Scientific publications as a natural outcome of discovery (and privilege)
What do we tell ourselves about publishing?
I did my PhD from 1994-2000, on the Parnassus campus of University of California San Francisco. Like a visit to Haight-Ashbury, it was a wild ride: vivid, intense, disorienting. Being trained in that particular place, at that point in time, and with those specific people, shaped me as a scientist in ways I’m just beginning to unpack. As we start to discuss what we tell ourselves about publishing, my years in graduate school seem like a good place to start.
For all 6 years, I lived with my boyfriend (now husband, 👋 Greg) in a little rent-controlled apartment a mile west of campus. I typically commuted by bike (gotta squeeze all the lab work you can out of every day!), but every now and then I’d walk home along Irving Street in the late evening light, accompanied by the clanging of the N Judah streetcar and the evil sewer smell at Irving and 9th. I’d pass tightly packed storefronts, the fruit display outside the Irving Market, La Avenida where I lunched on enormous burritos with a “choice a beans”, Yancy’s Saloon where I enjoyed evenings around a sticky table with classmates, and Andronico’s where I’d spend my minuscule paycheck at the olive bar.
But, as I wandered home, I paid little attention to these questionable attractions of the Inner Sunset. I had a far more enticing thing on my mind: the Cell paper that I was about to publish, any day now, just around the corner, as soon as my experiments worked out, once I’d done the troubleshooting. I’d visualize my name at the front of the authorship list, the meticulous figures, the understated yet persuasive text. I could even smell this imaginary paper—at that point scientific journals were still mostly hard copy, and a new issue of Cell with its luxuriously thick, glossy paper had a characteristic and enviable scent. And I could practically hear the accolades rolling in from my classmates and the faculty.
Publication as a natural outcome of discovery
Embarrassing as it is to admit, I loved returning to these imaginary sights, smells, and sounds. Even though publishing my thesis work remained a dream until the very end of my graduate career (a common experience), and it was quite far from being in Cell (Molecular Biology of the Cell), I don't recall any anxiety associated with this fantasy. I was pretty sure it would come true, eventually.
Which sounds ridiculous. But I was at UCSF in the early 2000s and you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting the author of a recent Science, Nature, or Cell paper. In fact, Ira Herskowitz, beloved yeast researcher and one of the founding faculty of the department, impressed me greatly when I was interviewing there and he handed me a reprint of his student’s recent Cell paper, saying proudly, “this is the kind of thing students can accomplish here”.
So publishing in high impact journals was just in the air during my graduate training, and it kind of seemed like it would happen to me eventually. But what wasn’t in the air was much practical training in how to produce the kind of work that would be eligible for publication in Cell. In fact, the details were kept so vague that I had the feeling that it was a bit déclassé to discuss the logistics of publishing. Papers should take care of themselves if the science was thoughtful and complete enough.
An idealistic approach to research has its perks
In a lot of ways, this was a great way to “grow up” as a basic biologist. I was able to focus on the science, and only think about publication once the project was nearing completion. My day-to-day practical focus was entirely on the questions I found exciting, choosing or developing the right methodology to ask those questions, and interpreting the results of experiments.
I still love this—admittedly idealistic—approach to science. I knew what was exciting to me (back then, it was chromatin remodeling) and my advisor had given me a fantastic project. It kept me motivated by staying focused on the fun of research and contributing to a body of knowledge. And I didn’t really worry—at least not much— about getting a paper for career reasons.
The downsides
But, of course, this “research it and papers will come” approach had some major downsides.
First, I was really not prepared to think strategically or practically about projects or writing and submitting papers when I graduated, and I improved very little as a postdoc. I certainly had no idea how to help trainees organize their work or their writing. Not only did I lack these skills, I also had a badattitude. I’m embarrassed to recall my misguided disdain for those with more strategic approaches.
This lack of practical experience in project planning and writing really hurt my career. It’s only a privileged few who can afford to let projects land where they may, allow trainees to determine when things should be written up, and rise above any stalled, meandering, or low-impact projects. I needed to be more strategic, but it took me a while to get there—a long while.
Second, and far more importantly, this idealistic approach allowed me to mentally circumvent the real reason for publishing scientific work—to share one’s results with other scientists and with the world. I did not take seriously the unspoken agreement between researchers and society—that we will build and share knowledge in exchange for training and stipends and salaries. Instead, at least for a while, I was privileged to live in a kind of academic daydream, where good ideas and hard work are all you need to float through your career.
Next week: I start to listen to the siren call of “publication as scientific currency”.
Discussion Section
How did you approach publishing as a young student? Did your approach change over time?
What do you tell your PhD students as they navigate these questions?
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© 2023 Liz
548 Market Street PMB 72296, San Francisco, CA 94104
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I’m in the humanities, and so the publishing model is quite different. As a PhD student, there were papers that I tried and failed to publish. Looking back on them now, I’m glad that they never saw the light of day. As with you, it seemed to me like getting published in peer-reviewed journals was a kind of mystical process. Then I had to do it to get tenure, but after tenure it seemed quite boring. I came to realize that about six people *might* read the published essay. I found attending conferences and writing for myself much more fulfilling, and I still do. That’s why I started doing Substack.