On (modest) Writer's Block

I am unsure what exactly precipitated writer's block last Summer. But I know what the circumstances were when it dawned upon me that the very idea of writing yet another journal article filled me with nausea; by which I mean that reflection on the pointlessness of the whole enterprise -- I would throw my heart and soul into papers that barely seem to attract more than two dozen (extremely capable to be sure) readers -- produced incapacitating disgust.  

Before I get to that some background: from the moment that I fully realized that I could not count on my degree to simply land a tenure track job (recall), I had habituated myself to have at least two to four articles under review at any given time (recall)--I treat journal publication as a number's game: that is, at any given time one can encounter idiot/hostile-referees, but if you produce professional, competent work on a regular basis then eventually some papers get accepted somewhere. In addition, at any given time I was working on five public talks, which would be the core ideas of a new paper. (To be sure: to atone for clogging the scholarly pipeline with my stuff, I almost never decline referee/tenure requests.) I also got lucky: scholarship in history of philosophy has gotten much easier since the days I started out; among many other benefits from the digital age, once obscure, hard to find work that would take months to track down can now easily be located and read in a manner of minutes online.

Once you get on a writing treadmill, and you are rewarded with research-friendly positions, staying on it is not as daunting as it sounds. My 'productivity' was helped by the fact that in finding my scholarly voice I had embarked on a revisionary agenda, covering much of the period between Spinoza and the early days of analytical philosophy; this agenda generates ongoing 'forced moves' to prevent certain predictable objections of and misunderstandings of my views. Along the way, research by others, including younger folk, inspires new directions for further developments. 

To avoid misunderstanding: it's not that I feel I am entitled to more readers. From a cosmic justice perspective, I have more than my fair share of readers. Every day I am awed by how many folk tune in to even these digressions--yes, I keep track. (As regular readers know, I am not into modesty.)

So, one day, while reflecting on the fate of a paper that I really like, which had been rejected by multiple journals despite a string of positive referee reports, I realized I had stopped submitting new work to journals some time ago and not because I had run out of ideas I am excited about. In fact, I saw that in my Dropbox files, there were at least half a dozen draft-papers that, with a bit of fine-tuning each, could be submitted to relatively good journals. My ordinary rationalizations (it's a number's game, etc.) merely generated revulsion and lethargy. As readers of this blog know, I did not stop writing to altogether. I also kept quite a few professional projects (editorial work, commissioned chapters, etc.) in motion; the block was not an act of professional suicide.

Now, when it comes to writing journal articles, I need uninturrupted stretches of time (that is 6 to 8 hours without other obligations). I spent most of my adult, proffessional life learning to guard those stretches carefully and fending off demands on my time on days devoted to writing. And suddenly I was allowing relatively unimportant stuff to displace these do-not-disturb-periods; my wife noticed, of course. To her I briefly described my writer's block as a mid-life-crisis. I wondered if I was relapsing into depression: I wrote a blog about that (recall; see also this draft of Peter Railton's Dewey lecture). After I posted that piece, I was touched by all the people that wrote me about their experience of depression. In reflecting on these letters (and conversations at conferences), I decided I was enjoying life, family, and success way too much to count as being depressed in the present. More surprising, perhaps, I was not bored with either other people's philosophy or my own. I still read widely and when given the chance, talked about it with gusto. I simply found the idea of getting started on yet another journal article irrational, an exercise in futility.* Moreover, it seems I perceived this before I was fully aware of it and actively started reflecting on it.

Now, it is undeniable that when you work in a grant environment (as I do) staying productive with journal articles is one of the key factors in professional success. Grants are central to professional survival. So, publishing journal articles is not pointless in an instrumental sense; they are one of the means to keeping one's 'research group' going. But while this can motivate, I write in order to be read and to be part of ongoing discussions (and sometimes generate new ones). And while I know that most of my work is to be read, if at all, by a sub-set of fellow specialists, I also write with the idea that other philosophers may also be excited by what I do.

Then, at the block's nadir, I started to wonder if it would make any difference if far larger communities were to debate my work. I decided it wouldn't because given that time is an extremely scarce resource, the attention to my articles would merely displace somebody else's lovely and lovingly researched work. I could see that the problem would not go away.

Now, unlike other forms of writer's block, I did not stop researching or writing altogether or stare at blank screens for hours on end. (I did spend, perhaps, too much time reading other people's facebook updates.) But it was a pretty significant stretch of block in so far as I even passed on very nice opportunties. For example, without alerting me in advance a former (more senior) co-author had written an extended advanced draft of a possible joint paper; it was very nice bit of work. All I needed to do was to edit it a bit, fill out some notes, and add a few comments. It was as pure a gift as one gets in professional life. I did nothing.

Yesterday, after reading a novel, and editing somebody else's handbook chapter, the block ended: I went into my Dropbox file, cleaned up (and anonymized) the notes to one of my papers and submitted it to journal. Absurdly, I can't explain what changed, if anything.

*I was, in fact, perfectly pleased to be working on revisions in the service of resubmits.

Comments

[Steven Vanden Broecke]

Interesting. I used to write because I enjoyed and cherished the closure it brings to an affair with something alien and mesmerizing. Now I primarily write because my employer finds it necessary to have between 2 and 6 (depending on where you publish) new papers out each year. Writing ceased being fun or wholesome at the exact moment when it became a moral obligation.