Transcript: Welcome back to Academic Writing Talk, brought to you by Indelible Voice! I’m still Dr. Aure Schrock, here to guide you through the murky gray area of academic writing and publishing. The topic of today’s episode is history—what it is and whether you might accidentally be writing one. That’s what happened to me, and it took me a while to sort out what kind of book I was writing.
When I was writing my book Politics Recoded, I didn’t think of it as a history. Around 2012, I started to notice Code for America gaining prominence in non-profit organizing. I wrote a few book chapters, and thought that was the end of it. Honestly, at the time, it was just one of many tech-forward organizations. Then, around 2015, interesting developments began to occur within the organization, which helped it gain national prominence. Over the next few years, I started researching Code for America as part of a post-PhD research project. This research coalesced into chapter-length pieces of writing, each analyzing a part of the organization’s history. At one of their yearly meetings, a volunteer referred to me as “the institutional memory” of the organization, which frankly scared me.
So be more strategic and aware than I was ten years ago! I realized a bit too slowly that I was writing an organizational history! Today, as an editor, I find many of my book clients find themselves wondering if they, too, are writing a history—even if they didn’t intend to write one. This question was initially difficult for me to answer. However, after working as an editor for both historians and non-historians, some reasons for and against writing a history—and what “history” means anyway—became clear.
One reason you may find yourself accidentally writing a history is simply that time moves on. What you started researching ten years ago has changed in the time since. How academia regards the questions that your research once raised has probably also changed. An author must be aware of their intended audience and appeal to a publisher. For example, we’re about to be deluged with books on AI and large language models (LLMs). The questions researchers are asking of AI and LLMs now will be different from those researchers ask of these same technologies a decade from now. Put differently, what now feels new will become historical. As that happens, how we approach that phenomenon will change.
Alternatively, you could start out to write a history because that’s how you were trained. To make an obvious statement, historians are trained in history and set out to write histories. Their departments tend to value books rather than articles for career advancement. Historians also have specific notions of what history is and does. They are invested in the question of “what is history?” Some of my clients identify as historians and are professors in humanities disciplines. Unsurprisingly, they seek book publishers with a strong record in publishing history books, such as the University of Chicago Press and UC Press.
But clients in more technical or social scientific disciplines are less wed to the idea of history itself. To them, a history might be a way to tell a story or advance an argument. When writing Politics Recoded, what I wrote naturally became historical because I started writing about what was happening right in front of me. I didn’t (and still don’t) think of myself as a historian. Neither did I use traditional historical methods for research. You'd find me online or at a meeting, rather than buried in an archive. The book became both an organizational history and a vehicle for me to make arguments about the evolution of tech-forward organizing. But I’m not a historian; I’m a researcher of communication and technology. That orientation guides, more so, how I write my books.
What I’m saying is that if you’re using history as a narrative device or to advance an argument, that’s different than writing a history qua history. As long as you’re not publishing in a history-forward press or series, you can use history as a way to sequence chapters and make a powerful argument. For example, when I was working with Aaron Trammell on The Privledge of Play, we discussed how he was taking a “genealogical approach” to race in gaming. He wasn’t setting out to write a history of Dungeons & Dragons, although that ended up being one of his other books. This book was structured around moments when race in hobbyist gaming became salient. Such a “move” lets you off the hook for writing a genuine or complete history and protects you in advance from criticisms from historians.
If you find yourself writing a history, ask yourself whether you want to publish with a history-forward publisher or series. That should guide how you analyze your data and write the book manuscript itself. If you don’t have a strong opinion about history, particularly if you’re not a historian, you probably aren’t writing a “history qua history.” Instead, try to find a defensible position for justifying what you’re writing, and get on with it.
In my case, writing about the history of an organization gave my research an object of study and bracketed a time period. Pragmatically, it offered me as the researcher a through-line and a set of people to interview and do participant observation with. That specificity helped bound the research I was doing. If I were writing a different kind of book, perhaps an industry-wide or comparative one, I might have examined the tech-forward nonprofit industry as a whole, much as Caroline Lee did in Do-It-Yourself Democracy: The Rise of the Public Engagement Industry. However, I just wasn’t set up for writing that more diffuse kind of book. I didn’t have data on those people or organizations, and I had already struggled to find the story I wanted to tell. If I tried to write that kind of book, it wouldn’t have been very good.
At the end of the day, although people may very well argue about what history is, I don’t think the question of whether you are writing one is that complicated. Simply decide how ardent a stance you take on history, and what you are writing a history of. That should be determined by your disciplinary background, methodological tools, and target publisher and book series. Just don’t get bogged down in history!
If you’ll forgive the alliteration, one of my slogans as an editor is: “Write the book you can write, right now.” A good book is a written and published book. Remember Borges’ short fiction "On Exactitude in Science,” which uses maps to lampoon the idea of perfect accuracy. If you get too wrapped up in creating a perfect book that represents your subject, you’ll never finish working on it. Much like Borges’ map, you might be working on it forever. There will always be another archive to examine, person to interview, or place to visit. The seduction of writing a history is that there’s always going to be a nagging voice in your head telling you that it’s incomplete. And that voice is correct! You have to bound a history and accept that what you know is contingent on the materials you have access to and the ideas that you bring to the table. Historians are correct about this—history is, in a sense, alive and mutable. That’s what makes writing history a unique challenge.
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