Science Writing vs. PIO Writing:
What's the Dif and What's The Big Deal?
[or perhaps better titled . . .]
"Where have we failed, What must we do"
May 17, 2006 URMA Annual Meeting, Tallahassee , FL
- Earle M. Holland
- Assistant Vice President for Research Communications
- The Ohio State University
I want to say at the outset that I struggled with today's
presentation more than I have with any other talk I can remember.
Maybe that's simply because I'm worn out, or that I am approaching
60 and wondering where the decades went. Maybe what I want to
say is almost metastatic – that is, it permeates almost
everything that I believe professionally. In some ways, I feel
like I'm trying to pick up warm Jello. In other ways, I'm struggling
with combining rationality with passion in ways that just don't
seem to fit.
Last year, I was sitting near the bar with Frank and Kelli
and several other URMAns when he asked me to do this session.
In truth, I don't remember a whole lot about that discussion.
At my age, a couple of beers can blot out nearly anything. But
Frank has since informed me of the dialogue – at least his
interpretation of it – and so, assuming that is right .
. .
As such conversations most often are, it was the outgrowth
of good healthy curmudgeonry – grousing over injustice and
insanity, the two staples in the diets of most university science
writers – and fueled by the presence of peers and alcohol.
And it had to do with the comparison between our world and that
of the so-called “traditional media science writer.”
Or . . . with apologies to Rodney Dangerfield . . . “Why
we never get any respect!”
I've spent the last two decades arguing a simple basic point.
I've blathered on through various listserves. I've argued passionately
at committee meetings. I've spoken at countless conferences.
I've published columns and commentaries. And I've even resigned
from an organization's board of directors as a matter of principal
over this issue.
All that time, I have contended that no distinction can be
made among science writers other than by the quality of their
craft – that their employer, or position, or allegiance,
or any other factor cannot govern their writing. That at the
end of the day, each writer should be judged only by the caliber
of his or her prose and the accuracy of their reporting.
Therefore, there should be no distinction made between the
work of the LA Times' science writer and that of the science
writer at Johns Hopkins. That's the argument that I have made
for lo' these many years. And I have believed it in my heart
and taught students and staff and journalists that point. And
some of them have even believed it.
At the same time, I have argued to researchers and institutional
administrators alike, that in times of crisis involving research
on campus, that the institution's science writers need a place
at the table – that they need to be an active and ongoing
part of any communications effort – especially in times
when the potential for negative coverage is acute. And given
that science writers are generally seen as middle-level staff
at most universities – if that – this hasn't been an
easy case to make.
Underlying my premise is the contention that good writers
understand a story in ways that no others can – and all
events are inevitably “stories!” Good writers cannot
be swayed from their calling by conditions of employment or sources
of salary. Or stated another way -- Good writers can't be bought.
Certainly, they can be hired on assignment but employers can't
tell them what to write. That is the sole privilege of the writer.
I figured some years ago that if university science writing
was ever to be given the respect I think it deserves, then someone
needed to take up that standard and carry it on high. I took
this on as the banner I would wave.
When I started this campaign there were less than a dozen
university science writers on the nation's campuses. Now there
are hundreds. There were a half-dozen research magazines then
– now there are ten-fold that. So one would think that that
gap I've sought to eliminate between science writers on campus
and those in the working media would have faded, if not vanished
completely.
In truth, I fear that the opposite is true. My observations
reinforce that gap and nothing in the past half-dozen years has
altered my conclusion.
Which brings me to my first sad and potentially offensive
point – for the most part, many of you have let me down.
URMA is a coalition of university science writers who practice
their craft as creators of research magazines. Before URMA, there
were a handful of us who met at the University of Minnesota to
promote such periodicals and dream of formalizing such a fraternity.
Now we collectively joke say that it is the most powerful university
research magazine association in the world. Of course, it is
also the only one, but we tend to deemphasize that.
And we revel in the victory of simply having a magazine at
all. We're proud of the individual treatments we give to particular
stories, and perhaps the rare thank-yous we might get from appreciative
faculty. Personally, I think we miss the mark so badly that we
seriously ought to consider whether our institutions' continued
funding is ethically right.
Now it would be fair at this point for you to ask “Who
the hell is Earle to be up there telling us that we're failing?
Hell, he doesn't even have a magazine.” And that latter
point would be true and I would be less than honest if I didn't
admit to lusting for another periodical to run before my career
ends. There is simply no drug stronger than the title of “editor”
of a periodical – especially if the editor is gutsy and
opinionated and knowledgeable and stubborn and perhaps a dozen
more traits that generally make us poor company at cocktail parties.
Editors need big egos.
When I was doing Quest, and later Frontiers, I believed that
these were MY publications – not the university's –
and that they were a reflection of my interests and opinions
and values. The institution was simply the field that I harvested.
And lest anyone wonder about the caliber of that work, consider
that 27 of the 48 CASE awards we won were for periodicals.
I would bet that each of you feels the same warm egotism about
your own pubs, and that is a very good thing. You should be proud.
The problem as I see it, however – to use a sports analogy
– is that you've only made it to first base but you celebrate
like your hit was a grand slam. I fear that many of you –
if not most – have forgotten what game you are playing.
Our job – that is, all of us charged with communicating
about research – is to explain to those who don't understand
what research is all about, why it is so important to continue
and to support, and why it ought to be favorably viewed by anyone
with half a brain.
Part of our job – a damn big part! – is the demystification
of research – the remolding of the researcher's image into
that of an ordinary person working with extraordinary things.
We are the bridge connecting research with the rest of the world.
And that bridge absolutely has to feel safe and comfortable and
familiar to anyone who walks its surface.
No magazine could possibly accomplish that. Doing so requires
a comprehensive program; an interconnectedness of efforts all
intended to paint a true picture of science. Why an immunologist
would spend a lifetime trying to understand cytokines. How scholars
can dissect the idiosyncrasies of ordinary conversation. What
would lure geologists into active volcanoes, or biologists into
shark-infested waters? These are not ordinary desires in the
public's collective mind so how can ordinary citizens begin to
understand what drives scientists and scholars.
And even if people did understand those desires, our labeling
that as the core of researchers' lives poses a false picture
of what research actually is.
The “look” of many of our publications is outstanding.
Graphically, the visual presentation reeks of quality –
as it should, since it purports to represent the entire research
enterprise of institution.
But the printed word is meant to be read, first and foremost.
Elaborate graphic presentations of mediocre copy are at best,
mere packaging – wrappings that promise a better gift than
what is actually received.
In preparation for this talk – maybe it is more an admonition
– I looked at every current issue of every periodical listed
on the URMA website. I wanted to review them enmasse. I wanted
to look at them as an outside reader might if suddenly facing
a stack of such magazines. Basically, I was looking for stories
that made me stop what I was doing and carried my interest long
enough to hook me. Sadly, I only found one such story in all
of those periodicals.
Now stop and think about that for a second. I have spent my
professional life – approaching 35 years – living university
research – being a kid-in-a-candy-story with a taste-for-test-tubes
and such. And as a former editor, I know all of the obstacles
typically faced, all of the hurdles that need to be jumped, to
make things work out. But even that wasn't enough. If you can't
grab Earle's attention, how can you expect grab folks less enamored
with research?
The problem with most of this was that after the first several
paragraphs, I usually was still unaware of the core of the story
at hand.
Some of you might argue that research magazines are intended
for a specific audience – the folks scholar Jon Miller has
labeled “the attentive public,” as well as shakers-and-movers,
opinion-leaders and policy-makers – a more literate audience
who can handle complexity and intricacies of science. I disagree.
I'd be really surprised if by now, some of you weren't fairly
aggravated with me – that's understandable – and if
you're offended, I'm sorry. But from my perspective, you all
need to realize that there is a much larger issue at hand –
one that supersedes any praise or criticism of your periodical.
And most of you seem to have forgotten that issue – or perhaps
– and this is even more frightening – you've simply
decided to ignore it because it is too difficult to face.
Perhaps you should stop and ask why are you doing a research
magazine?
- The vice president/president/dean/whatever wanted one
. . .
- By its mere existence (and cost), it argues that research
is important . . .
- Research stories are too complicated and involved to
be left to journalists . . .
- Damn but doesn't it look nice on the president's coffee
table.
In most cases, several of those – if not all of them
– are the driving force behind a university starting, or
maintaining, a research magazine. If that's true in your case,
then I'd like to suggest a broad-based rethinking of what we
are trying to do – the adoption of a new attitude that focuses
on the larger issue of helping the public really understand research.
First, a magazine is just one piece of necessarily large machinery
designed to portray research. It needs to be linked to parallel
efforts made to tell the research story – the most important
of which – I believe – is the reporting of new research
results via the news media. No one in their right mind is going
to use a magazine to “break” actual “news”
– the production cycle is simply too slow.
Moreover, readers don't look to magazines for breaking news
but rather for information to place that news in context. We
need to coordinate magazine coverage of research with the reporting
of specific findings elsewhere. Magazines need to tell the story
withheld from readers by other communications outlets.
They need to offer added value but without added work for
the reader. I often see magazine pieces that tell the reader
about biological processes in exquisite detail without ever asking
whether a typical reader needs that information. Most folks picking
up a research magazine aren't looking for a seminar in messenger
RNA, no matter how important it is to modern molecular biology.
They want to know simply why it is important and how it fits
into a larger puzzle. Extrapolate that statement into the complexities
of modern genomics and you can easily see why I think doing such
stories is wasted effort.
My main complaint with research magazines, however, is that
they sugarcoat the research process, usually painting it with
a broad, neutral brush, excluding the controversy and crisis,
the human weaknesses which at the core drive most scientists.
Or put another way, when is the last time a story in your
periodical nearly got you fired? Or at least scared you into
thinking that was a real possibility? This is where I feel most
passionate.
When we were still doing Quest, I made sure that there was
once such nightmarish story in nearly every issue. If we weren't
risking our own security, then we weren't working hard enough.
Universities are microcosms of society. They're full of intrigue
and secrets and folks who do right and those who do wrong, and
the conflict between them says more about life on campus than
20 treatises you might write on the latest books by your history
professors.
And yet, in my brief review of all of those magazines, I found
nothing like that staring back at me. Maybe I missed them –
if so then I apologize for chiding you – but such things
should be the main content of a periodical if you want to insure
reader trust and respect.
Why aren't they there?
Some folks will answer, “It's not our job to tell
bad news about the university.”
Yes it is, but you need to tell it fairly and accurately and
you need to be the first ones to do so. Otherwise, all you end
up doing is trying to respond to attacks from others. That's
simple “crisis communications 101.”
But you can't tell it if you don't know what's going on –
the “Nobody-told-us-about-that-until-after-it-was-all-over”
defense. Stop and ask yourself why they didn't? Did they see
you as incidental? Did they think you had nothing to offer the
response planning? Did the folks around the table during that
period of decision-making really understand research better than
you? I doubt it.
Maybe you'd say, “I just do the magazine – I
let the PR/PIO folks deal with those issues. I just want to write
about the science.” Forgive me but I think that reveals
a basic laziness and disloyalty to the institution that's inexcusable.
“They never ask me.”
“They don't include me.”
“That's my boss' job!”
If that is all true in your case, ask yourself why. Regardless
of what we might think a lot of the time, all university administrators
are not idiots. They will make use of expertise when it exceeds
their own.
Lastly, why weren't you aware of the situation before the
bosses were? Do you know the key people at your institution who
would be “first responders” to a research problem?
Are you friends with your campus biosafety officer, the head
of the IRB, the chair of the animal committee, the chief of the
campus police, the radiation safety officer, the institution's
compliance officer, a half-dozen of the university's attorneys
– all of the people who will be the first to know when the
stuff hits the fan. More importantly, do these people know and
trust you? Would they call you at home to give you a head's up?
What would you do if the phone rang and it was the president's
office summoning you to a meeting in a half-hour to talk about
a radiation spill, or an accusation of animal abuse, or the death
of people in a clinical trial, or any of a dozen such scenarios?
Are you ready to deal with that? If not – of if you don't
want to be – then you don't want to be seen as the most
knowledgeable and proficient science communicator on campus.
And if you don't want to be viewed as that, what the hell are
you doing in your current job.
So . . . by now, I have dragged you down this circuitous path
with me as I tried to segue from the contrast between university
science writers and those with the news media to a critique of
what you hold dear – your research magazines – to your
role – or lack thereof – in the event of research crises
on campus. Granted, it isn't a very direct route to my closing
message, which is basically this:
We have an obligation at universities to be more open, more
honest and more willing to share knowledge than any other portion
of society. We don't sell soap, or used cars, or MP3 players
or any product other than the value of human thought, of inquiry
and investigation. And being a human enterprise, we often fail,
and when we do we should admit it and insure the mistakes are
not repeated. That's what should set us at universities apart
from the rest of society, what should support our role as a model
for others. Those of us charged with safeguarding science, with
respecting research, must be up to the task.
University science writers – whatever their venue –
will never get the respect they deserve until they individually
and collectively assert themselves into the larger process of
institutional life.
This is not an easy path, and nobody is going to offer you
a roadmap to do it.
At the end of the day, we all have to ask ourselves:
“Is what I do a reflection of who I am?”
To my mind, it should be.
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