As a graduate student, publishing was a relatively painless process
for me. I typically cleaned up a paper I wrote for a class and submitted it to
a decent journal in my field or to an online publication. I avoided the top
journals, recognizing that my papers were often glorified literature reviews. I
didn’t get nervous about sending anything in because the stakes were low. I had
no idea at the time that I was going to become an academic, so a rejection did
not much matter to me. In fact, I expected rejection on some level. When it
worked out, I was, naturally, thrilled. When it didn’t, I simply shrugged and
kept moving.
A few months ago, I found myself finished with graduate work and restless. I felt the need to do something--to fill the void left by my finished dissertation. Although I had been advised to set my dissertation aside, I
pulled out a chapter and started cutting and pasting pieces together. I rewrote
a few sections to ensure it was cohesive, but this was, I admit, largely a
recycle job. The result, I thought, was a decent paper. Certainly not
groundbreaking work, but it was a newer topic in the field. Unlike my class
papers, it actually featured data that I collected and analyzed. With this in
mind, I sent it in to a top journal.
In some ways, my approach to publishing this paper was
nothing new. It might be captured in the rhetorical question, “Why not?”
However, part of what compelled me to even open my dissertation was the desire
to begin a pipeline of publications as I entered my first year as an assistant
professor. Assuming that I would have little time to write in the coming
months, I figured I would have a few pieces under consideration before I even
started. This was a strategic decision, but it was not particularly thoughtful.
It was predicated on the idea that my dissertation work was ready for
publication. In reality, it needs a great deal more refinement. I succumbed to
the “publish or perish” mantra before even starting the job.
This week, I received word that my paper didn’t even make it
beyond the editorial review. I was shocked. While I had certainly experienced
rejection, I couldn’t believe that my paper was so bad that it wouldn’t be sent
to external reviewers. The email from the editor was polite and encouraged me
to consider other journals, but provided no other feedback. I immediately
opened my paper and re-read what I submitted. Using 20-20 hindsight lenses, I
noticed a few weaknesses, but was still somewhat perplexed. Was I aiming too high in submitting to a top journal? Is this topic now old news? Should I
simply get over myself and realize that rejection is part of the game?
I thanked the editor and shared the news with a few friends
and mentors. They told me that this happens to everyone. Some people don’t bat
an eyelash, tweak a few minor things, and quickly submit their rejected paper to another journal. Some
people ask colleagues to make suggestions, before trying again. My strategy is
to take some time to think more carefully about how to best transform my
dissertation from a 300-page graduation requirement into a true piece of
scholarship. In the meantime, nevertheless, the experience has sparked a fair
measure of reflection.
One of the ideas that I have repeatedly mulled over is that,
as a graduate student, I wrote with a certain degree of bravado. I was not
particularly worried about how the paper would be received by the sages of my
discipline because it only had to be good enough to pass a course. As a result
of this perhaps foolish air of invincibility, my writing was good. I went back and read a few old papers and was shocked by how
well the narrative flowed and how convincingly I presented arguments that I
wouldn’t dare vocalize today. There was an edge to my work--an edge that came with the liberty of writing without overthinking a topic or torturing each sentence. I came to
realize how vital that edge can be.
Einstein ardently
believed that individual liberty was the cornerstone of creativity. He
constantly rebelled against convention and noted that God’s punishment was to
make him an authority later in life. He was painfully aware of the fact that,
as he became more rooted in the comforts of being a celebrity academic, he
was less able to entertain new theories of physics. He lost some of his revolutionary spirit and he knew it.
Throughout the past week, I have not reached the conclusion
that my creativity has run dry. I’m certainly not an authority on much of
anything, nor do I regularly compare myself to Einstein. However, I have been reminded of how important it will be to protect
that sense of edge and not let the tenure monkey steer my thinking and writing.
If I publish simply to publish, I may not perish on the tenure track, but I certainly won't have much fun.
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