I often say I’m allergic to advice about writing and publishing scholarly books. It’s a ridiculous if not disingenuous thing to say, admittedly. In writing my own book, not only did I read guides such as William Germano’s From Dissertation to Book, I also borrowed my friends’ book proposals to use as models and asked my former doctoral adviser for counsel throughout the publication process.
Now, as a senior acquisitions editor at a university press, I give advice on book writing and publishing all the time — on panels at scholarly conferences and in campus-based workshops for graduate students and junior academics. I advise writers and friends who want to know what an editor’s silence in response to an email really means. (Spoiler: It usually means the editor is swamped.)
What I really mean when I say I’m allergic to advice is that I’m wary of how the genre can lend itself to one-size-fits-all approaches. Scholarly publishers, publishing conventions in different fields, and individual book projects all vary drastically. It’s challenging, if not altogether inappropriate and misleading, to give publishing advice to academics when the most accurate response to most questions is “it depends” — on the press, the field, the aims of the author, and so on.
Yet here I am, starting a new advice column in The Chronicle on scholarly writing and publishing. Because, while presses, authors, and book projects all vary greatly, we all labor under common myths and misconceptions about this central aspect of academic life.
University presses are what I know best. I published my own monograph with Oxford University Press — the largest university press in the world, with offices in 50 countries. I now work at SUNY Press, which is hundreds of years younger and has an in-house staff of 18.
The Association of University Presses has more than 160 members globally, all of which are mission-driven, not-for-profit publishers that meet high scholarly standards (e.g., use peer review) and generally, though far from exclusively, publish books in the humanities and the social sciences. Most of these presses are attached to a university. But there are exceptions: It may surprise some to learn that the Museum of Modern Art, for example, is a member.
Under this very broad umbrella, university presses differ — in the number and types of books (and, in some cases, journals) we publish annually; in our primary subject areas and specializations; in our staffing, structures, and budgets; in whether we receive support from our parent institutions (e.g., a budget allocation, office space); and in whether we pay those institutions (e.g., for overhead such as human-resources support).
We vary, too, in how we do things. For example, some presses send out book proposals and partial writing samples for external peer review before deciding whether to consider the full manuscript (and potentially issue an advance contract). Other presses, like mine, make such initial decisions based strictly on internal review by an acquisitions editor, possibly in consultation with colleagues and series editors. We wait until we have a full manuscript to engage peer reviewers.
Why? Because identifying peer reviewers and collecting their reports require significant resources — above all, time. I’ve had manuscripts where I’ve had to ask more than a dozen people to secure just two reviewers — and that was before the pandemic. It’s a major investment for a press, hence our waiting until we have provisionally committed to a book to do it. Put more positively, if I invite a manuscript for peer review, it’s because I want to see the book published and to see it published in its strongest possible form. I see peer review as a means of making that happen, not a hurdle or a hindrance.
University presses are also just one kind of academic press, though there can be a tendency to speak of all academic publishers as if we are the same.
While university presses are not-for-profit, other academic publishers, such as Routledge (part of the Taylor & Francis Group) and Palgrave MacMillan (part of Springer Nature), have commercial operations. Then there are behemoths such as Pearson and Wiley that specialize in textbooks and other educational materials. So, too, does Norton, though it remains independent and employee-owned. To compare university presses of different sizes — say, SUNY or Wayne State to Duke or Johns Hopkins — is to compare apples and orchards. Add to the mix a multibillion-dollar company such as Elsevier, which turns a hefty profit on science journals, and you may as well compare us to a bank.
In addition, publishing norms and expectations vary across disciplines. In educational research, one of the many fields in which I acquire, journal articles and edited volumes are more common (and more commonly required for tenure and hence recognized by institutions). Education is also a field where edited volumes can sell relatively well, which isn’t always the case.
In literary studies, by contrast, monographs — solo-authored books on specialized subject matter — are often required for tenure and advancement. That there are so few tenure-track jobs in languages and literature does little to undermine that standard. If anything, the proliferation of low-paying, contingent positions and the scarcity of secure, full-time ones demand that early-career researchers publish more, faster. In many humanities and social-science disciplines, graduate students and recent Ph.D.s may feel — and even be told by their advisers — that they must “have a book” (e.g., an advance contract or a book in press) just to get a job. This may be pragmatic advice. Whether it’s borne out in practice is an open question. I haven’t encountered data to that effect at U.S. institutions.
What I have encountered are the effects of publish-or-perish culture on scholars across the board. Above all, it breeds anxiety. How could it not? That culture is also an economy in which the long-term livelihoods of scholars — and publishers, too — are sometimes on the line. Even when they’re not, authors’ emotional investment in their books (their “babies”) is real and profound.
And this culture breeds advice. Most of it is well-meaning, especially when it comes from advisers and senior colleagues. But their advice doesn’t always reflect the aims and concerns of publishers, and may be rooted in their own experience with one or two presses or a story they heard about this-or-that editor. Editors, in turn, may have their own assumptions — for example, about what writers may or may not know about the publishing process. Preconceptions abound and can run both ways.
As editors and publishers, it’s our job to help pull back the curtain — especially if we want to foster equity and inclusion. Providing as much information as we can is a crucial way to make higher education more hospitable to, and supportive of, academics of all backgrounds. By the same token, it behooves all scholars to know more about publishing — whether you come to it as a first-time or sixth-time author, a reviewer of manuscripts and tenure dossiers, a mentor to graduate students, or an administrator.
While the respective interests of scholars and publishers may not always be identical, our worlds are enmeshed. We share commitments to fields and institutions, and face parallel challenges. The more openly and candidly we communicate, the better, for both the books we produce together and for higher education more broadly.
My primary goal in this new series is to demystify publishing in ways that are useful to scholars across rank and role, while also shedding light on publishers’ varied perspectives, processes, and working conditions. To that end, let’s start with the four most-common myths I encounter about publishing. All four may have some degree of truth in different contexts but ultimately tell only a partial story and can hinder communication (if not create antagonism) between scholars and publishers.
Myth 1: There are “good” and “bad” presses. Individual scholars have undoubtedly had good and bad experiences with different presses and I would never challenge them on that. Still, when it comes to university presses, there are not good and bad ones. Nor are there “fast” and “slow” ones. Rather, there are good and bad fits for different authors and projects based on any number of factors, including institutional requirements, disciplinary expectations, and publisher processes and timelines.
Moreover, fit is mutual. It may sound clichéd or like secret code when an editor tells you that your project isn’t a good “fit” for the press. But “fit” truly is the best term most of the time for what editors are looking for in a project — hence the value of spending time on press websites, perusing your own bookshelves and bibliographies, and talking to editors and asking questions about their visions, lists, and series.
Myth 2: A dissertation is basically a book. Graduate students are sometimes told to write their dissertation “as a book,” or that their dissertation is already a book and won’t need much revision to make it publishable. I thoroughly understand the institutional realities driving this advice. There may also be cases where it pays off.
Still, it’s important to know that many presses, including mine, have a policy of not publishing dissertations — not because we think dissertations are “bad,” but rather, because dissertations and books are different genres with different functions and audiences.
It’s important for both first-time authors and their advisers to know that, while they may think a dissertation is ready to go, as is, editors may not — and that’s OK! I’m a firm believer in the best dissertation being a done dissertation. Ideally, knowing that books are a different animal frees you to take what you’re excited about from the dissertation and leave what you’re not — to write the book you really want to write.
Myth 3: Publishers want a book with “crossover” potential. That is, a book with a market beyond academe. Publishers are always thrilled for a book to sell well, but what constitutes “well” is relative. It may mean selling 500 copies of a book in a field in which monographs have typically sold 200 to 300 copies.
In reading book proposals, I am looking for a strong, realistic sense of the potential audience more than I am looking for a promise of reaching a large “general” readership. I often encourage writers to think of their audience in terms of concentric circles — to identify the primary group they’re writing to and for, the secondary group, and so on — in part, because that helps them shape and articulate their arguments.
I’m not looking to hem in writers. Nor am I suggesting that editors aren’t eager for books to find more readers and, yes, buyers. In fact, many authors with whom I work are committed to making their books legible — and affordable — to nonspecialists, especially if their research is ethnographic, concerned with social-justice issues, or focused on particular communities. My point is simply that press editors tend to see the primary audience — and market — of scholarly books as fellow academics in the writer’s home field(s). But of course I, as their editor, hope and often expect their work will reach much farther.
Myth 4: As a writer, you should play your cards close to the vest. In other words: Don’t tell an editor if you’re going on the job market or are up for tenure. There is something to this advice. It’s true that most editors want to hear about the amazing book you’re writing and be pitched on the strengths of your project, not to hear “I have to write a book for tenure.” But editors do generally want and need to know the career-related goals of a project. We work with authors all the time to help make those goals happen — including by writing letters for tenure files.
In turn, writers should always feel empowered to ask editors questions — about press processes, timelines, contracts, you name it. There are certain things I cannot control. Sometimes reviewers “ghost” or take many months longer than planned on their reports and there is nothing I can do about it. But I can provide writers with information about how many reviewers we get, how long the review process may take, how often our editorial board meets, when we issue contracts, and more.
If there’s any advice to which I return again and again — advice that applies to both scholars and publishers — it’s this: Communicate openly and candidly. It’s more easily said than done, I know. As I write this, I’m mindful of all the emails I owe to people. I promise, I’ve just been swamped. (No, really!)
