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Writing Your Journal Article in Twelve Weeks, Second Edition: A Guide to Academic Publishing Success (Chicago Guides to Writing, Editing, and Publishing)
ENDORSEMENTS “An Editor’s Guide to Writing and Publishing Science”
“Like the mythological Labyrinth, the contemporary world of scientific publishing can appear tortuous and even terrifying, particularly to the uninitiated. Fortunately, Michael Hochberg— respected population biologist, longtime editor of Ecology Letters, and latter-day Daedalus— knows this labyrinth inside and out. In his lively new book, Hochberg provides a unique and eminently readable guide to navigating every imaginable step of the process. This book will be useful both in easing the path of early career professionals through the publishing experience and in acquainting even experienced editors with the latest twists and turns in the business.”
May Berenbaum, Professor, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, and Editor in Chief of PNAS
“I’ve never seen a book on scientific writing like this. Of course, Hochberg covers how to write a title, an abstract, the methods, the results, a discussion section. But he also makes a deep dive into the workings of the journal publishing process. He teaches the reader how to navigate the rules and conventions—formal and informal, written and unwritten—that govern these institutions of scholarly communication.”
Carl Bergstrom, Professor, University of Washington, and co-author of forthcoming book Calling Bullshit
“A scientific publication, when it appears in a journal, is a product that tells very little about the process that led to its existence. Young scientists are lucky if they have someone to tell them what happens behind the scenes. The author of this book has extensive experience of what really happens in scientific publishing, and luckily for all of us, he is willing to lift the curtain for everyone to have a look.”
Hanna Kokko, Professor, University of Zurich, and author of Modelling for Field Biologists and Other Interesting People
“Michael Hochberg’s book is a perfect guide for authors, because he is acutely aware of what it means to be on either side of the current journal-based system by which research and researchers are evaluated. His book, however, is much more than that. It is also testament to an integrity in science that is no longer prioritized, precisely because of the perverse incentives created around where and not what you publish. Publishing is changing–and for the better. In a world where public trust in science is being increasingly eroded, this book is not just for scientists at every stage of their career but for anyone who values research and the dissemination of knowledge.”
Catriona MacCallum, Director of Open Science, Hindawi Ltd., and former Senior Editor of PLoS Biology
“Michael Hochberg is among the pre-eminent experts of scholarly publishing. His wisdom distilled into ‘An Editor’s Guide to Writing and Publishing Science’ will be invaluable for young scholars developing their science writing skills as well as for seasoned authors seeking to put a bounce into their next publications. This is a book for us all.”
Donald Strong, Professor, University of California, Davis, and Chief Editor of Ecology
An Editor’s Guide to Writing and Publishing Science
MICHAEL HOCHBERG
Illustrations by ALEX CAGAN
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DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198804789.001.0001
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To my family
Preface
I could have written this book in 2009. I had just stepped down as chief editor of Ecology Letters, after 11 years of editing, spending several hours at it every day, and doing time on weekends. Ecology Letters ELE—was my baby and, like any good parent, I wanted my child to grow and thrive. And that it did.
Starting in 1998 with 0 manuscripts, we gradually developed a following from ecologists dissatisfied with the usual delays in publishing. It took a few years to achieve our goal of 100 percent on-time publication decisions. Between 2001 and 2009, every single primary research paper submitted to Ecology Letters had a decision within 6 weeks. This promise branded the journal: “rapid publication of the most novel research.” Decisions in under 3 months were uncommon in the 1990s and our innovative approach led to more submissions, a greater ability to select for quality and novelty, a higher impact factor, more submissions, etc. We built a reputation.
Our success was all about motivating people to achieve objectives. As chief editor, I interacted regularly with authors, reviewers, editors and, of course, editorial office staff, but also with publishers and production teams. I considered it essential to learn from both successes and failures. The secret ingredient was to follow each and every manuscript—every day—through the assessment process. So simple! Using an adaptive protocol, we achieved the milestones and forestalled the problems.
We received plentiful kudos—often from unexpected places. Despite our high rejection rates (90 percent), we very rarely had complaints—indeed, many authors of rejected manuscripts actually thanked us for having evaluated their paper rapidly.
Publishing in Ecology Letters was a career-maker for many young researchers, who— before our journal—had no disciplinary high-profile alternatives to major journals like Science, Nature and PNAS. Other journals gradually viewed us as a model and improved their own services. When giving scientific seminars, I was always introduced as “the founding editor of Ecology Letters.”
I could have continued my service, but in 2008, after 11 years and having handled over 8000 manuscripts, I felt that had done my job and was ready to move on. And it’s a good thing I did.
I was able to maintain my scientific career during my tenure at Ecology Letters, and am indebted to many amazing collaborators. But now I was free from the daily responsibility of journal editing and this gave me an extra 20 hours a week to revitalize my research. Life with Ecology Letters gradually faded away, the only link being a yearly short course I gave on writing and publishing for PhD students at several European universities. Over the years of teaching, I saw how ill-prepared postgraduates were for scientific writing, and how perfectly clueless they were about the world of publishing.
I had to carefully think back to realize that I was just like them at the same career stage. In seeing the brightest students coming to my course largely helpless and leaving significantly able, I wondered if I could do more and for more people.
I decided to write this book.
About This Book
This book is a series of stand-alone chapters that take anywhere from 3 to 30 minutes to read. There are plentiful bridges between them. The reader is taken all the way from what she needs to know before even contemplating writing, to different phases of writing and its perfection. We then enter the world of journals and publishing before punctuating this with the submission, what to expect and how to react. Finally, I present several major challenges in publishing and opportunities in developing careers.
I wear three hats in writing this book.
I am first and foremost a scientist. I have written many papers with lots of people and for many journals. I ultimately learned to write science on the job, gradually honed my technique and—believe it or not—I still learn something new every time I write a paper. I don’t consider myself a great writer, but I am a good writer—I’m a professional writer. Importantly, my experience as both a scientist and an editor has given me a unique approach to teaching writing. Unique does not mean untested: there are certain inescapable foundations to scientific writing that are found in any teaching—and they are here in this book. But in learning to write science, I also want you, the reader, to understand what you are doing and why. This book equips you with what you need to know about writing—and it will all make sense.
I am also an editor and know a lot of things about scientific publishing. These things live in the world of journals: the craft of committed editors and editorial staff, brilliant scientists who try to convince you to publish their work and expert reviewers who dedicate their time to assessing manuscripts. There are also difficult and sometimes unpleasant things: tough publication decisions, incomplete information and delays, conscious or unconscious biases in manuscripts and reviews, and disappointed or even outraged authors. Few scientists really know about how journals work and the world of publishing. This book opens these black boxes and will help you write better papers and publish them more intelligently.
Finally, I’ve been a part of the scientific community for more than 30 years and have witnessed the rise of personal computers, the advent of the Internet and the growth in the number of practicing scientists and of scientific journals. More powerful, faster and bigger has catapulted science into the twenty-first century, but not without new challenges. These include our abilities to assess and improve science, gain access to published material, cover publication costs, and decide what science is worth reading and citing. These challenges are being met in the world of “Open Science,” a community of initiatives that will make all aspects of science more
transparent and as accessible as possible. Open Science is moving very fast and I only provide a snapshot of this burgeoning revolution. I highlight how you can flourish both as a scientist and member of the scientific commons in this emerging landscape.
My Style
This book is written for researchers in the biological sciences, though much of the material will also be applicable to the physical and social sciences. The scholarly mantra— accuracy, neutrality, clarity and precision—applies to all of us. Interdisciplinary likenesses also extend to journals and publishing, including criteria for choosing a journal, replying to editors and reviewers, and broader issues such as the sustainability of different publishing models. Nevertheless, the devil is in the detail, and this book does not navigate all of the interdisciplinary contrasts. Readers from areas other than biology should be aware of this and use the information in this book accordingly. Exercises are essential for improving writing skills, and key chapters will challenge the reader to both do and learn. However, this is not an exhaustive, step-by-step book of exercises and answers. Exercises are only part of the writing equation, and what is largely missing from other books on writing—and provided here—is the greater context. This book is written to make the reader stop and think. Some of the tools I use are personal experiences, behind-the-scenes observations, opinions, boxed highlights and take-home messages. A handful of these messages are “Golden rules”—this book’s central insights. The Golden rules are highlighted in Alex Cagan’s wonderful illustrations. This is a book of deduction, perspective, opinion and suggestion. The worlds of writing and publishing have few hard-and-fast rules. There is no single bone fide approach to writing a scientific article and no “United Nations of Journals” to regulate author, reviewer, editor and publisher behavior. The practical consequence is that I have had to repeatedly commit one of the cardinal sins of scientific writing: weasel words. This book is full of “many,” “some say,” “others view,” etc. With this in mind, I ask for the reader’s indulgence. Just like reading scientific articles themselves, you will need to form your own opinions, and do fact-finding and fact-checking. I do nevertheless provide key references and recommendations for further reading, so that the interested reader can dig deeper into the debates and the data.
Acknowledgments
I have interacted with many special people over my scientific and editorial careers. Thank you to Jan Volney for supervising my first project leading to a publication, and to Andrew Leibhold, David Wood and James Milstead for commenting on this first paper. To Michael Hassell and Jeff Waage for guiding me through my PhD, and to John Lawton the same for my postdoc. To my many collaborators and, in particular, Bob Holt and Joel Cohen for their influence on my writing. To Robert Barbault and Jean Clobert, who convinced me to come to Paris to do science. To Nicole Pasteur and Isabelle Olivieri, who enabled my move to Montpellier, and to Jean-Christophe Auffray and Agnès Mignot, who have continued to give me the precious freedom to do research at the Institut des Sciences de l’Evolution, University of Montpellier. I am indebted to the CNRS and the James S. McDonnell Foundation for their research support during the writing of this book.
My editorial career and this book would not have been possible had it not been for three events. The first was Robert Barbault asking me to be chief editor of Acta Oecologica in 1996, which ultimately led to my becoming chief editor of Ecology Letters from 1998 to 2009. It was during my tenure at Acta that I discovered that it should never take more than 2 months to make a publication decision. The second was a meeting with Blackwell Science that led to the founding of Ecology Letters, and I thank Bob Campbell, Aileen Boyd Squires, Robert Barbault and Simon Rallison for their inspiration in launching the journal, and to Liz Ferguson, Lynne Miller, Debbie Wright, Nathalie Ferrand, Françoise Gaill, Marie-Louise Cariou, Bernard Delay, PierreHenri Gouyon, Stéphanie Thiébault, Martine Hossaert, Francine Roussel, Christelle Blee, Anne-Sybille Loiseau and Nathalie Espuno for their support in continuing the adventure. Special thanks to my editor-in-chief successors—Marcel Holyoak and Tim Coulson—for keeping the flame alive. The third event was being invited to teach a course on writing and publishing scientific articles at the University of Helsinki in 2006, which led to teaching the course at numerous universities in Europe. I thank Hanna Kokko and Anna-Liisa Laine for the original invite and the many other organizers who hosted the course, which forms the backbone of the present book.
True to my recommendations at the end of Chapter 5, I have written this book in several places. I would like to thank Ingela Alger, Paul Seabright and Valérie Nowaczyk at the Institute for Advanced Study in Toulouse; Jennifer Dunne, David Krakauer and Tom Real at the Santa Fe Institute; and Oliver Kaltz, Claire Barbera and Emanuel Fronhofer at the Institut des Sciences de l’Evolution, Montpellier. In the years leading up to this book I also benefited from comments and discussions with Ana Rodrigues, Dries Bonte, Hildegard Uecker, Alex Roulin, Slimane Dridi, Jorge Peña, Adin RossGillespie, Astrid Hopfensitz, Charles Fox, Denis Bourguet, Daniel Schrag, Carl Bergstrom and Vincent Calcagno.
I would like to extend sincere thanks to those who made this book possible. Discussions with Joshua Schimel, John Miller, Peter Turchin and Geoffrey West were invaluable in understanding what it takes to climb this highest of mountains. A special thanks to Don Strong, Catriona MacCallum, Liz Ferguson and Art Weis for taking the time to comment on, and greatly improve, the manuscript. To Alex Cagan, for bringing this book to life with his marvelous illustrations (the featured character depicts me at different points in my career!). To Oxford University Press and particularly Ian Sherman and Bethany Kershaw for their tireless support. Finally, to my wife Joëlle for giving me the sometimes-unreasonable space I needed to write.
V. CHALLENGES
VI. OPPORTUNITIES
PART I
BEFORE YOU BEGIN
Science needs to be communicated to exist and to evolve. Scientific communication can take many forms, but it is the published article that is the immutable tablet that a community of thinkers can read, debate, cite and build upon. Publication is the scientific community’s dialogue. It is knowledge. Sure, the scientific edifice can be fragile, but that does not matter. Right or wrong, we learn and gain insight. We communicate it and science advances.
Science is a craft. We apply clear and repeatable methods to test hypotheses and uncover clues. We communicate our findings by writing accurately, neutrally, clearly and precisely. We are self-critical: we replicate, express caution and re-test. Science is based on facts, on evidence, but we nevertheless tell a captivating story—the beauty of the quest and its findings—the ingenious and rigorous application of the craft.
We do science because:
We are curious and want to know how the world works.
We enjoy resolving puzzles and problems.
We get recognition and advance our careers.
We want to influence others and the world.
But a scientist’s freedom can also be science’s worst enemy. When young researchers join the community they learn the craft, but may feel under pressure to emphasize career motives. Careerism does not necessarily lessen responsibility, but the former—if pushed too far—can erode the latter. More low-quality, biased publications, lack of reproducibility and scientific misconduct leading to retractions all do a disservice to science.
This book is about how to write effectively and publish intelligently, and in doing so responsibly, meet your scientific and career objectives.
This section introduces the reader to issues in responsible science. The first is simply that science only exists when it enters the community—that is, it is published (Chapter 1). Developing a research program and career means considering the importance of—and balance between—quality and productivity (Chapter 2). The quality of the craft enters into writing the manuscript, particularly scholarship (Chapter 3), and avoiding plagiarism (Chapter 4).
1
Planting Your Flag
Science works through the publication of results. Sometimes results confirm previous findings, others they are a new discovery. Either way, results only have effects when they are actually made available to the scientific community. Delaying publication may mean that what was a discovery is now a confirmatory finding. This chapter explains why it is important to “plant your flag” as a personal achievement, a necessity for career development and a gain for the scientific community.
Discovery is one of the hallmarks of science. A new finding advances knowledge and creates more questions for future inquiry. There is a myriad of reasons why we value discovery, including satisfying curiosity and achieving advancement. Some are motivated by recognition, prizes, invited seminars or by directing large successful research groups. Others are on a never-ending quest for the truth. Regardless of the blend of motivations, discovery is a primary driver of science and scientists.
Discovery is a new and interesting finding—it’s novel. A novel finding solves an outstanding problem and opens new lines of research. But novelty is a subjective concept. What is incredible and highly relevant to one may be mundane and tangential to another. This observation is important, since it suggests that journal editors, peer reviewers, scientists at large, the media and the public—five kinds of readers that your results ought to influence—may each have different views on the significance of a finding. Their views will be influenced of course by their own education and
experience, but also by the way findings are presented. This puts a premium on how a manuscript is written—the main theme in Part II of this book.
Although a major discovery is the dream of every scientist, most science does not push the frontiers: it is incremental or confirmatory. An incremental study makes a novel advance, but does not fundamentally change the way scientists view a problem. A confirmatory study on the other hand seeks to determine whether a previous result holds when tested using the same or under new conditions. Such a study may or may not produce new insights, but its importance lies in evaluating whether current understanding is correct, limited or wrong. Just like discovery, viewing a study as incremental or confirmatory is a subjective assessment.
Regardless, new results—whether novel or confirmatory—have a place in science. But to have this place, they need to be accessible and referenceable by the scientific community.
Science must be retrievable, read and citable by scientists.
Science must be published.
Recognizing and Crediting Discovery
A key concept in science is that a given discovery can only be made once—it has scientific priority over subsequent new discoveries, increments and confirmations.
Henry Oldenburg launched the first science journal—Philosophical Transactions in 1665,1 largely in response to concerns that credit for discovery was either verbal or through correspondence and had no central third party authority. Prior to Phil Trans, discoveries were publicly acknowledged (as witnesses) before findings were shared with the science community. Phil Trans established itself as an independent third party that published discoveries and their dates of submission.
Priority emerges as a multiple step process.2 In Henry Oldenburg’s day, this began with “disclosure,” and some (but not all) scientists today do announce findings either at a scientific meeting or, increasingly, in the form of a preprint (see Chapter 15). The second step is publication in a peer-reviewed journal, although the posting of a preprint effectively makes the priority of an official publication redundant. The final step is recognition of priority through citation. This is the most subjective and error-prone of the three steps. Crediting a discovery requires that a scientist finds the paper in the first place and can assess its relevance, which means a good grasp of the literature. Finding and integrating the literature are particularly challenging. The number of articles published annually continues to grow and past publications are forever viable. New disciplines emerge, and existing ones are increasingly sub-divided into ever-more specialized and technical areas. More volume and greater diversity make attribution
of an original finding hard to assess. The end result is that crediting discovery is often open to interpretation, based in part on one’s own (limited) knowledge of the literature.
Discovery and its priority therefore are not absolute. Often, different schools of thought will have different views, and the recognition of who did what and when, and why it was important, will change over time. For this reason it’s impossible to evaluate the significance of a finding at publication. A result may appear to be a breakthrough, but with time turn out to be either wrong or less novel than originally thought. A finding may at first appear mundane only later—once science is ready—to be found as remarkable.
Plant Your Flag
We are sometimes not sure whether our results are ready or interesting enough for publication. “There just isn’t enough here for a complete study,” or “With a little more work, I might discover something big!”. Indeed, continuing work may be the best option, but ultimately the time will come when the decision to publish has to be made.
Scientists learn to recognize this and why this decision is so important.
A discovery is only a discovery once published. Waiting too long can mean that the same discovery is published by someone else first, which means that your finding is either relegated to the position of “second demonstration,” or, if very delayed, possibly viewed as a confirmation. Publishing too early, however, can mean that the scientific quality of your discovery is limited (see next chapter). Rushed, low-quality studies can mar one’s scientific reputation. Advice from senior colleagues can be invaluable here to evaluate the readiness of a study for publication.
Publishing is metaphorically like an explorer climbing a mountain and planting her flag at the summit. Planting your flag:
• is a claim to priority;
• is a gain for science and the scientific community;
• maintains research momentum;
• is a personal achievement;
• is important for self-esteem and gaining the esteem of colleagues;
• makes a reputation;
• is central for career prospects.
2
Quality and Productivity
Authors need to write productively while maintaining quality standards. Productivity pushed too far can negatively influence quality, which can mean publication in less demanding journals and a lowering of one’s scientific reputation. This chapter discusses the essentials of quality and productivity.
Editor’s Guide to Writing and Publishing Science. Michael Hochberg, Oxford University Press (2019).
Michael Hochberg 2019. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198804789.001.0001
“Publish or perish” is probably the most hackneyed axiom in science. To be sure, and as emphasized in the first chapter, we publish to scientifically exist—and indeed a career in science requires a satisfactory rhythm of publication. For some scientists however, publication is more than just the culmination of a study: the more productive I am, the more funding I get, the more I grow and the more science I do.
Emphasizing productivity can be a good thing. Productivity largely goes hand-inhand with synergism: the science is better, otherwise-unattainable projects become reality and scientific careers are made. But if pushed too far, productivity risks sacrificing scientific and writing quality. The reason is simple: each person and each research group has limits on how much they can accomplish in a given time frame, before depth, clarity, accuracy and precision suffer.
To clarify the issues relating to the limits of quality and productivity, just for the sake of argument, consider the extremes of exclusively valuing either one or the other.
Quality
Quality is the level of a finished product relative to a standard reference. This includes scientific parameters, such as scholarliness and reproducibility, and communication parameters such as clarity and accuracy in writing. A “standard” is the specification of what is expected, and is characterized by the completeness, lack of bias and precision of the content. Thus, for example, a statistical analysis of a high standard will be better at fulfilling assumptions than a lower standard analysis and will be correctly executed.
The mantra of rigor—accuracy, neutrality, clarity and precision. Scientific writing is the accurate portrayal and interpretation of your observations. I transcribe what I see. I’m neutral. If I am writing an Opinion, Commentary or Perspective, then it is expected that I present viewpoints or speculate (see Chapter 27). But if I’m casting an original research article, then although inferences and opinions are certainly allowed, they should be used sparingly and be signaled—“This result suggests. . .” or “We speculate. . .”. Accuracy and neutrality are not the only pillars of rigor. Writing must be clear and precise. Accuracy is similar to clarity and precision. Whereas accuracy refers to being factual, clarity means that the language used unambiguously transmits what the writer intends to say to the reader. Precision, on the other hand, is exactness. Precise writing zeros-in on a concept so that the reader appreciates its significance.
Quality takes time. Time to read, think, integrate ideas and formulate solutions to the many questions and problems encountered in conducting and writing a study. Time also lets the writer look afresh at her manuscript, correct errors and ambiguities, and increase clarity.
Quality requires investment. As quality is pushed higher, we tend to complete fewer, but better studies. There are practical reasons for seeking high standards, including
increasing the likelihood of publication in a prestigious journal and the impact1 of the paper once published. Authors may also have philosophical reasons to seek quality, viewing high standards as necessary to leave a useful and durable imprint on science. Quality is both a reputation builder and a service to the scientific community.
Quality is not necessarily impact. Quality—although respected by scientists and more useful to science—does not necessarily translate into impact, and hugely influential articles can be poorly written and of questionable scientific quality. This is because impact is influenced by so many other factors, including timeliness, interest, journal of publication, author identities, coverage in seminars, buzz, etc. For more on impact, see Chapters 23 and 24.
Investing in quality beyond a point, however, can waste time better spent otherwise, or even be detrimental. There are several interrelated reasons for this.
First, we may believe that doing more increases scientific standard, for example, the number of experimental replicates. However, beyond a point, adding more does not improve the study. Similarly, investing in quality writing is useful to a point, but past this, dotting i’s and crossing t’s is a waste of time, and time wasted means lower scientific output.
Second, taking too much time to improve quality may mean that you get scooped by another research group who happened to publish their findings (and receive credit for priority) before you.
Third, conducting research in the (very) long term without publication carries the risk of losing interest in the topic. People change. Also, research areas change. What you and the scientific community view as exciting today may be passé in several years’ time.
Finally, we live in a world where the time required to execute high-level science can be at odds with impatient collaborators, students and postdocs who need to publish, and with granting agencies that expect you to publish in a reasonably timely way. Publishing years after what was originally planned risks irking collaborators, penalizing students and postdocs, and weakening grant applications.
Productivity
Productivity is a far easier concept to grasp compared with quality. It is the number of papers published in a time frame.
Intuitively, more papers necessarily mean less quality in each paper—and, as mentioned above, beyond a point this is true. I couldn’t possibly publish 20 papers a year and maintain quality levels that would be acceptable in high-standard journals. Impossible for me, but perhaps there are those who could. This underscores an important observation. Although all scientists (and research groups) are subject to the productivity–quality curve depicted in Figure 2.1, the onset and extent of the trade-off
Figure 2.1 Hypothetical set of possible productivity–quality strategies (solid line and area below it) for a given researcher. If the scientist is currently at point A, she maximizes quality by reducing productivity and attaining B, or increases productivity at the expense of quality to C. She could also seek an combination (e.g. D) that increases both quality and productivity.
will differ from person to person (and group to group). So, my productivity–quality curve may have the same basic shape as yours, but be shifted upwards and to the right.
Productivity seeks numbers—more articles published. It can be accomplished by working more hours, doing easy-to-conduct science or aiming for minimally publishable units (MPUs or so-called “salami slicing”; see below).
Productivity pushed too far has several significant drawbacks.
First and foremost, beyond a certain point, more papers per unit time increases the likelihood of inaccuracy and errors. Aptitudes such as background knowledge and writing skills can make a major difference in how much someone can accomplish without appreciably sacrificing accuracy. But everyone has their limits. Ambiguities, factual mistakes and more minor misapprehensions in citations are picked up by colleagues. Errors in analysis can sometimes be catastrophic, possibly resulting in an article being retracted.
Second, reputations are hard to gain but easy to lose. Attaining productivity while maintaining quality takes time and experience and, as readers encounter your name, they associate you with the quality and interest of your work. Publishing few highquality articles will draw greater respect than churning out lower-quality papers. Low quality and errors can permanently taint a scientific reputation.
Third, pushing productivity at the expense of quality will likely relegate your manuscripts to publication in journals not recognized by authorities such as Web of Science (WoS), Scopus or the Directory of Open Access Journals (DOAJ)—or you may be tempted to publish in a “predatory” journal (see Chapter 15). Because peer review in these venues is of lower standard, published articles will retain errors, imprecisions and unsubstantiated claims that otherwise would have been corrected or removed. Moreover, your work will be largely unseen by readers who ignore papers in those journals.
The publication of large numbers of low-quality articles lowers standards, confuses debates and slows scientific growth.
The reproducibility crisis. Career incentives to publish more, faster and in higherimpact journals has led to a situation2 where (i) to be accepted, papers usually need to have positive results; (ii) experiments are not always replicated; and (iii) research practices are sometimes questionable. These factors contribute to publication bias in the established literature.
Quality and Productivity
Exceptions do exist, but scientists who strive for quality to the point that they very rarely publish, and those who saturate the literature with low-quality work are unlikely to have influential careers. Most are aware of the pitfalls of each extreme.
Scientists have considerable latitude to develop their productivity–quality strategy as portrayed in Figure 2.1. There is no single optimal strategy. Some people may feel comfortable at point A, or will develop their potential in productivity and quality, respectively, to move from extremes at B and C, to the compromise at strategy D. The reality however is that a scientist functions in a world where impact influences careers. To the extent that overall impact increases with productivity, there is the danger that successful strategies are not at point D in Figure 2.1, but rather at C. Although positive for the individual scientist or group, the overall effect on science can be negative.3
Personal goals and abilities will influence where you are on the productivity–quality curve, but often you will be collaborating with other scientists and they too will have their own productivity–quality relationships. This can make collaborative situations challenging for the simple reason that the curves of the various participants may be substantially different from one another. This may be because different participants attach different weights to quality versus productivity, or because some participants are more able to work fast while maintaining high standards compared with others.
When is it One or Two Papers?
At the heart of the productivity–quality issue is “When is it a paper?” and “When is it more than one paper?”. The simple answers are, respectively, “When a study makes a new contribution” and “If there are two or more distinct contributions that each stand on their own.” Journals offer little additional advice in their guide to authors, usually just referring to scope, article types, and word, figure and reference limits.
MPUs as a strategy. Research programs and career advancement evidently depend on publication, but the average time necessary for a graduate student in the life sciences to publish their first paper has increased relative to three decades ago, and is approaching the typical duration of a PhD.4 This is likely due to the requirement for more data for publication, but also increased gatekeeping at reputable journals. One solution to this quality–rapidity dilemma is aiming for MPUs, or a mixed strategy of MPUs (submitted before the dissertation is completed) and more consequential original research papers (submitted either before or after the dissertation).
The most effective way to decide whether your study is a “paper” is to read articles in the target journal. Should the depth and breadth of your study sit comfortably
within the range of these articles, then you will have some indication that a submitted manuscript will be seriously considered. Making this judgment can be subjective, and so it is a good idea to also ask the views of a colleague.
You may however encounter the situation where the MPUs at journals of interest indicate that your study could produce more than one viable manuscript. Ideally, you would have made this assessment when your study began, but science is never completely predictable!
In deciding whether your study is one or more manuscripts, the following may prove useful.
1. A published study generally develops a central result. If you believe that you have at least two central results, then you may have reason to write two (or perhaps more) manuscripts. However, writing two manuscripts entails more work than writing just one, and there is no assurance that both will be published. Even if both are published, a weak paper may be largely ignored, raising the question of whether a combined paper would have had more impact.
2. Are you going to first decide on one or more manuscripts, write them up and then explore journals, or the reverse? Doing the former may constrain journal choice, whereas choosing the latter may affect what part(s) of your study to include, with the risk that some results are tangential and insufficient to stand on their own in any journal.
3. You may find that some results simply do not contribute to a cohesive story. The natural reaction is to either orient the write-up to accommodate the results, or to see how to create an additional manuscript around the results in question. It may be that neither solution is adequate and that these results are never published.
The evaluation culture is the dependence of scientific careers on how much we publish and where we publish. Productive groups that publish in top-ranked journals receive more funding, more and better students, more awards, etc.—they gain academic prestige. Governments, institutions and funding bodies that promulgate these measures of “impact” in their decisions, foster career science. Several initiatives are addressing the issues surrounding this phenomenon, notably the Declaration on Research Assessment (DORA).5
Advice
The evaluation culture pushes scientists to publish more and in top-ranked journals. The quandary for young researchers is that they learn to be masters of the crafts of quality science and writing, but also need to publish reasonably quickly, publish a lot and in reputable, top-ranked journals.
