my earlier work tend to be extensions on that earlier work. I don't want to repeat everything I said earlier—a form of self-plagiarism, in a sense—so I simply point the reader to my other papers.

Do you (or would you) cite yourself? Is it a form of self-promotion? If so, (when) is it an objectionable form of self-promotion?