Collaborative writing

This post is reposted with permission from PhD2Published.com

Posted by Peter Tennant

I once showed my brother one of my papers.

"Why is it written in such a dull and lifeless style?"

"Oh, that’s the editor’s fault. It read much better when I submitted it."

Neither of us was convinced.

There’s no shame in being a scientist who can’t write. Science is fairly well populated by people with exceptional skills in the most extraordinary areas, but who can’t write for toffee. Then again, even the best communicator would struggle writing a scientific paper. Because scientific papers are almost always written in teams.

"Piled Higher and Deeper" by Jorge Cham

This is fairly sensible, given most scientific studies are performed in teams, but there are also some serious advantages. For a start it allows contribution from people with a range of skills. Having medical co-authors means my papers can discuss the clinical significance without risking a life-threatening blunder. It also means you’ve got plenty of people to celebrate with when the paper gets accepted. And, it gives you someone else to blame if anyone ever calls your paper, 'dull and lifeless'.

But, did I mention, it’s also very challenging? As the lead author (most commonly the first name on the authorship list, though not for all disciplines), the main challenge is to your sanity. As long as it might take crafting the first draft, this is nothing compared with the time spent sending it back and forth to your co-authors for more and more comments. It’s this process that I think produces that instantly recognisable multi-author style (the one my brother kindly referred to as ‘dull and lifeless’). Like washing a colourful shirt a hundred times. This is why (against the advice of senior authors like Martin White and Jean Adams, see bullet point 3) I rarely waste time overcooking my first drafts. There’s simply no point spending days writing a stunning introductory paragraph, only for it to be completely mauled by your co-authors.

Broadly speaking, co-authors come in one of three factory settings; the Rampant Re-writers, the Sweeping Suggestion-Makers, and the Utterly Useless.

The Rampant Re-writers get the most flack. These are the people who so heavily drench your draft in tracked-changes that, by the end, it stops feeling like your paper. Draining as this can be, these co-authors are actually the nice ones, generously spending their time to improve the paper. Until they start changing bits that everyone’s already agreed on. That’s when they get really annoying. And when it’s especially important to remember the Golden Rule of Rampant Re-writers: edits are only suggestions – as the lead author, you should always have the final say.

Next there are the Sweeping Suggestion-Makers. Wielding the deadly comment box, they add things like, 'this bit needs shortening' or 'I think you should add something about X'. Sometimes I’m tempted to send it back and say, 'I think YOU should add something about X if YOU think it’s so important!' But they’re usually too busy. And they’re usually right. Damn them with their helpful comments.

By far the most harmful authors are the Utterly Useless. The ones who don’t reply to emails, or who get back saying vague things like, 'looks great'. In the absence of praise from your other authors (sadly the academic for, 'this is amazing, fantastic work' is often simply, 'no further comments'), these people can seem like your friends, but they’re not. They’re useless. That’s why I call them Utterly Useless. In fact, these authors are the ones that can cause genuine ethical dilemmas. Do they even satisfy the conditions of authorship? Occasionally a senior academic will insist on being an author due to some historical connection with the study, even if they then add nothing to the paper. This is unethical. But not something that the average PhD student is in a position to do anything about. More pertinent is the risk of being pushed down the author order, despite doing the most work. It’s common throughout the history of science. It’s also morally repugnant. Always try to discuss the authorship list and the author-order before starting writing a paper and this risk can be reduced (though, sadly, not eliminated).

If being the lead/first author is most difficult, it’s not necessarily easy being a support author, where the big challenge is in getting the right balance of comments. Despite years of therapy, I still fall firmly into the Rampant Re-writer category. On more than one occasion, I’ve made the first author cry by overdoing the edits. Some support authors try to soften the blow by spreading their edits over several revisions, e.g. making the 'essential' changes first, then the less major changes later. But I’ve experienced this as a first author and actually found it more depressing! It’s like getting to the end of a marathon, only to be told to run another five miles. Short of making them cry, over-editing might still annoy your co-authors, especially if they are senior. For some reason, Professors don’t always react very well to having their words rewritten by a PhD student. So here’s my advice, try and get all your comments in first time, but make sure they are all essential. If in doubt, leave it out. Unless you’re happy making your colleagues cry.

Things I’ve learnt from being on a funding board

Posted by Jean Adams

A few years ago I was invited to join a research funding board. I said yes, because: I was flattered to be joining the esteemed ranks of ‘important’ people on such committees; I thought it would look good on my CV; and everyone says you learn a lot about writing grant applications from being on a funding board.

So, in the best tradition of reflexive practice, I thought it might be time to try and work out exactly what it is I have learnt from the experience. These are just some initial reflections and I think they’re probably fairly specific to the committee that I am on. Whatever else you think, do not think that this is a set of rules for winning research funding. I am nowhere near confident enough in my own grant winning ability to start offering anyone else advice.

First, an outline of the process. There are 17 members of the committee, including three ‘lay’ members. All applications go through an initial screening process where a sub-committee of three members confirm the application is in scope. At the full board, each application (which contains around 50-60 pages of application form, references, reviewers’ comments, budgets etc) is assigned a lead and second academic assessor, and a lay assessor. The lead academic assessor summarises the application to the rest of the committee, summing up both strengths and weaknesses. The second and lay assessors are then invited to add any additional comments before opening up the discussion to the full membership. Each application gets 15 minutes and once the lead, second and lay assessors have done their bits, this means around 5-7mins of actual discussion. We deal with anything between four and 16 applications per meeting.

Being a member of this board takes up a lot of time. I started out trying to read all applications in detail prior to each meeting. Then I noticed that other committee members didn’t seem to be doing this, and that it was taking me up to two days per meeting. Increasingly, I find that I don’t have time to read each application fully, so I concentrate on the applications I’m lead or second for and skim the others. This means that perhaps only four people (lead, second and lay assessors, and chair) have a really good knowledge of each application. It seems inevitable that some good applications will get rejected, and some not so good ones funded, just because of how these four individuals respond to them.

I find the meetings pretty scary. To begin with I found it absolutely terrifying having to present my critique of applications to a room full of my elders and betters. Now I’m used to that, but am still not immune to the late nights, Sunday afternoons, commitment, and life-compromise that has gone into preparing every application. Often I find it scary how quickly we deal with them. I worry that we don’t treat the applications we receive as we would want our applications to be treated. But, realistically, how could we do it better? The process has to be manageable. We can’t let each meeting turn into a three-day critical appraisal marathon.

The committee know the guidance that applies to our funding scheme pretty well. I am always surprised that applicants don’t read, don’t act on, or somehow don't think this guidance applies to them. It is all fairly standard stuff on the difference between a pilot study and a full trial; the sort of inter-disciplinary working we expect; and the level of patient and public involvement required. Why would people think that it somehow isn’t relevant to them?

Reviewers’ comments rarely make or break an application. I was pretty surprised by this, because when you’re writing, and re-writing, a grant “what the reviewers will think” seems to be a key determinant of what goes in. Maybe I mis-interpreted “reviewers” too literally and what is meant is just “the people who will make the decision”. But, really, we read the applications and make our own decisions then see if the reviewers picked up anything important that we missed. The reviews are often pretty superficial, so we don’t always expect to find much additional information there. The confusion might be that the applicants are fed back the reviews in full, but just a bullet-point summary of the committee's thoughts. So I guess it might feel that these are what matter the most.

And that might be it for what I've learnt. Does any of this surprise you? I’m not sure it will change the way I approach grant writing in the future. But it’s certainly an interesting experience and the hotel the meetings are held in does good cake.

Criticism is your friend. I mean it. Really.

Guest post from Emily Murray

Ah, criticism. It is the architecture of the scientific process. Manuscripts are written describing hypothesis of the way we think the world works. But before our hypothesis can be transmitted to the world, we must submit these little pieces of ourselves to others to rip to shreds.

After we’ve re-written the manuscript a few times until it vaguely resembles the work of art we created before, we must submit it to a whole new group of ‘criticizers’, aka reviewers.

Where they commence to rip it to shreds as well.

If we’re lucky, when writing this manuscript (and hopefully 10 others) we discover a hole in the literature. And some twisted part of our brain thinks it would be a fantastic idea to spend six months, weekends and evenings included, turning that ‘hole in the literature’ into a 100-page document of why you are the best researcher ever and will cure all of the world’s ills with this one research project, aka a ‘grant proposal’.

Where they won’t even bother to rip it to shreds. They will only tell you that it did not score high enough to be ripped to shreds.

As you may or may not be able to tell…I hate criticism.

During my student days, I used to loath the days I would receive feedback from my mentor; praying that at least one page wouldn’t be covered in red track changes. Sometimes I would have day dreams where papers were returned to me in their original black-and-white pristine condition with only a note on top saying, “This is fantastic! You must submit this to the Lancet at once!”

But then something happened. My dream came true! (Well, minus the Lancet comment.) I sent out a paper to co-authors and most were returned with nary a comment. I started to think that maybe all of those hours of writing and re-writing and re-re-writing were starting to pay off. Maybe something had clicked in my brain over the last fortnight to push me from a ‘so-so writer’ into a ‘fantastic writer’. Malcolm Gladwell, eat your heart out.

Well, you can guess what happened when I submitted the paper to a journal.

It was rejected. 

*cue copious weeping* 

But seriously, there was definitely a lesson here: Lots and lots of criticism and feedback from mentor and co-authors equaled acceptance. Little to no criticism from mentor and co-authors equaled rejection.

No, the lesson is not that I suck as a writer and should take up a profession in travel photography instead (although this does sound quite attractive in the middle of a second revise and resubmit).

What I drew from this is that sometimes *wait for it* criticism can be a good thing. That criticism is an opportunity in disguise. A way for others to point out the weaknesses in our work, not because they hate us or think our work is appalling, but because they want to help us make it better. Or at least that’s the way I like to think about it.

For those new to this way of thinking, I present both my ‘old’ and ‘present’ way of reacting to certain criticisms:

1. The Grammar Police have gone through my paper with a vengeance. Commas, active verbs, plurals, and future conditional tenses are apparently problems for me.

‘Old’ reaction: Obviously, all previous English Teachers were lacking. I suck.

‘Present’ reaction: Find colleague who is also ‘Grammar Police’ and bribe them to read all future papers.

2. “I don’t understand why you XXX…”

‘Old’ reaction: Obviously, my ability to express my thoughts in plain English is lacking. I suck.

‘Present’ reaction: Realize that I didn’t do a good job of explaining that section. Read it out loud to myself. Or have someone read the section who has never read it before. Like my mother. Oh wait, she has heard it like 50 times before…on to the next guinea pig… 

3. “Have you thought about this? Or tried this? What happens?” 

‘Old’ reaction: Great, there goes my weekend running all of this analysis over again. They suck.

‘Present’ reaction: Ah, I didn’t think of that. Doing this extra work will help me better understand the patterns in my data.

4. “… [no comments]”

‘Old’ reaction: I am a genius.

‘Present’ reaction: Hm, I need to find someone to read this who is willing to rip me to shreds. My paper will be much better for it.