Even in my 20s I enjoyed writing books. I was not really into articles. I was as content to publish novel data and ideas in books and chapters as to submit them to journals. And this even though I was always employed in medical schools where only articles – and in high impact journals at that – counted as worthwhile accomplishments. Only when my position seemed under some kind of threat – I was at that time in a lab-based department of medicine run by a narrow-minded ‘scientist’ (later to be knighted as Government Chief Scientific Adviser) – did I increase my output of articles, an expedient response to an imminent crisis. I had been informed by this ‘scientist’, however, that I needed to bring in a ‘small’ research grant of approx. £1 million, construct a research team around my professorial expertise and publish in ‘Nature’. Beneficial institutional, departmental and individual metrics, it seemed, grew faster and more impressively if one’s productivity increased by such means. Needless to say, I ignored his advice and soon after engineered a transfer to another much more amenable department run by a longstanding colleague from sociology, Graham Hart.
So when the dust settled I returned to book writing. I have written or edited thirty books at the time of writing this, with a further two in the pipeline. This is not in my mind a measure of worthwhile accomplishment. It is quality not quantity that matters. But in my late 70s I’m reflecting more and more on what my published output amounts to, and whether or not it will stand up to the test of time. This is probably a function of a sense that my ‘productivity’ – that awful word – will inevitably drop off. I still write fast and enjoy my regular solitary sojourns with my laptop in cafes and bars, but three concerns are beginning to become more pressing. The first concerns having something new and worthwhile to communicate. I have for example written quite a lot on stigma and health inequalities. Anything further committed to print should not – no, must not – simply regurgitate arguments already rehearsed. A second and related concern is a reluctance to not simply repeat myself. Yes, there is inevitably a level of continuity of theme and thesis, but anything newly submitted for publication must move things on. One difficulty is a reluctance to assume that anyone reading what one has written has also perused one’s former publications upon which it builds, and summarising these ‘preliminaries’ can look like ‘self-plagiarism’. And a third concern is a creeping fatigue. As I say, I have established a pattern of devoting maybe 10 hours a week writing fast on a mixed fuel of caffeine and wine. I have just completed a 70,000 draft of a proposed single-authored volume on the sociology of stigma, and I am finding myself quite more tired than in the past. I think it’s called getting old(er).
Old routines are difficult to abandon but I shall bear in mind my triad of concerns before undertaking another large-scale project. I have proffered summative accounts of my thinking on health inequalities, and now stigma; and I don’t feel I have much further to add to my few writings on sport. My laptop is showing a blank page. Maybe a few blogs and a poem or two to give me pause for thought.
I wish all writers well. And as for academics, remember that productivity for its own sake or in pursuit of telling metrics, which is too often what managers seek (whilst remaining in denial) can mean that either: (i) nothing you really wanted to say gets said, or (ii) that nothing you say will last beyond your retirement but will instead just fade away. One article, chapter or book that matters counts for more in the longer run than 100 or 500 that don’t.
Here endeth the lesson! Now back to my laptop drawing board, further encumbered by what I have just written.