This is a joint post from Steve Heard and Carly Ziter.
A few weeks ago, Carly contributed a guest post on editing* as an act of caring. This got the two of us thinking and talking about editing – and actually doing it too, because Steve couldn’t resist taking his red pen to Carly’s draft. Carly made the point that while editing may look like a wall-of-Track-Changes-red act of correction, it’s also an important act of caring – and this isn’t always immediately obvious, especially to early-career folk. But there’s something else editing is too, and it’s perhaps equally unobvious to some. Editing, when done and received well, is a conversation.
One reason it’s easy to feel crushed by the wall-of-Track-Changes-red is that it can feel like rejection of everything you wrote – and like a series of non-negotiable edicts.** Change this. Write it this way. Don’t say that. Continue reading
A colleague recently mentioned being astonished to receive eight different peer reviews, on a single manuscript in a single round of reviews at a single journal.* Wasn’t this too many, he asked? And how could it happen?
Well, I’m here to serve. Yes, eight is too many. As for “how could it happen”: that’s a bit more complicated, but I’ll give you a plausible guess. Continue reading
This is a guest post from Carly Ziter – liberally red-penned by Steve, who couldn’t agree more!
As a PhD student, I’d often arrive at my office (characteristically, late in the morning) to find a marked up manuscript waiting on my desk chair. My advisor preferred to comment in hard copy, you see. The comments were typically in bright red ink, often plentiful (and then some!), and included comments in shorthand – a lost art to me and to my millennial lab-mates.
As grad students do, we shared stories (and a few laughs, and a few complaints) about these comments over the years. One unnamed lab-mate had trouble reading the cursive – now becoming another lost art – and only admitted 4 years into their PhD that they’d secretly relied on a since-graduated colleague to decipher the comments. Another lab-mate came across an online key for shorthand symbols just months before graduating, throwing years of comments into much sharper relief.
While we may have joked about our mentor’s (excellent!) feedback, all of us shared one sentiment. Continue reading
I make pizza dough often, and I discovered recently that my pizza has lessons to teach about epistemology, reproducibility, and our practices in scientific writing. That seems like a big load for some pizza dough to carry, so let me explain. Continue reading
Warning: mostly trivial.
I have several friends who are ready to die on the hill that’s the plurality of “data”. Writing “the data suggests” or “the data is strong”, for these folks, isn’t just wrong: it’s a crime against the sanctity of the English language, and a grievous insult to right-thinking scholars everywhere. And for some reason (probably because they know I wrote a book about writing), these particular friends turn to me for backup. But here’s the thing: once, I was on their side; but I’ve thrown in the towel. Continue reading
Writing is hard, and over the years I’ve developed a bunch of tricks that make it a bit easier for me. Some are weird, some are complicated, and some are idiosyncratic enough that they probably work only for me. But if I had to pick one trick that could work for just about anyone, I’d pick one that might seem too simple and too obvious to be worth mentioning. It isn’t, though. It’s this: pay attention to the topic sentence.
Wait! Don’t click away just yet. Yes, you learned about topic sentences in high school (so did I). Continue reading
Image: “It was a dark and stormy night…”, from Edward George Bulwer-Lytton’s novel Paul Clifford (1830). Check out similarly wretched prose at the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest.
I’ve been prepping recently for two different writing workshops: one on my home campus, and another half-way across the continent at the University of Wyoming. A funny thing happens when you write a book about scientific writing: people infer from that authorship that you know things about writing, and even that you’re good at it. I’ve come to accept the first half of that, although not the second.
I’m certainly a better writer than I once was. (Writing The Scientist’s Guide to Writing helped me improve quite a bit; I can only hope that reading it has a similarly salubrious effect.) There’s nothing unusual about my improvement: all of us learn to write better as we practice the craft. And that means we get to look back and cringe at the offenses we’ve committed in the past. Continue reading