New paper on science community blogging!

I really don’t want the blog to turn into a platform for announcing personal papers, but this is another case that seems worthy of an exception. I am a coauthor on a paper that just appeared in Royal Society Open Science that focuses on science community blogging as an important type of blog. In the paper, we make the distinction between two types of blogging: science communication blogging and science community blogging. Science communication blogging is traditional scicomm: communicating science broadly, with non-scientists as a typical audience. Science community blogging, on the other hand, focuses on the process and culture of academia, with other scientists being the primary audience. Dynamic Ecology is pretty much entirely science community blogging. Some other blogs mix the two, and some are solidly on the science communication side of things. One of our arguments is that science community blogging is valuable, even though it often gets overlooked in discussions of science blogging. One piece of evidence supporting the assertion that science community blogs are overlooked: the Wilcox et al. book, Science Blogging: The essential guide, does not mention science community blogs, despite aiming to provide a comprehensive overview of science blogging.

Our new paper (which is open access so available to everyone!) discusses the reach of science community blogs and their value to the scientific community, including as a means of diffuse mentorship and as a means of contributing to scholarly discourse. The diffuse mentorship aspect of blogging is a key reason I blog. I think science community blogs are a great way of ensuring broader access to information that some people have but others do not (such as my post on how to format a CV for a faculty job application or Jeremy’s on how North American search committees work or Brian’s post on the five pivotal paragraphs in a paper). I also think science community blogging is a great way to raise issues that I think are important to consider (such as my posts on not needing to work 80 hours a week to succeed in academia or on being a scientist with an anxiety disorder). At this year’s ESA meeting, a surprising (to me) number of people thanked me for talking about these issues; my favorite may have been the person who stopped me and said “Thank you for being a real person!” This feedback meant a lot to me.

Our blogging paper was led by Manu Saunders of Ecology is Not a Dirty Word; she deserves a lot of the credit for this paper seeing the light of day! The other authors on the paper are Amy Parachnowitsch and Terry McGlynn from Small Pond Science, Margaret Kosmala of Ecology Bits, Simon Leather of Don’t Forget the Roundabouts, Jeff Ollerton of Jeff Ollerton’s Biodiversity Blog, and Stephen Heard of Scientist Sees Squirrel. Simon, Jeff, and Steve were the ones who had the idea for the paper in the first place.

The abstract of our paper is below the break, as are links to posts at the other blogs:

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Last and corresponding authorship in ecology: a series of blog posts turns into a paper

My paper on last and corresponding authorship appeared in the journal Ecology & Evolution today. Normally I don’t plug my papers on the blog, but this one is different: this paper arose out of a poll and a series of blog posts on the site, so it seems appropriate to wrap things up with a quick post today.

I suppose it’s actually not quite accurate to say the paper arose out of a poll. Before that, I had a tweet storm as I thought through issues, and that, in turn, was motivated by needing to decide on author order for a manuscript. When I was at Georgia Tech, I was told that I should be last author on all papers coming out of my lab as a sign of having driven the work. But I have a paper from work I did as a grad student where I am the last author (with my advisor as a middle author) because I did the least work on the project (Cáceres et al. 2008 Freshwater Biology), so the advice I got at Georgia Tech surprised me at first. At Georgia Tech, I was also told that I needed to be corresponding author on papers out of my lab; when I first got to Michigan, I never heard anyone mention corresponding authorship as something that mattered (and that included when I directly asked a couple of people about it). Notably, though, in the past year I did hear colleagues bring it up a couple of times.

I almost gave up on this paper multiple times, because I wasn’t sure it was worth the time. But I kept hearing comments from colleagues at various institutions about author order or corresponding authorship coming up as an issue, especially related to tenure & promotion discussions, so it seemed important to get this information out there in a format where it could easily be shared.

What did I find? This is the abstract of the paper:

Authorship is intended to convey information regarding credit and responsibility for manuscripts. However, while there is general agreement within ecology that the first author is the person who contributed the most to a particular project, there is less agreement regarding whether being last author is a position of significance and regarding what is indicated by someone being the corresponding author on a manuscript. Using an analysis of papers published in American Naturalist, Ecology, Evolution, and Oikos, I found that: 1) the number of authors on papers is increasing over time; 2) the proportion of first authors as corresponding author has increased over time, as has the proportion of last authors as corresponding author; 3) 84% of papers published in 2016 had the first author as corresponding author; and 4) geographic regions differed in the likelihood of having the first (or last) author as corresponding author. I also carried out an online survey to better understand views on last and corresponding authorship. This survey revealed that most ecologists view the last author as the “senior” author on a paper (that is, the person who runs the research group in which most of the work was carried out), and most ecologists view the corresponding author as the person taking full responsibility for a paper. However, there was substantial variation in views on authorship, especially corresponding authorship. Given these results, I suggest that discussions of authorship have as their starting point that the first author will be corresponding author and the senior author will be last author. I also suggest ways of deciding author order in cases where two senior authors contributed equally.

If you’re interested in finding out more, the paper is open access. Something that is fun is that this is the first paper to appear in Ecology & Evolution’s new paper category, Academic Practice in Ecology and Evolution. Also fun is that, after acceptance, the production staff required that I add an author contribution statement to my sole-authored paper. So, I wrote: {continues below the break}

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Is my latest paper a super-cool result? Or merely a “cute” curiosity? You tell me!

My collaborators and I just published “Population extinctions can increase metapopulation persistence“. New Scientist did a piece on it, which is the first time any media outlet other than my local newspaper has written up my work. I’m chuffed about this, because I think this is the coolest paper I’ve ever done by some distance.

Or, maybe it’s just a cute result–a fun curiosity. I could even imagine someone arguing that it’s oversold fluff. So why do I think it’s so cool? And what’s the difference between “cool” and “cute”?

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On finding errors in one’s published analyses

Dan Bolnick just had a really important – and, yes, brave – post on finding an error in a published study of his that has led him to retract that study. (The retraction isn’t official yet.) In his post, he does a great job of explaining how the mistake happened (a coding error in R), how he found it (someone tried to recreate his analysis and was unsuccessful), what it means for the analysis (what he thought was a weak trend is actually a nonexistent trend), and what he learned from it (among others, that it’s important to own up to one’s failures, and there are risks in using custom code to analyze data).

This is a topic I’ve thought about a lot, largely because I had to correct a paper. It was the most stressful episode of my academic career. During that period, my anxiety was as high as it has ever been. A few people have suggested I should write a blog post about it in the past, but it still felt too raw – just thinking about it was enough to cause an anxiety surge. So, I was a little surprised when my first reaction to reading Dan’s post was that maybe now is the time to write about my similar experience. When Brian wrote a post last year on corrections and retractions in ecology (noting that mistakes will inevitably happen because science is done by humans and humans make mistakes), I still felt like I couldn’t write about it. But now I think I can. Dan and Brian are correct that it’s important to own up to our failures, even though it’s hard. Even though correcting the record is exactly how science is supposed to work (and I did corrected the paper as soon as I discovered the error), it still is something that is very hard for me to talk about.

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Why am I a scientist again? – The concept of a data present

(This is a guest post from Isla Myers-Smith, early-ish career academic at the University of Edinburgh, with a conversation at the end with Gergana Daskalova, an undergraduate in her lab)


Sometimes I like to worry about why I have chosen a scientific career path and the meaning of life and big esoteric questions that really have no particular answer. I have wondered many times why do I push myself so hard to succeed in science? I know the pipeline is leaky for early career scientists and many choose to leave the Ivory Tower to make different contributions with their careers, but at least for now, I have stuck with the halls of academia and here is why.

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Where do ideas come from, and what counts as “novel”?

Note from Jeremy: this is a guest post from Mark Vellend


During my very first research experience in ecology (mid-1990s), Graham Bell, a famous evolutionary biologist, talked about the forest plants we were studying as if they were essentially just large and slow versions of the algae multiplying rapidly in the highly simplified test tubes of his lab. The other undergraduate field assistants and I (the “Carex crew”) – all of us thrilled to have paid jobs to tromp about in Wild Nature – felt that this perspective sucked all the beauty and wonder out of the forest that we so loved. But it stuck with me.

This is a second guest post expanding upon thoughts and some personal reflections that arose while I wrote a book on community ecology during sabbatical last year. The first post is here, and I couldn’t help noticing that it was given the tag of “New Ideas” by Jeremy. Hmmm…I wonder how we decide whether an idea is “new”? I think the answer has rather important implications for how we judge papers and the scientists that write them. All the top journals want “novelty”, but what is that exactly? And where do ideas come from in the first place?

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Another attempt to stop or steer the phylogenetic community ecology bandwagon

I’m a bit late to this, which is embarrassing because I was involved in it. Back in May, Functional Ecology published a special feature (well, they call it an “extended spotlight”) on community phylogenetics. I helped edit the special feature, along with Anita Narwani, Patrick Venail, and Blake Matthews. Here’s our introductory editorial, which basically argues that phylogenetic community ecology has gone too far down the well-trodden road dead end of trying to infer process from pattern and that it’s high time for a course correction.

If it sounds rather like some old blog posts of mine (e.g., this and this), well, that’s no accident. It’s because of those old posts that Anita and Patrick invited me to join the team (they were the driving force behind this, having organized the symposium this special feature grew out of). So there’s a tangible benefit of blogging to add to the rather short list–you might get mistaken for an expert and invited to edit a special feature. 🙂 That my involvement in this project grew out of my blogging is my tissue-thin justification for posting about it.

The four papers in the special feature are quite different in terms of the specific topics addressed and the approaches used to address them. But they’re all nice examples of contrarian ecology, pushing back against the current conventional wisdom.

Kraft et al. use modern coexistence theory to rethink and make precise the disturbingly-popular-for-such-a-vague-idea notion of “environmental filtering”. They then review the literature and find that most studies of “environmental filtering” don’t actually present evidence of environmental filtering, properly defined. They argue that current vague usage of the term overstates the importance of abiotic tolerance in determining community composition. A nice example of something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately–how attempts to quantify vague concepts often just paper over the vagueness, leading to confusion rather than insight. One consequence of their argument (which I agree with 100%, btw) is to undermine a recently-proposed method for generating simulated datasets structured by a specified strength of environmental filtering. Which is kind of a funny coincidence, because the lead author of that method also wrote one of the papers in this special feature.

Gerhold et al. challenge the idea that the phylogenetic relatedness of co-occurring species can be used to infer the mechanisms driving community assembly. They point out that this idea depends on numerous strong assumptions that are weakly supported at best. They suggest more useful things that ecologists can do with phylogenies besides trying (futilely) to use them as a convenient shortcut to discovering community assembly mechanisms.

Venail et al. show, contrary to some recent claims, species richness, not phylogenetic diversity, predicts total biomass and temporal stability of total biomass in BDEF experiments with grassland plants.

Finally, Münkemüller et al. use evolutionary simulations to show that commonly-used measures of “phylogenetic niche conservatism”, such as phylogenetic signal, actually are very hard to interpret, and often are highly misleading guides to the underlying evolutionary processes governing niche evolution.

It will be interesting to see if these papers have much impact. I predict that Venail et al. will. It’s a comprehensive review of a purely empirical topic, and so I think it will quickly become the standard reference on that topic. The impact of Münkemüller et al. is harder to predict. My guess is it’ll get cited in passing a lot, but that people will mostly keep doing what they’ve been doing on the (dubious) grounds that there’s no easy alternative. I think Gerhold et al. and Kraft et al. will have little impact, unfortunately. They’re telling community ecologists to abandon an easy-to-follow recipe that purports to allow inference of process from pattern. Community ecologists only reluctantly abandon such recipes. But a minority of ambitious community ecologists will recognize that there’s an opportunity to do really-high impact work by following the lead of Kraft et al. rather than by following the crowd.

The editorial and the papers are open access, so check them out.

Old school literature searches and the fun of reading classic, non-English literature

In my post last week, I pointed out that I haven’t read nearly as much in the past semester as I’d hoped to read. But I did read some things! In fact, as far as I can tell, I think that, during the course of the semester, I read every paper that has been published (and one that hasn’t been) on parasites that attack developing embryos of Daphnia. This has been a lot of fun. First of all: how often can you say that you think you’ve read everything that’s been written on a topic you are studying?* Second, it’s felt like a classic, old school literature hunt, and that’s been a lot of fun.

Since I was a grad student, I’ve seen Daphnia infected with a parasite that attacks the developing embryos. As a grad student, I initially would record it as “scrambled eggs” in my lab notebook, since I tried to use names that were evocative. (This also led to parasites named “scarlet” and “Spiderman”.) Over the years, I started simply referring to it as “the brood parasite”. It was something I was interested in doing more on, but I didn’t have the time and knew I would need to collaborate with a mycologist to do the work well.

Fast forward approximately 10 years to when I arrived at Michigan. Here, I’m fortunate to have a fantastic mycologist colleague, Tim James, who was game for helping me figure out what the parasite is. We recruited a first year undergraduate, Alan Longworth, to help us work on the project. In the end, the parasite has proved to be really interesting. We have our first manuscript on it in review right now.

One of the key things we wanted to do with the initial brood parasite project was figure out what the parasite was. Microscopy and molecular analyses indicated it was an oomycete, but not particularly closely related to anything that had been sequenced previously. We started thinking about what we might name it if we decided it was a novel species (twitter had some great suggestions focusing on mythological characters that killed babies!), but I also wanted to really dig into the literature.

The first two, most obvious sources to consult were Dieter Ebert’s excellent book on parasites of Daphnia, and a classic monograph by Green on the same topic. Dieter’s book has relatively little coverage of brood parasites, though does point out that they are common and highly virulent. The Green monograph mentioned a “fungal”** parasite, Blastulidium paedophthorum. To cut to the chase: all the evidence points to our brood parasite being Blastulidium paedophthorum. That’s a lot to keep typing (or saying!), and it’s too good to pass up on the opportunity to use “Bp” as the abbreviation, as that works for both the scientific name (Blastulidium paedophthorum) and the common name we’d been calling it (brood parasite). So, we’ve declared the parasite Bp.

Backing up again, the description of Bp in Green seemed like a good fit to what we were seeing, so I wanted to read everything I could about the parasite.*** This started me down a path of reading some really old papers, nearly all of which were in foreign languages. Bp was first described by Pérez in 1903, with a follow up paper in 1905. I was kind of blown away that I could easily download these from my dining room! Chatton had a paper on Bp in 1908 (also available from my dining room table!) After that, it was featured by Jírovec in his wonderfully titled 1955 paper. (The title translates to “Parasites of Our Cladocera”. I love the possessive “our”! 🙂 ). And then, crucially, it was the focus of ultrastructure work by Manier, reported in a paper in 1976.

All of the papers in the preceeding paragraph were important to figuring out whether we were working with the same parasite. None of them are in English. That added to the fun “I’m going on an old school literature hunt” feel, but also made it more challenging to read them.**** Reading them involved a combination of trying to remember my high school French, lots of time with Google translate, and, ultimately, seeking out translators. It was relatively easy to find translators for the French papers, thanks to a few people being really generous with their time. The Czech one, by Jírovec, took substantially longer to find a translator for, but a Czech Daphnia colleague, Adam Petrusek, was kind enough to put me in touch with someone who did a great job on the translation.

All semester, I’ve been thinking about how much fun this has been. Indeed, it’s part of why I really want to figure out how to set aside time to read more! But it especially came to mind after reading this recent ESA Bulletin piece by David Inouye on the value of older non-English literature. In that, Inouye talks about his own journeys through the older non-English literature, and concludes with this paragraph:

So my paper trail extends back to some of these early natural historians in Austria and Germany. Their work helped give me a much longer historical perspective than I would have had if I’d relied just on the English literature on ant–plant mutualisms, primarily from the 1960s on. Although as a graduate student I was able to track down the original publications from the 1880s in libraries, I see that some of this literature is now freely available on Web resources such as, the Biodiversity Heritage Library, or old scientific literature scanned by Google Books. And the translation from Google Translate I just tried with some of von Wettstein’s 1888 papers is certainly sufficient to follow most of the content. So perhaps the only barrier to familiarity with older non-English literature for ecologists now is the time required to find it. Time that might be well spent to broaden your perspective and make sure you’re not re-discovering insights from early natural historians.

I completely agree that the longer historical perspective – especially that provided by the non-English literature – has been essential. If not for those papers, we would think that this parasite hadn’t been described before and was in need of a name. And I clearly agree with the second-to-last sentence, which is very much in line with my post from last week (which I wrote before reading Inouye’s piece). So, here’s hoping we all find the time to really dig into the literature, and that, while doing so, we remember that there’s lots of value in digging into the classic, non-English literature.


* Okay, fine, it’s not like there are tons of papers on the topic. But it’s still fun to think I’ve read all of them.

** The parasite is an oomycete, and oomycetes are not fungi. But that wasn’t recognized in the early 1970s when Green published his monograph.

*** The references for this paragraph are: Pérez 1903, 1905, Chatton 1908, Jírovec 1955, Manier 1976; full references are given below.

**** I would absolutely love to be multilingual. Sadly, I am not.



Chatton, E. 1908. Sur la reproduction et les affinités du Blastulidium paedophtorum Ch. Pérez. Comptes Rendus Des Seances De La Societe De Biologie Et De Ses Filiales 64:34-36.

Jírovec, O. 1955. Cizopasníci našich perlooček II. Československá Parasitologie II 2:95-98.

Manier, J.-F. 1976. Cycle et ultrastructure de Blastulidium poedophthorum Pérez 1903 (Phycomycète Lagénidiale) parasite des oeufs de Simocephalus vetulus (Mull.) Schoedler (Crustacé, Cladocère). Protistologica 12:225-238.

Pérez, C. 1903. Sur un organisme nouveau, Blastulidium paedophthorum, parasite des embryons de Daphnies. Comptes Rendus Des Seances De La Societe De Biologie Et De Ses Filiales 55:715-716.

Pérez, C. 1905. Nouvelles observations sur le Blastulidium paedophthorum. Comptes Rendus Des Seances De La Societe De Biologie Et De Ses Filiales 58:1027-1029.

Is it worse to admit a paper was rejected than to not acknowledge helpful anonymous reviews?

Thanks to being on research leave this semester, I am currently working on several manuscripts. Most of these are manuscripts that we are preparing to submit for the first time, but one is a manuscript that was previously reviewed and rejected.

It’s always a bit painful to receive a rejection, but my first thought when reading through the four(!) reviews this manuscript received was that they were really thoughtful and would really help the paper. As I worked last week on editing the manuscript, I was struck by that same thought again: these reviews are really helpful. Which made me think: should we acknowledge these anonymous reviewers?

I’ve benefitted in the past from manuscripts that were originally rejected by one journal and greatly improved by the review process, as I wrote about in my post on a paper that resulted from my dissertation, which was rejected by Ecology and then published in American Naturalist. But, looking back at the acknowledgments section of that paper, it doesn’t acknowledge the contributions of the reviewers and editor from Ecology (nor, to my great embarrassment as I realize it now, those of Yannis Michalakis, the AmNat AE who was really helpful during the review process).

Are there reasons why I might not want to acknowledge those earlier reviewers? The main reason would seem to be concern about biasing the editor or reviewers at the next journal, if having them know that a paper was rejected from another journal will make it seem subpar. Does that happen? I have no idea. The optimist in me (who may be a Pollyanna) says that we all recognize that papers get rejected for lots of reasons. The realist in me says that everyone has biases (even if not everyone is aware of them), and that we don’t want to make our publishing lives any harder than they need to be.

Thinking about this from the perspective of a reviewer, I can’t recall ever seeing a manuscript acknowledge anonymous reviewers in the first submission I saw. I also have never been annoyed when, in reviewing a manuscript again for a second journal, the authors don’t acknowledge that it was submitted elsewhere first. Then again, I don’t get annoyed even if they don’t acknowledge anonymous reviewers in the published version.*

Rejection is a part of science. The main thing we can hope for is that the rejections are fair and provide helpful feedback. It’s unfortunate that the culture seems to be set up in a way that makes it unlikely for people to acknowledge them when they do. Right now, I’m not sure if I want to buck that trend.


*I’m especially unlikely to get annoyed because I’ve forgotten to add this line in myself, even when I’ve been truly grateful for the suggestions of reviewers. Others feel differently, though.

In praise of slow science

Its a rush rush world out there. We expect to be able to talk (or text) anybody anytime anywhere. When we order something from half a continent away we expect it on our doorstep in a day or two. We’re even walking faster than we used to.

Science is no exception. The number of papers being published is still growing exponentially  at a rate of over 5% per year (i.e. doubling every 10 years or so). Statistics on growth in number of scientists are harder to come by – the last good analysis I can find is a book by Derek de Solla Price in 1963 (summarized here) – but it appears the doubling time of scientists, while also fast, is a bit longer than for the doubling time of the number of papers. This means the individual rate of publication (papers/year) is going up. Students these days are being pressured to have papers out as early as their second year*. Before anxiety sets in, it should be noted that very few students meet this expectation and it is probably more of a tactic to ensure publications are coming out in year 4 or so. But even that is a speed up from publishing a thesis in year 6 or so and then whipping them into shape for publication which seemed to be the norm when I was in grad school. I’ve already talked about the growing number of grant submissions.

Some of this is modern life. Some of this a fact of life of being in a competitive field (and there are almost no well paying, intellectually stimulating jobs that aren’t highly competitive).

But I fear we’re losing something. My best science has often been torturous with seemingly as many steps back as forward. My first take on what my results mean are often wrong and much less profound than my 3rd or 4th iteration. The first listed hypothesis of my NSF postdoc proposal turned out to be false (tested in 2003-2004). I think I’ve finally figured out what is going on 10 years later. My first two papers did not come out until the last year of my PhD (thankfully I did not have an adviser who believed in hurry up science). But both of them had been churning around for several years. In both cases I felt like my understanding and my message greatly improved with the extra time. The first of these evolved from a quick and dirty test of neutral theory to some very heavy thinking about what it means to do models and test theory in ecology. This caused the second paper (co-authored with Cathy Collins) to evolve from a single prediction to a many prediction paper. It also lead to a paper in its own right. And influenced my thinking to this day. And in a slightly different vein since it was an opinion paper, my most highly cited paper was the result of more than 6 months of intense (polite but literally 100s of emails) back and forth debate among the four authors that I have no doubt resulted in a much better paper.

I don’t think I’m alone in appreciating slow science. There is even a “slow science” manifesto although it doesn’t seem to have taken off. I won’t share the stories of colleagues without permission, but I have heard plenty of stories of a result that took 2-3 years to make sense of. And I’ve always admired the people who took that time and in my opinion they’ve almost always gotten much more important papers out of it. I don’t think its a coincidence that Ecological Monographs is cited more frequently than Ecology – the Ecological Monographs are often magnum opus type studies that come together over years. Darwin spent 20 years polishing and refining On the Origin of Species. Likewise, Newton developed and refined the ideas and presentation behind Principia for over a decade after the core insight came.

Hubbell’s highly influential neutral theory was first broached in 1986 but he then worked on the details in private for a decade and a half before publishing his 2001 book. Would his book have had such high impact if he hadn’t ruminated, explored, followed dead ends, followed unexpected avenues that panned out, combined math with data and literature and ecological intuition and generally done a thorough job? I highly doubt it.

I want to be clear that this argument for “slow science” is not a cover for procrastination nor the fear of writing or the fear of releasing one’s ideas into print (although I confess the latter influenced some of the delay in one of my first papers and probably had a role with Darwin too). Publication IS the sine qua non of scientific communication – its just a question of when something is ready to write-up. There are plenty (a majority) of times I collect data and run an analysis and I’m done. Its obvious what it means. Time to write it up! So not all science is or should be slow science. Nor is this really the same as the fact that sometimes challenges and delays happen along the way in executing the data collection (as Meg talked about yesterday).

But there are those other times, after the data is already collected, where there is this nagging sense that I’m on to something big but haven’t figured it out yet. Usually this is because I’ve gotten an unexpected result and there is an intuition that its not just noise or a bad experiment or a bad idea but a deeper signal of something important. Often there is a pattern in the data – just not what I expected. In the case of the aforementioned paper I’ve been working on for a decade, I got a negative correlation when I (and everybody else) expected a positive correlation (and the negative correlation was very consistent and indubitably statistically and biologically different from zero). Those are the times to slow down. And the goal is not procrastination nor fear. It is a recognition that truly big ideas are creative, and creative processes don’t run on schedules. They’re the classic examples of solutions that pop into your head while you’re taking a walk not even thinking about the problem. They’re also the answers that come when you try your 34th different analysis of the data. These can’t be scheduled. And these require slow science.

Of course one has to be career-conscious even when practicing slow science. My main recipe for that is to have lots of projects in the pipeline. When something needs slowing down, then you can put it on the back burner and spend time on something else. That way you’re still productive. You’re actually more productive because while you’re working on that simpler paper, your subconscious mind is turning away on the complicated slow one too.

What is your experience? Do you have a slow science story? Do you feel it took your work from average to great? Is there still room for slow science in this rush-rush world? or is this just a cop-out from publishing?

*I’m talking about the PhD schedule here. Obviously the Masters is a different schedule but the same general principle applies.