56 Learning to write
“Publish or perish” is a familiar aphorism in academics, but it has two sides. The negative side describes the pressure academics face to flood the market with hastily written “minimal papers,” such that quantity appears favored over quality. The positive side is that it accurately describes a blunt reality of the academic reward system: anyone who fails to publish research findings will unlikely obtain future grants, graduate students, promotions, or raises.
Often overlooked in discussions of this aphorism is the undeniable fact that publishing is fundamental to academic progress. Specifically, research discoveries do not exist until the scientist who made the discovery has committed them to print and and made them accessible for review, criticism, and follow-up extensions. Personally, I benefit from the act of writing and publishing because in that process I inevitably learn more about my own research findings. For me, learning comes in part from explaining.
I’ve published over 200 papers (averaging not quite 4/year) over more than half a century. That is a respectable number, perhaps, but hardly pace-setting. Some of my [papers ] (https://scholar.google.com/citations?user=zWabxxsAAAAJ) are highly cited. Some were a kick to write.
My road to publishing began long before I became a working scientist. It started when I took classes in typing and in mechanical drawing at Hughes Junior High School (Long Beach, CA). I have spent an inordinate fraction of my life on a typewriter (or later on a keyboard) and drawing figures (first by hand, now on a computer). Those early classes provided a critical foundation for my career.
Eventually, I began writing papers, and I want to review the origins of my first two papers. Both were minor contributions to science but had major effects on me.
56.1 Paper number one
I spent the summer of 1967 on an expedition (sponsored by the Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, UC Berkeley) to coastal Peru (Chapter 13). Near the end of the field trip, we stopped in a northern Inter-Andean Valley and on the western slope of the Andes. We collected a striking iguanid lizard, Polychroides peruvianus at the first site. It was beautiful green and moved slowly and cautiously along tree branches. At the second site, I found a single Polychrus femoralis, which was also green and arboreal. Both species resembled true chameleons, and I kept one of each alive, intending to make notes on their behavior.
I flew back to Berkeley. Before driving to Austin, I showed off my two green lizards at the MVZ coffee break. I then started the long drive with my lizards in tow.
Shortly after arriving in Austin, I received a letter from George C. Gorman, who had recently earned a Ph.D. at Harvard with E. E. Williams. George was starting a Miller Postdoc in the Museum at Berkeley and arrived days after I had left for Austin. George wrote that he was sorry to have missed me and that he had heard about my two green iguanids. He wondered whether they might be Polychrus or Polychroides; if so, could he look at their chromosomes? In his thesis work, George found that Polychrus from Trinidad had a karyotype unlike any other iguanid. Earlier, Richard Etheridge suggested that Polychrus and Polychroides were close relatives and perhaps not even different genera. Karyotypes of my lizards might help resolve this suspicion.
Although George was just starting a postdoc, he was already famous. He had published key papers on the phylogenetic relationships of Caribbean Anolis lizards. I was surprised and delighted to receive his request and immediately mailed him the two green lizards.
A few months later, George wrote that both lizards had karyotypes similar to the one he had found for a Polychrus from Trinidad, supporting Etheridge’s suspicion that the two genera were not distinct and should be lumped (“synonymized”). He told me to write up any notes (field or laboratory) that I had for these lizards and to send them to him the next day. Thus “ordered,” I sat down, typed my notes, and sent them off pronto. My part was finished ‘before the shouting.’
A few months later, I received a stack of reprints of “Gorman, Huey, and Williams (1968).” My first paper! Biologically, it proved of interest only to a few herpers, but it had a big impact on my career for two reasons.
First, my contribution to the paper (other than the two lizards) was straightforward, as I had written field notes when I was in Peru. And holding a stack of reprints in my hand – in my first year of graduate school – was a treat! I thought, hey, this isn’t hard. I never experienced writer’s block simply because everything happened quickly and unexpectedly. In contrast, some fellow graduate students anguished long over their first paper. I was lucky (thanks, George!)
Second, E. E. Williams was a co-author (because he identified the two lizards). This co-authorship became important about a year later when I met George on a visit to Berkeley. George encouraged me to work with Williams, who supervised an exceptional group of students working mainly on Anolis lizards. I was hesitant as I did not consider myself as a Harvard type. But George – and later Ross Kiester, who was another Williams student – persuaded me to apply. [Note: when I told Ross I did not see myself as a Harvard type, he told me not to be concerned, as “there’re lots of hicks at Harvard.”] I did apply and was accepted. Granted, my academic record was hardly stellar, but how could Williams turn me down, given that we had already published a paper together?
[Note: A bizarre factor also helped my admission to Harvard. A member of the admissions committee told me that one of my letters of recommendation was negative, but that he had no respect for the letter writer. So, he took a negative letter as a strong positive sign for me. That was lucky.]
Thus, my first paper existed because luck compounded on luck. Although that paper has rarely been cited (only 19 times through August 2023), it defused any fear or block about writing and publishing. Lesson? Major professors should engage new students and co-author papers with them. Get them involved in the research and in writing the text. Then edit their contributions gently and constructively.
56.2 Paper number two
The following summer (1967), I was back in coastal Peru studying competitive relations of nocturnal geckos (Phyllodactylus). I worked in the Sechura Desert, which supported only three species of perennial plants even in a ‘lush’ area. While searching at night for geckos, I often saw one to six desert foxes (Lycalopex sechurae). During the day, I would see lots of fox scat scattered around the desert. Those foxes were abundant.
In the desert proper, I noted that fox scats consisted mainly of seeds. I was surprised, as I thought that foxes were mainly carnivores.
Later, I noticed that scats near the ocean often contained fish bones, crabs, as well as seeds. I suspected that the foxes scavenged along the beach and supplemented their seed diets with carrion washed onto the beach.
I began collecting scats and recording their contents. Both chores were easy, given the amount of scat. When I returned to the States, I found an old paper stating that foxes were carnivorous in the Peruvian foothills. I realized that these foxes appeared to shift their ‘trophic level’ in relation to environmental productivity. In the Peruvian foothills, where the vegetation was thick and productive, foxes were carnivores. Along the coast, where vegetation was sparse, foxes dropped down a trophic level and were mainly herbivorous and scavengers. In the desert proper, where shrubs were scattered, foxes were almost pure seed eaters (thus “primary consumers”).
Back in Austin, I began drafting a short paper describing how the diets of foxes shifted among habitats. I sent an initial draft to Carl Koford, who had led the expedition to the Peruvian coast the previous summer. He was a superb naturalist and an experienced writer. After reading and editing my draft, Carl returned it inside a large manila envelope. Inside was a smaller – and sealed – manila envelope with a letter scotch taped to the top.
Carl’s letter thanked me for sending the ms. and said it was interesting and publishable, but that it first needed editing, even though he’d already done extensive editing. He told me not to open the internal envelope but instead to walk to the university bookstore, buy a copy of “Strunk and White,” read that little book, and then and only then open the inner envelope.
Of course, I opened the inner envelope immediately. The manuscript I found inside bore little resemblance to the one I mailed to Carl. He had cut up my typescript, trashed much, moved sentences and paragraphs around, and taped them to a blank page. He added handwritten notes in the margin (“you have violated Strunk and White’s rule X”). This was a major cut-and-paste job. I was embarrassed but somehow appreciative.
Carl had generously given me a lesson on writing. He valued the art of clear and concise writing. By cutting, pasting, and deleting, and editing, he was showing me how to learn the craft.
Rather boldly, I sent my manuscript to Science. An Editor soon thanked me for submitting my paper, saying that it had been reviewed by two experts, who recommended that my paper be published ‘if there is space.’ A sentence or two later, I learned that there was ‘no space.’ But what a great rejection notice! I wish I saved that letter.
After reworking the paper, I sent it to Ecology, which accepted it with minor revisions. In retrospect, I learned another lesson about writing papers – this one about titles. I titled the paper “Winter diet of the Peruvian desert fox.” This title was accurate (I collected scat during the Peruvian winter) but dull. Perhaps as a result, only dedicated carnivore buffs have read this paper (32 citations through August 2023). I wish I had titled it something like “Trophic level shifts with productivity by the Peruvian desert fox .” That title should have attracted the attention of people studying food webs. Obvious lesson: select titles carefully.
56.3 On learning to write
Thanks to George, Carl, Eric Pianka, and many colleagues over the decades, I grew to enjoy writing and trying to craft paper that was interesting and clear. I am still learning, or at least I hope I still am. When unsure how to proceed, I reread George Bartholomew’s words or check Steve Arnold’s graphics. These are great guides.
In my second year of teaching, and later in my final years as a professor, I taught a graduate course on writing scientific papers. I graded that class as pass-fail: pass when the student submitted a paper to a journal, otherwise fail. Most students received an ‘incomplete’ simply because quarter-system classes are only ten weeks, which is insufficient time to complete and polish a manuscript. Everyone eventually passed. I enjoyed teaching this class more than any other I have taught. Students were motivated. So was I.
Writing papers has become vastly easier than when I was starting. The days of typing, erasing typos, hand-inking figures, and making carbon paper copies have mercifully passed. Moreover, computers readily check for grammatical, spelling, syntax, or stylistic errors; directly convert text from one language to another (a boon to those for whom English is not their native language); offer tailored stylistic advice; and even draft text.
Ultimately, writing and publishing is special case of networking – often with unexpected but positive benefits. If I had never sent a few pages of text to George Gorman, I would never have considered applying to Harvard. If I had never sent an early Kalahari manuscript to Peter Grant for a pre-submission review (see Chapter 17), I would never have been invited to symposium on character displacement (American Society of Zoologists) or likely have received a Miller Postdoctoral Fellowship.
George Bartholomew provides another lesson:
“Until its results have gone through the painful process of publication, preferably in a refereed journal of high standards, scientific research is just play. Publication is an indispensable part of science. “Publish or perish” is not an indictment of the system of academia; it is a partial prescription for creativity and innovation. Sustained and substantial publication favors creativity. Novelty of conception has a large component of unpredictability…
One is often a poor judge of the relative value of his own creative efforts. An artist’s ranking of his own works is rarely the same as that of critics or of history. Most scientists have had similar experiences. One’s supply of reprints for a pot-boiler is rapidly exhausted, while a major monograph that is one’s pride and joy goes unnoticed. The strategy of choice is to increase the odds favoring creativity by being productive.”Bartholomew, G. A. 1982. Scientific innovation and creativity: a zoologist’s point of view. Am Zool 22:227–235.